I’m not ashamed of my self-harm scars, here’s why

Content warning: This article discusses self-harm, depression, anxiety and eating disorders.

Coming out the other side of a really challenging and painful few years has given me a new perspective. I like to think that sharing my experiences can help others, so I’ve previously written about my experiences with an eating disorder and dropping out of high school. I had chronic anxiety and depression growing up, but near the tail-end of my teenage years, my mental illnesses manifested in a way I had never expected.

I turned to self-harm at the age of 17, when I felt like I had no other options. I hated myself and I didn’t want to be here anymore. Like many other coping mechanisms, such as eating disorders and drug abuse, hurting myself became an escape. I started using self-harm to deal with my inner turmoil, but it soon became extreme. I was addicted, harming myself multiple times a day.

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My arms became angry and red, so I started hurting my thighs and tummy where no one would see what I was doing to myself. I tried to go on as normally as I could, still wearing cute outfits and sharing them on Instagram (the one thing that made me feel somewhat okay). But ‘normal’ was no more, and soon, people started messaging me to see if I was alright.

My inbox was full of people checking in and offering support if I ever needed it. Ashamed of my arms and my situation, I would hastily reply that “Everything is fine, but I appreciate the support anyway”. Growing sick of the comments, I decided to spend a few months offline while I was getting my life back on track. During those months, I spent a lot of time in therapy and not much else.

I saw a psychologist, psychiatrist and a youth support nurse. This team of professionals, along with my parents, supported me every day as I began to slowly feel like myself again. With all the therapy and the right mix of medications, I soon dropped some of the harmful coping mechanisms and realised I can cope with my emotions without turning to self-harm.

While I was going through this challenging period personally, the world was facing its own turbulent times – remember that global pandemic? Like many others during the mid-2020 lockdowns, I finally gave in to downloading TikTok. I found it to be a fun way to connect with fashion lovers all over the world and enjoyed making and sharing outfit videos.

I passed the long lockdown days filming fashion videos and posting them to my small circle of followers. Innocently, one day I filmed myself dancing around in my favourite look: a green satin bias dress with a crossed back. I posted the video and went about my day, but when I checked my account later, I realised my video had been banned. TikTok’s short explanation was that my video violated community guidelines, and after mulling it over for a few minutes, I realised my scars were the issue.

Even though I wasn’t hurting myself anymore, my arms still carried the weight of what I’d been through. My scars, although slowly healing, were still an angry-looking deep purple colour. For the rest of 2020, I flip-flopped between shame and pride when it came to my scars. Wearing long sleeves in summer was annoying, but being stopped at the local shops to be asked if I was okay felt worse.

I tried to ignore the stares and outright comments and brushed off those who asked if I’d been “scratched by a cat” or “in an accident” (these were genuine remarks I frequently received). Every lingering look worsened my insecurities, and I constantly questioned if there was some way to ‘fix’ my lumpy, reddened arms.

After many aggressive rounds of cortisone injections and fractional laser therapy (and most importantly, letting time heal), my arms are looking so much better. I happily wear short sleeves and I shrug off the occasional comment or curious look. These days, my scars act as a daily reminder of what I’ve been through, and how grateful I am for the life I have now.

Sometimes the light hits my arm in a certain way and the scars look obvious, and I have to take a breath and remember what’s important: the fact that I made it through the worst days. My scars are a reminder of how far I’ve come, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Today, they’re just a part of me, like freckles or a birthmark. I bare my arms with pride, knowing that I’m a survivor.