With every scar there is a story. When you're young, a scar was bragging rights to show how brave and badass you were, that the world had left its mark on you and here you were, still standing; you had lived to tell the tale and there was solid proof. If anyone didn't believe you, you could roll up your sleeves and point it out with more than a smug smile on your face.

But with age comes more scars, more that you don't want to explain, that you wish would go away. You hide them under sleeves and bracelets and lies. It's shame, not pride, that these scars bring. Of course, not everyone has scars like these, but I know a wide array of people who do.

At this point, you, dear reader, can probably assume what kind of scars I'm talking about. If I were to roll up my shirtsleeves or shorts, you'd see them, the angry slashes of dark against skin that's already noticeably pale. They're not stories I like to tell. Listeners love to hear about a villain, not someone whose worst and only enemy is herself. There's no heroic victory. I have nothing to be proud of.

If you google it, countless websites will tell you that employers don't want to see those kinds of markings. It makes you "unstable." They don't want a worker who has the potential to snap at any time, give the company bad press.

But if you were to look on a social media site like Pinterest or Tumblr, you may see a different story. Quotes adorn profiles, saying you're a "goddamn tiger who's earned their stripes."

No. No. No. That is not how that works. I didn't earn anything. These scars are not a reward; they're disgusting on me, and I'll be stared at until they fade enough to pass for anything else. Running a blade across your skin is not some kind of accomplishment. This isn't even the romanticization of self harm anymore; it's the glorification of it. And let me tell you, that is the wrong thing to do on a website that is almost solely inhabited by young and impressionable people. It has the potential to destroy them.

But since this is how some young people paint the portrait of self harm, an epidemic among their age demographic, this is what the adults see when they search for an explanation as to why their child would do such a thing to themselves. It creates a cycle of false information and blatant misunderstanding.

Sometimes parents are more ashamed than you are. What would this say about their parenting? Wouldn't people ask questions, judge not only the child, but them as well? Granted, there is something terrifying about people thinking you're unable to raise a child. So I understand why they ask me to do something about the scars, whether it's to cover them in front of family, or use medicines like ScarGuard to make them heal faster.

But they don't understand why I say no, and I'm worried they assume it's because I'm proud of my so called "battle scars", that I want the world to see how far I'm willing to go to be happy. I don't want them to think that when I look in the mirror, I smile at what I've done.

So let me set the record straight. I am not proud in the slightest of what I've done. I actually hate every single scar I've put on my body. Taking showers and changing clothes is almost a fight; I don't want to remember what I've done. I'm filled with the bitterest of regrets. But I'm not going to make them disappear. I won't use medicine, or Aloe Vera to fade them. Why? It's a reminder, a reminder of what I've done and why I shouldn't anymore. If I wipe away everything, then I'll think it's okay to do it again. My rational mind doesn't want that, but when you're feeling empty at two in the morning on a Tuesday, rationality goes out the window. The scars are what will stop me.

It isn't pride, I promise, so please stop asking me to make them go away. Like it or not, they're a part of me now, and I may as well live with what I've done. But just because I'm living with it, doesn't mean I look at them and smile.