Why Mummy Looks Different
A Letter to my son
To my beautiful boy,
As I hold you in my arms, I feel your tiny hands run up and down my skin, and I know it won’t be long until you start to notice that Mummy’s body has a lot of strange bumps and markings.
When you gaze at my face with your huge green eyes (they take my breath away every time), I try to soak in the unconditional love that brightens each of your delicate features. There is no judgment. You see past my hurt, damaged body into my heart, and I feel beautiful for a moment.
I always worried about how I would explain my self-harm scars to my children if I were ever fortunate enough to have them. I started hurting myself at 11 years old, during my first year of high school. When I was younger, I didn’t have any understanding of mental illness or depression. There were no words for me to articulate the darkness that was spreading inside my head. I felt horribly alone. I was fearful that if I ever spoke to anyone about the hurricane that was thrashing inside me, I would be judged and ridiculed. It wasn’t long before cutting and scratching myself became my go-to coping mechanism. Harming myself quietened the harsh voices that raged inside my head.
When I was a little girl, a man in a position of power abused my trust. This man put me through a kind of pain…
