Everyone walks around with scars. We get hurt all the time, it is so commonplace that most of the time we don’t even remember it happened. There are always some things that stand out, and often we only know what happened because we have a scar that reminds us. On my body there are quite a few scars. On my shin, when I cut myself kneeling on a stone while swimming, on my knee, when I fell down as a child, on my left ring finger from travelling the London Underground, my left index finger from hacking into it with a knife. I have a surgery scar on my stomach from when my appendix burst when I was seven and on my butt, when some left-over stem cells decided to evolve into hair and teeth and had to be removed. The worst scars though, nobody can see.
Every time I was told „You’re fat!“ in school, every time I was picked last for whatever ball game we were playing in sports, every time a guy didn’t return my phone calls. Every time I am told I should get a move on and give my mother grandchildren (yes, thank you, I’ll just magic them into existence!) it hurts. I don’t remember all of them but as a whole they make a difference. Little paper cuts, on their own worth nothing: but so many, they are killing me.