…He kicked the car window and when he wasn’t successful in shattering it, he used a tire iron to acheive his goal–beating me for as long as he could. He inserted his body in the window while in motion, turned the car off, and pulled me out of the car with so much force, my shoe was left under the break pedal. He began beating me mercilessly. I begged that he stop, but that seemed to encourage him to afflict more pain upon me. He did so. Puncturing my skin with his nails, inserting his teeth into my body, and punching and slapping me in no particular order is what he felt was necessary for my outcries. It seemed as though every song I sang for help, the deeper the fingernails and teeth descended into my skin. I cried. The tears streamed down my face. I wondered if anyone heard me. I pondered if anyone cared. But suddenly, the pain ceased. I had spotted a spare key on the floor of my junky car and sped away…

I looked in the mirror at myself this morning. I looked the same. My hair was it’s normal sandy, golden color. My eyes were of their usual slanted and squinted structure. My lips were as pouty as they were yesterday. I examined myself in the mirror. I scanned my neck, my breasts, my stomach, my hips, and even my thighs. I was pleased. I was delighted. I felt beautiful and my skin had this glow to it.

As I started off in the direction of my closet, I noticed a few blemishes on my body, particularly the left side. I rubbed my hands over them. I didn’t feel any pain. I didn’t recoil due to any type of discomfort. However, I had this distressing feeling in my chest. I couldn’t catch my breath. I tried to regain my composure as the tears streamed down my cheeks. My tears have never been so tasteless. Never had it ever been so hard to catch my breath and just…breathe.

Suddenly, the memories occupied my mind where they once dwelled regularly. I remember how these scars were acquired. I remember the day and the misery endured. How could I ever forget it? I wish I could one day remove those distasteful thoughts of agony, anger, and hate from my mind. Some days I feel that I have. Some days I can get up, put on my clothes, and take on the day. Then, there are days like these. There are days where I get up and I get a glimpse of the scars on my arm which trigger the account that I also have scars on the side of my stomach, the back of my ear, and the small of my back.

I’m reminded everytime I would like to reward myself with a new piece of clothing. I’m reminded everytime I step in the shower or the soak in the tub to wash the day away. I am reminded everytime the thoughts of an inquisitive mind ensues that they would want to know whether those are burns or bite marks on my arm. I am reminded everytime I see him, the artist of the paintings he left on my body as a result of his rage and zealous personality. I am this walking, living, breathing mural of his egotism and mania. My body is his gallery. Never have I hated art so much.

I’ll never fathom how one could inflict so much pain on another. I don’t even believe I’d really want to understand how an individual could house such hate and ill-will towards another. I forsee me looking at these dreadful marks and accepting them as motivation to never allow myself back in an abusive relationship in ANY aspect. I forsee it. I don’t deserve it. No one deserves such treatment. Luckily, I was able to remove myself. I was able to elude thoughts of retaliation for my pain. I am an advocate of the healing methods that time provides. I am an avid believer!

One day, I anticipate the diminishing of all of these painful accounts. In the near future, I’ll abolish all the physical, emotional and verbal abuse that I’ve beared. The collection of my bruises and my physical flaws will be null and void. I’ve accepted the fact that these scars may always be visible. However, I hold on to the hopes that the occurrences won’t always be visible in my mind. Even if they are, I can attest that I am indeed stronger and grateful that I have been blessed with the grace of God to forgive. Regardless of the cries, the wails, and the screams that were released from the abyss of my soul to cease the infliction of pain from his teeth, the pain that dwelled at the end of his fists, and the constant and repetitive punctures of his fingernails into my skin, I feel nothing else is appropriate but forgiveness.

On an inspiring and motivating note, these scars remind me of how God is real. These scars remind me that where pain once endured, ceases to exist as a result of His Mercy and Grace. My scars ARE my blessings. MY SCARS ARE MY HEALINGS!

3 comments

I loved the movie.
I can honestly attest to this man’s situation.
The law is made for criminals.

More in a password protected entry. Email me, Facebook Me, etc if you’d like to read more.

2 comments