Beauty from the Ashes

Beauty. Ah beauty. It jumps out at you from the covers of magazines, beckons from the cosmetic department, and mocks you as you stand in front of a closet bulging with clothes that someday you vow you WILL fit into again. It's the taunting voice in your head that whispers all the ways you will never measure up.

Beauty isn't always pretty.

Sarah Markley's blog this week is about beauty. Five women have written posts on her blog about beauty. And she asked her readers to write a post on their blogs about their thoughts on the subject. Of course, a million topics sprung to mind- my love/hate relationship with my mirror. That I will never come to terms with the fact that I am almost six feet tall and I hate it. My ongoing battle with my weight. That no amount of makeup will ever make me feel pretty. And don't even get me started on my hair.... But the one thing that has affected me most kept tugging at me. And it wouldn't go away. Everything else I tried to write about seemed to fall apart. The post below wasn't easy to write. It's ugly, it's scary, it's not pretty. My family and friends don't know this about me, and it's probably going to make the people closest to me upset to read about this. But still I felt compelled to tell it. And one thing I've learned is that ignoring that still small voice in your soul is never a good idea. I've carried this secret long enough.

My arm is ugly. It's a mess of scars. Some long-healed and some still fresh. No, it's not the result of an accident, or surgery, or an illness.

They're self-inflicted. I was, I am, a cutter.

I wear long sleeves year round. On the rare occasion I can't wear long sleeves, I'm always conscious of keeping my arm hidden. Lying and secrecy has become an art.

When my little sister died two years ago at the age of 20, my life fell apart. I never got the chance to speak the things I'd left unspoken for far too many years. My thought was to shut her out before she hurt me again. The wounds of the past were too difficult, and I was tired of bearing the brunt of her anger and her depression. I let myself get steeped into resentment and anger and I built a wall between us. When she died, the guilt of that fractured relationship consumed me and overwhelmed me. Guilt is a powerful thing. It can take over your life. It creeps into your heart, thoughts, and wreaks havoc on your relationships.

With the first drag of the blade came a sense of overwhelming relief. "This hurts- alot. But I know why it hurts. The pain is real, it's controlled, and I can be the one to control it. I alone can make it start and I decide when to make it stop." That's how it started. When it became too much, I cut. I've been through counseling for it, and even though it's better, it's still a reality I struggle with all the time. And according to my therapist, there's no magic "cure". It's just a matter of finding another way to cope. For me, sometimes just seeing the scars is enough. Sometimes it's not.

My pain's been hidden- by my own doing. My cuts bleed in silence and shame. There's nothing beautiful about it. Beauty has no place in scars. In blood. In tears.

Or does it?

Can there be beauty in heartache?

When I reach for the blade and instead set it aside, there's beauty in healing.

When I receive an e-mail from a friend who wanted to check in on me, there's beauty in compassion and understanding.

When I seek solace from my cousin, there's beauty in being comforted.

When I look for relief from God instead of from a blade, there's beauty in grace.

When I tell my story on a blog, there's beauty in freedom.

My arm is ugly. My pain is ugly. Grief is ugly. My sister's death nearly destroyed me. But beauty can still rise from the ashes, and beauty is what transforms my scars.

I am a work in progress. But I'm not giving in. My scars won't define me, but they are still a part of me. It's a map of where I've been, and will someday show how far I've come.

And that is what makes me beautiful.