Someone came into the shop today, saw my arm, and asked if there was someone else that could help them. This is the first time it’s happened to me. This is the only response I have for her.

Okay, yeah, there’s scars on my arm. They’re ugly and discolored and if they make you uncomfortable, that’s a sad thing, but I’m not gonna break my head over it. You know why? Because these scars are a part of me. They are my past, my present, and my future and if you see them and only think, “Oh, she’s a cutter” or “stupid emo girl,” then you don’t know me. You don’t know what it means to be able to wear short sleeves without being terribly self-conscious about it. You don’t understand that the fact that there hasn’t been a fresh cut in over a month is a huge deal to me and the people that care about me. And you will probably never understand that while I could get angry at you for judging me, I won’t. I’m not angry. I’m sad. I’m sad that people like you will never understand people like me. I hope you can learn from this. I know I have.