They say time heals all wounds, but the wounds of the soul are the hardest ones to heal. After time, you just learn to live with the pain.
The scars on my face are a constant reminder of the day I got them. Sit tight. This one hurts.
If I remember correctly, I was 13 years old and out of control. I was skipping school, doing drugs, drinking, and Mexico was my to-go place. I had met people who were not the best influences. I didn’t know what I was doing at that time, I was so lost and broken when my parents got divorced. A lot of bad things had happened through that transition. I wasn’t the innocent little girl I was before.
One day I decided to “runaway” and ended up with this guy I talked to in Mexico. People over there like hanging out in groups outside on the sidewalks/streets, it was easy to find somewhere to hang out. We needed a place to spend the night, I had some gold we could sell to get a hotel room, so that’s what we did. One of the older women in this group, persuaded me to go with an older man to get money. I was so stupid. She sold me for a couple of hundred pesos to get a room and party. I didn’t care. I felt worthless and could care less about what could happen to me. I lived in this constant state of pain, that nothing could hurt me anymore.
I was under the influence of benzodiazepines, “Roche 2” pills, they were the trend in middle school. You could easily cross the border and get as many as you wanted for an affordable price. I had found comfort in numbing my feelings with these little pills. I forgot who I was, what I was doing and most importantly what had happened to me.
The party didn’t last long. The next day my mother found me and took me to my aunt’s house. Nobody knew what had happened. Nobody cared to ask. It was my fault anyways, I had put myself in that situation and I deserved it. It didn’t end there. Everyone was angry at me for doing this to my mom. By everyone I mean my mother’s sisters and my cousins. What was I thinking? What were they going to do with me? They went on and on. Nobody understood. I just wanted to come home.
I went outside to the car, talking back to my mother, like every teenager does. This older woman, late 20’s early 30’s, not sure, but way older than me, was outside with my cousins and some of their friends. She grabs me by the arm and punches me in the face. I could hear one of my aunts yelling for her to hit me because I was being a spoiled brat, that I deserved for this woman to beat me up.
She was wearing one of those gold rings with the name on it, it had sharp edges that opened my lip as she hit my face with her knuckles. She didn’t have to hit me more than once to knock me out, but she did. I remember hitting the license plate of the car that was parked next to me with my face and everything went black. Meanwhile, my mother just stood there. There were about eight or more people watching, no one bothered to stop this outrage. Everyone just stood there until I was left covered in blood with my face cut open.
Once I hit the floor she left me there. Now everyone wanted to help me. I was in shock. I saw my face and all I could think was that I was disfigured for the rest of my life. I couldn’t stop the bleeding. Part of my top lip was literally hanging from my face. I still remember the smell of the blood in my nostrils. The blood kept pouring down my face. I couldn’t see where it was coming from. My hair, my clothes, my arms and legs were all covered with blood.
Now my mother was crying, now everyone was concerned about me. Not concerned enough though. I don’t know why my mother decided to bring me back to the U.S, instead of directly to a hospital and make a police report. It’s something that I’ll never understand. If it were my child I would’ve killed that person with my bare hands or at least tried. No doubt about it.
I realize as I’m writing this, that this still hurts, my heart is racing. This is one of the stories that I don’t talk about. Only the people that were there know what happened, but not entirely. This is one of the hardest experiences I have survived. For a long time I blamed myself. I told myself that I deserved every single thing that had happened to me over and over again. I was angry at the world, but mostly my mom. How did she allow this to happen? I was ashamed and I didn’t want anyone to see my face. I didn’t want people to ask what had happened. I couldn’t eat for weeks. I had stitches on my brow and lip and my face was swollen and bruised.
Nobody deserves to be beaten up. I didn’t deserve anything bad that had happened to me. I lived with anger and shame for so many years, it seems unreal to feel good and be able to tell my story.
They say scars are proof that you’re stronger than what tried to hurt you, you should never be ashamed of them, you’re a survivor! I am a survivor! Time did heal the wounds on my face, but the wounds of the heart are still healing. I know they are healing because I can talk about the things that broke me. I can finally confront my past and eliminate the shame I carried for way too long. The shame and suffering that no one deserves to endure.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
“Life is rough, so you gotta be tough!”