Scars, Strangers, Cardigans

A few days ago, I went for a job interview. Being a traditionalist at heart, I opted to wear clothes to my interview.

Choosing an interview-outfit, however, I suddenly realised my main priority (other than looking smart/presentable/passably attractive) was to hide the self-harm scars/recent marks on my arm. Most of the time I don’t really think of myself as ‘a self-harmer’: it's more just a useful coping method, one which I’ve utilised on and off since I was about 13. Sometimes, I genuinely forget that everyone doesn’t have self-harm scars. The criss-crossing, abstract-art of red and white ridges can sometimes seem as ubiquitous and innocuous as freckles: you assume everyone has at least a few, even if they’re hidden. But, faced with a situation where people would be actively judging me – making assessments about my employability – I become acutely aware of the need to hide my arms.

I eventually opted to wear a warm, long-sleeved cardigan, which somewhat ruined the smart-but-summery look I was originally going for. I did quite like the cardigan, though. It was the sort that has no buttons and just drapes nicely around you: a garment you can really hide in. Even the word ‘cardigan’ itself feels comforting and grandmotherly. Safely ensconced inside my cardigan, I was able to present myself the way I wanted: competent, confident, scar-free.

Really, though, what I was doing was just an extension of what everyone is doing, all the time. Whether or not they self-harm, everyone has periods where they hate themselves, want to hurt themselves, feel as if they can’t go on. But we’re conditioned to hide it, to make sure we don’t embarrass others, or present ourselves as anything less than perfect.

The other day, whilst in London with my boyfriend, I met a stranger – a homeless man, who stopped to ask us for change. Whilst we fished about for some coins, the man noticed the scars on my arms, and, pulling up his sleeves, showed me his own self-harm scars.  He spoke about his life: his child who died young, his long periods of drug addiction. More opaquely, he indicated that he had been repeatedly abused when he was young. It was heart breaking, desperately sad. I’ve had some bad-ish experiences, but I’ve always had a degree of stability in my life: when my relationships collapsed into frightening, abusive messes, I’ve always had the security of being able to return to my parents' home. When I developed an eating disorder and eventually dropped out of school, my boss at work encouraged me to go back to college. No one ever hurt me when I was a young child.

This man clearly didn’t have any of that.

I think the thing that got to me the most was that his primary motivation in speaking was because he was worried about me: he seemed genuinely concerned, telling me to take care of myself, telling my boyfriend to take care of me. Sometimes, I find it awkward or intrusive when strangers ask questions: it can come across as rude, intimidating. But I think real kindness never feels like that.  

In job interviews, we all try to show ourselves in our best light. But in real life, I guess it’s sometimes good to ditch our 'cardigans': to be more open, more honest about our vulnerabilities. Admit that things hurt, admit that things can scar. And admit that the kindness of strangers - or the sudden, overwhelming strangeness of  unsolicited kindness - can sometimes move us to tears.