never be the same.

With one hand precariously holding a hot tray of chicken tenders, and the other hand busy reaching over to close the oven door, it was a merely a second and all of a sudden, my body was forever changed.

Not drastically, of course.

(but nevertheless changed)

Because all of a sudden, that hot tray of chicken tenders touched my skin, leaving me burned.

Sending shockwaves of pain into my forearm, I sucked in a breath and shakily set the tray down, arm tingling.

“That’s a burn! Oooof that’s a burn,” I cried out, running over to the sink.

As the cold water started running over my arm, I could already see my skin changing.

“Congrats, you’re officially part of the kitchen now!” my sister announced, peering over my shoulder.

Because there, on the underside of my left forearm, was now a nasty burn: the brand that made me, apparently, officially part of the kitchen now.

As time passed, as the blister popped and the scar began to heal, I realized that this scar was not going to go away.

In fact, it wasn’t only not going to go away, but it was looking to become a permanent fixture on my body: forever reminding me of that hot tray of chicken tenders.

As this realization sunk in, I started to feel appreciative of its presence on my skin.

Truthfully, I was embracing this battle wound and showing it off with pride: this wicked scar that now stood proudly on my skin.

Those around me were somewhat confused, even more so when I started writing about it.

“You’re writing a whole blog post about your scar?”

Ohhhh but it’s not just a scar.

It’s a story.

It’s a part of my story.

As I look down at my body, I notice many scars, as I’m sure you notice some on yours, as well.

There’s one on my shin from playing basketball in the sixth grade.

I’ve got one on my lower lip from falling down the stairs as a youngster and biting through the skin.

Hugging my hips are tiger stripes in the form of stretch marks, reminding me of all the growth and change I went through as a young woman.

There’s an excess of cat scratches, including one that curves around my bicep; and now, this wicked burn scar.

While scars often have the stigma of appearing unsightly or unbecoming, I’ve always found them fascinating and personal. This tapestry that forms on one’s skin, an art piece of marks and scars should be something to celebrate and hold dear, as they are a part of one’s story, of one’s history.

Scars are reminders of the life we lived, and though they fade over time, they stay with us, forever, as reminders of what we went through, what we endured, how we survived.

Big or small, shallow or deep, they’re part of who we are, and we should honor and thank them for reminding us that sometimes, it’s really hard to hold a hot tray of chicken tenders and attempt closing the oven door without getting burned.

But hey, look at what that scar’s story is now.

I’ve got you, I won’t let go.

a song to set the scene // where’s my love - piano solo by syml

I lay in the bath until the water ran cold.

As my fingers began to prune, my naked body shivered.

Curled in a ball, I stared at the stillness of the bathwater, disturbed only by the deep breaths of my quaking body.

The bubbles were gone.

The warmth was long gone.

All that remained were the tears, which flowed a constant steady stream down my broken face.

The bathtub, my sanctuary, had even betrayed me.

I no longer felt safe.

I don’t even remember how I got there.

Oftentimes, it doesn’t really matter.

It’s the fact that I’m there, again: in that dark place, with those all too familiar feelings.

You might know the ones.

Feelings of worthlessness. Feelings of not mattering. Of being a dissapointment to everyone you love.

Self-hatred became the tomb that I was burrying myself into. Thoughts of resentment were like dull prongs of a fork scraping across my tender heart.

You’re worthless, Elan.You ruin everything. Fix your emotions, manage how you feel. Look how much pain you cause. No one knows what to do with you. Who you are is an abomination. No normal person feels in depth like you. You’re better off not being here.

I didn’t necessarily like the feeling and I’ve never cared for the words. And yet, it was familiar. It was almost comforting, in a way. And it was easier staying there; safer, in fact, to stay in that place, than to reach out and ask for help.

Because “help”? Who would want to help me.

I don’t even want to help me.

As I lay there, blank eyes staring at a foreign body that was once mine, I thought: for a woman of my size and stature, I sure know how to feel like the smallest most insignificant speck.

What’s heartbreaking though, is that I truly believe I am the smallest and most insignificant speck.

As I get out of the bath, and sneak a look at my tear stained face in the mirror, my heart aches.

It sinks, six feet below the ground where I’ve been burrying myself in a tomb.

And so I fall. Down down down. As I’m disappearing, the hole gets smaller and the lights fade.

There’s no helping me now.

But somewhere, within the hurt parts of me, there sparks a longing. It almost feels like hope, that I might be saved.

Or at least offered a hand.

To be held, comforted.

Because in the end, that’s all I ever wanted: to feel accepted and acknowledged for feeling how I felt. All I needed was affirmation that something wasn’t wrong with me and that my feelings weren’t something that needed fixed. I just wanted to be, and feel safe as I was.

But words… I’ve never been good with them; at least, not in the moment.

And I didn’t have a keyboard, and it seems I’ve never had a voice; at least, not when it matters.

And so… I just settled back into the depression.

But there’s something that’s keeping me from falling.

An image: a flash, really.

Pictures: of me, as a little girl.

Pictures of me laughing and full of joy, life, and panache.

As these images flood my subconscious, I cling desperately to them. I grab hold of that little girl who’s hurting now and I embrace her, and all of her suffering.

This sweet, innocent child.

I don’t want her light snuffed out. I don’t want her to give up on those feelings of jubilation and glee.

But… I already have. It seems I’ve already let her down. I’ve disappointed her.

I’ve… failed her.

No. No no no no no no NO.

And so, from the very deepest depths of my soul, I speak.

Sliding to the floor, I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. Swaying softly, back and forth, tears streaming rivers down my face, I whisper to her: “I’ve got you, I won’t let go.”

Over and over. Again and again.

“I’ve got you, I won’t let go.”

Tears gushing from the scarred place in my heart where dissapointment, self-hatred, and guilt reign supreme, I repeat the words until they’re the only things that fill me.

“I’ve got you, I won’t let go.”

Replacing the abusive language that comes from my crooked mouth, I continue the mantra, the lifeline, the saving grace:

“I’ve got you, I won’t let go.”

I don’t stop until I finally believe them.

And they fill me wholly with hope and promise.

I don’t stop until the little girl stops crying.

And the hurt parts of me feel acknowledged and accepted.

Until I can breath again.

I don’t stop until I’m aboveground and the light touches my skin.

Until I learn to once again embrace and love who I am and how I feel.

And the bathwater once again runs warm.