The girls with scars on their arms

            The girls with scars on their arms.

We were the plump girls with scars on our arms. The misfits of society, the ones who didn’t quite fit in. We walked through town with a childlike ignorance, dull eyes in bright faces, hiding pain and abuse. We took this brief freedom with heavy hearts knowing that the walls, fences and locks that kept us enclosed away from the world were still there, only invisible. Yes, at the back of our minds was the urge to run, escape our incarceration, but something held us back. Perhaps the realization that if we tried, the inevitable outcome would only be worse. We’d be caught and our length of stay in hospital would be extended.

The sun shone on us this day. We covered our faces from the glare, skipped and laughed. Sophie wanted a burger so we stopped at a street café and she ordered one, gooey with cheese and dripping with fat. The rest of us took the opportunity to retrieve our roll ups and light up. Smoking was the one pleasure we were granted so we puffed like our lives depended on it, sending clouds of smoke into the candy blue sky. Passers by glared at us, sometimes stopping to catch a glance at the girls with scars on their arms. We shook off the looks as we had shaken off hurt and pain, like a second skin protecting our souls. They didn’t understand or they pretended not to. In truth we represented the dark side of society. Anyone who’d ever felt anger, sorrow, depression. Anyone who’d ever heard that little voice in their head telling them to do something. Only we were the ones who’d been caught out, the ones who’d expressed their pain by cutting their arms or taking too many paracetamol. The line between sanity and insanity is paper thin.

We spoke a language alien to others. We talked of seclusion and kicking off, being bent up or sedated. Our knowledge of medication was extensive. Most of us were on a concoction of anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers and valium. Many were bloated from medication, over eating and lack of exercise. We all had our labels from personality disorder to schizophrenia. We knew and had tried every possible way of hurting ourselves including ligatures, swallowing batteries, cutting, inserting objects, suffocation and drinking substances or overdosing even burning and stubbing out cigarettes on our skin. As we shuffled along the aisles of Poundland, the staff escorting us kept alert, ensuring we didn’t pick up any contraband like razors or knives.

Us girls, the ones on this trip, were the privileged ones, the ones who’d been granted leave by the psychiatrist. Many of us had been on line of sight or even two staff to one patient. We had gotten used to staff watching us pee or take a shower. We accepted small pleasures like a trip to town or an extra fag break.

We had become hardened to things outsiders would never see. Not long ago there had been a suicide on the ward, a ligature that was tied too tight, a staff member who had failed to check on a patient. That day she had been quiet but contented, even at peace with herself. No one would have guessed what she had planned. We all gathered in the day room, our faces pale, hands clammy, trying to drown out the sound of her chest being pumped, the one, two, three. Deep down we knew before we were told. It had been too long, we knew. The next day the OT brought in Krispy Kremes. No one played up. The staff were gentle. We made a collage of memories and busied ourselves with drawing and sticking. It helped to keep our minds occupied. The police came to look in her room, so did her partner. He arrived solemn, his mouth a deep line in his face, grey, beyond sad.

But we would get through it because, yes we were misfits but our experiences had made us strong. Every scar on our tired arms told a story, a story of a broken life but a fighting heart. And one day we would be better and we’d have the skills and experience to help others like us. Us, the girls with scars on our arms.