So this just happened…
Woman: What’s that on your arm? *Points at one of my more prominent scars*
Me: Oh that… That happened when I was a kid. (Lie)
Woman: Were you in an accident or something?
Me: Uh yeah, well I was in my dad’s garage and yeah… (Lie)
Woman: What happened? It must have been pretty serious?
Me: I was running and um my dad had lots of tools out and… uh metal… I ran and I fell. (Lie)
Woman: Oh okay, it must have been pretty bad…
Me: It was so long ago, I can’t really remember. (Lie)
Firstly, of all of the unbelievable lies to come up with, why did I have to come up with that? My scars don’t match up with that story. My scars don’t match up with any story apart from self-harm. I’ve never been able to come up with a story beyond, “It was an accident.” Usually people stop asking questions after that. Actually, most people don’t even ask me about my scars, they just stare at them and make up their own mind.
Secondly, why is it any of her business? Why did she have to ask so many questions? Why did I have to answer them? What if that made up story had been true and really traumatic? I’ll probably never see that woman again, why did I feel compelled to lie? Why is it so hard to talk about self-harm? The woman obviously didn’t believe my story so I looked like a liar and a messed up self-harmer. What would she have said if I had told her the truth?
I feel really icky after that conversation. My scars are obvious but they feel even more obvious now. It’s really hot today so I can’t walk around in long sleeves. I don’t want to walk around in long sleeves. They’re my arms. It’s my business. Why do I care so much about what just happened?