What Makes us Human

I’ve been clean from self harm since January 2nd. So that’s been what, 46 days? It’s the longest I’ve been since this battle begun. And while I’m not out of the cave, perhaps I’ve found the light. Dare I hope?

I sometimes fear that I’m not really getting better. That the things I face I just push down deeper and one day it’s all going to explode in my face. Because I can feel it. The pain the hurt the anger. Underneath just below, the dark mass under the surface. The only visible clue the scars on my wrist. A silent testament of the monster underneath. 

A lot of people ask why. Why did that happen? Why the pain? Why? Why? I asked the same questions. Sometimes religion pacifies it. Sometimes it doesn’t. But recently I’ve realized something that perhaps changes my perspective on everything. 

All of those scars. All of the bruises. All of the cuts. It’s what makes us human. 

There was a guy once who lived two thousand years ago. He was God and he was man. He performed miracles. The thing that made him human was the scars. The scars of fleeing to Egypt in the middle of night. The scars of living in an unstable society dominated by the Roman Empire. The scars of just plain old life. And or course, the scars where nails were driven into his hands and feet. The scars that he now bears as he waits for us in heaven. 

They’re what made him human. It’s what makes us human as well. So love the scars. We never needed fixing. Because our hurt is what makes us who we are.