Imperfections- Perspective From an Ex-cutter

Imperfections are not beauty.

People always be sayin’ “Imperfection is beauty!”

And hell, maybe it is, and I’m just an ass. Which really might be a possibility. But for the sake of this blog, let’s say I’m not. Or at least give me own my opinion, damn it.

Imperfection is not beauty.

There. I said it. (Again.)

Maybe I’m taking it too literal, and that’s why I hate it. I do have a tendency to be too literal, and it annoys people, which then leads me to being annoyed that people can’t just say what the fuck they mean.

Apparently I have a tendency to ramble as well. Whatever. Moving on.

I have imperfections. My left forearm is scarred- the scars run together, and make an ugly mess. And I see no fucking beauty in my scars. I see no beauty in cutting up my own arm. I see no beauty in anyone’s scars, marring their body.

My scars are not beautiful. Your scars are not beautiful.

Want to know what is beautiful? That I put away the knife- I dealt with my problems. Maybe I finally cried enough tears. Maybe I cut out all the pain. Maybe I found what I was looking for. Maybe time healed my shattered person. Maybe I learnt a better way to deal with my brokenness that led me to a knife.

Who knows.

Your scars and my scars, they aren’t beautiful. The beauty comes from putting away the knife, and being stronger than self-mutilation. (Some call piercings such, but c’mon, seriously?)

A cutter’s scars are an imperfection; the beauty is when you rise above the pain, and choose life.

Every time I actually stop and focus on my scars, I remember how low I let myself go. How I wallowed in self-pity, depression. I remember how I let myself dwell upon and only upon my horrible life. I refused to see the blessings.

Every time I stare at my scars, I remember how the blood flowed and how my arm was a bloody mess. I remember sitting in the dark, crying my eyes out. Wondering what the fuck was wrong with me.

I remember how depressed I was; how life had absolutely no meaning. I wouldn’t ever kill myself though, so finally, after months of this, I decided it was time I do something to stop this.

My scars are not in any way beautiful. But when I look at them, I’m reminded of every thing ugly, and this is where beauty comes: I won’t ever let myself sink that low again. I’m a stronger person than that.

So. Maybe imperfections are beauty. Or in imperfections there is beauty. Yes. In imperfections there is beauty. The beauty is learning from your past, and becoming a stronger person.

Or maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about. But every time I hear that phrase, this is what I think.



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