Bandaids can only hide the damage for so long.

I have been questioning the checklists that so frequently run through my mind, wondering how they got there and how they serve me, considering their possible origin and the possibility that I was offered no other option.

Each time I try to trace one back, I am left swimming in vague memories and feelings. Each time I am blinded by flashbacks from when I was young, from when I was told about the ways of the world but never allowed to ask why.

Lately, I ask myself why.

When I am in the shower and the simple checklist scrolls through my mind like the message at the bottom of the news channel, I no longer simply do as I read. Now, when it gets to the end and I would normally grab the razor and take the sharp blades of metal to my skin, I pause.

Questioning why I ever began reaching for this device brings me back to fifth grade:

Standing in the lunch line; our class a couple minutes early. One of my friends talking about how she is shaving her legs now and the other girls chime in too. 

Suddenly, I am alone. A weight heavy on my chest, and I want nothing more to belong again. 

It is amazing how quickly this new insecurity grew. 

That night I asked my mom if I would be able to start shaving, and I will never forget the way she hesitated. My eleven-year-old heart hung in the balance of her decision. Eventually, she agreed.

I now understand the weight that she held in those few moments. To say no would be to condemn me to an outcast. But to say yes would be agreeing to give one more part of my body over to a world that did not value it. I was eleven years old and unable to grasp what I was fully asking for. I could not understand beyond the shame I felt for my own body.

On that day, I may have needed to ask for permission, but I would not stay eleven forever, and my body would not stay hidden from the demands of our society for long.

So that night I scrapped the four blade razor along the length of my legs, over my knees, and around my ankles. That night, I wore many bandaids to bed, hiding the pieces of myself that I nicked away.

I have been doing this over and over again for the past ten years. Buying razors and shaving cream and taking annoyingly long showers while I ensure that every hair has been cut away. All because the little fifth-grade girl that still lives inside of me craves that sense of acceptance.

Now when I look in the mirror, I stare into my own eyes and try to talk to her. To tell her that she is whole and valued. To tell her that I accept her.

So as I pause in the shower while reaching for the razor, there are days I now let my hand fall empty and the hair lives longer. But there are also days where I only want to bask in the smooth silk of my freshly shaved skin. On those days I still drag the blades over my body, but there is far less damage to hide with bandaids.