Scars

My body is riddled with scars. A mess of straight lines, circles, puckered, and nearly invisible stories mar almost every inch of my skin. Some hold deep meaning - the c-section scar spanning nearly hip to hip across my lower stomach - and some are merely an embarrassment.

I am a cutter. I use the present tense because even though I would love to be able to claim it's defeat and my victory, I can't. While pregnant with my first almost 8 years ago I swore to stop. Swore I wouldn't be crazy for my children and I even managed to quit that along with every other addiction for the duration of my pregnancy. I felt accomplished, proud.

Shortly after though, I started again. I wish I could claim my children as the reason I stopped, wish even more I could stop for them, but it seems to be impossible.

Everyone has this vision of cutters being emo teenagers with no reason to quit. People see mothers as beings with infinite patience, calm, and zero addiction issues and that picture does nothing but hurt women who don't fit the pinhole.

In what world would I ever fit a pinhole?

Us mothers who don't are forced to feel wrong, like less than the ideal mother, as it we're failing because "our children should be enough." But, it's simply not true. I struggle everyday to resist the temptation to part my skin with something sharp. Literally anything. Does it mean I love my kids any less? No. Am I afraid of pushing that addiction onto them? Every damn day.

I'm just like every other mother in any part of the world. Afraid for my children, loving my children more than I love myself, and fighting to keep my head above life.