The Instrument

 When you hear the word 'instrument' what comes to mind? A glossy black piano? An old man with a banjo? The acoustic guitar you rocked at college whilst trying to be mysterious? For me, it's something entirely different. The shiny, sharp scalpel, the surgical instrument that saved my hand, that fixed my knee, that scarred me for ever more.

Mental Health awareness week happened at some point (probably shoved in between Autism awareness week and  'Talk like a pirate' day) in this week you're supposed to reflect upon someone you know who suffered with mental illness, maybe put a nice picture on your Facebook page and talk about how your sisters brothers cousin was once a bit sad. The reality is a whole different ball game, the reality leaves very non-surgical scars.

My right hand, and arm, are a mess of marks, bumpy, uneven, some caused by a scalpel (neat scar on my palm) some by gravel (all the way up my forearm) some by my own stupid driving (the massive bumpy pink splodge on my hand). These scars have a story, a tale that's told to impress, to warn and to educate people on why driving fast in a dark, wet lane can be bad for your health. My left arm however, tells a very different story. Those neat fine lines on my upper arm are each caused by an argument, by an upset, by the feeling of just not being good enough, of needing to feel alive and needing to let the hatred seep out. Each of those lines represents the (pardon my french) but shit storm that was happening at that point in my life. Those lines are a completely different, less shiny, page of my story.

Each of these marks are necessary, some to save, some to harm, some to fix that dodgy knee.

All to teach, all to learn from and all to remember for what they are.

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