Scars Fade
Editor’s Note: Here’s another archival piece from the content page I used to write for 3-4 years ago. Sincerely, Shresta, as a whole, is an attempt to remember my life and process what’s going on, all while looking for a connection with others. This piece of history is vital to the makeup of who I am. Perhaps even more than I realize. Similarly to the Talking to Strangers post, I’ll add my current thoughts. P.S. editor = 24-year-old Shresta.
July 4th, 2017 was just another warm night suffocated by that novel Midwest humidity. Around 10 PM on that night is when my life changed forever, I suppose. [There was no reason for me to be so dismissive. What do you mean “I suppose”? This ranks in the top eight traumas of my life, lol. Apathy is both annoying and uncool, baby Shre.]
My friend and I eagerly drove to another friend’s bonfire at her parents’ home. There were only five of us, and none of us really fit together. Just an odd collection of people who didn’t quite mesh, but nonetheless a good time was promised. [Why did I add spacing between this paragraph and the next? Makes no sense. No offense!]
I lazily followed behind the others towards my spot next to the firepit. I felt mildly irritated once I realized that I had gotten the short end of the stick. I was stuck with the seat that had the bonfire’s smoke blowing over it due to the wind. Regardless, I ignored it and focused on what a friend of mine was saying about god knows what. Within five minutes, the fire had slowly died down and it had become a small pile of embers beneath the two logs. My best friend, at the time, was sitting across from me as she noticed the dwindling fire. [In a lot of ways, it really is too bad that she’s no longer in my life. She was so funny and quite bright. Alas, sometimes life steers you away for a reason.] Our host offered to get her dad to light up the fire again. However, my best friend had different plans.
We were only seventeen and eighteen years old. All of my friends had recently discovered the excitement of drinking. Although we were all sober at that moment, it somehow feels important to include every detail. My best friend’s alternative plans included pulling out a bottle of vodka she had stashed in her Longchamp bag. [I wonder if I kept using ‘best friend’ as a way to amplify the horror of what you’re about to read. Maybe, at the time, it was an easy way to not use her name. That being said, I’m not entirely convinced that 21-year-old Shresta was fully healed from this incident, despite what I may have thought when I authored this.] Perhaps it was a Kate Spade, but who really cares at this point. This friend of mine had always been quick on her feet, so she must’ve thought this idea was just another concocted by her own genius.
All it took was a few seconds.
The vodka started pouring down onto the embers under the logs. My mind was spinning so fast yet so slow, but I began to move regardless. It didn’t matter all that much. My legs were already scorched with second-degree burns by the rising flames. A few first-degree burns on my wrist and under my chin too.
Thank god for adrenaline. I was smart enough to know not to look down, as my best friend’s dad drove me to the ER. She was sobbing as I stood there, burned, completely still as her dad checked me in. My face broke into a sympathetic smile as I comforted her. As I fucking comforted her. [Too much bitterness, ick.] I limped through the halls of the ER to my designated room. I was only seventeen at the time, so they couldn’t treat me without my parents’ consent. I anxiously waited for my mother to pick up the call from the ER nurse, but, frankly, all I could think about was how upset she was going to be. How could I have been so stupid? Well, did I even do anything wrong? I’m always so responsible. How could this be happening to me?
My conflicting thoughts were interrupted by the nurse running into the room saying my mom had finally responded. They gave me some heavy narcotics, but not before putting me in the most pain I have ever been in my life. The doctor told me he had to scrape off the dead skin from the initial burns.
All it took was a few seconds.
The doctor ruthlessly ran the cleaning pad up and down my legs for what felt like eons. The nurse, my best friend, and her dad were pinning me down to the bed while I screamed bloody fucking murder at the top of my lungs. [I still curse like a sailor, but this is getting on my nerves for some reason.]
That night marked the beginning of even more pain, but no one really cares so I’ll spare you the details. [Alright, drama. Good lord.] Truthfully, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this story. The second-degree burns are still there, and both of my legs were bandaged for the first few months in college. Every time I close my eyes I can still envision the massive flames rising up before they altered me forever. I can’t eat at my favorite hibachi restaurant [this first example is kind of a funny one to choose now that I think about it] or be around a flame that’s a little too big anymore without having an explosive anxiety attack.
I will say this, though, I’ve mentally forgiven my friend for her lapse in judgment. [As I read this back, I’m slightly convinced that I had not fully forgiven her at the time of writing this. That being said, I don’t know if I’ve even forgiven her now, rather I’ve moved on. Do you think moving on and forgiveness are the same or different? I don’t know, honestly.] I’ve forgiven myself for not thinking ahead. [Mm, unsure how I feel about this statement.] Every day, as I get dressed, I stare in the mirror picking out my imperfections. However, as I pull on my jeans [I lived in Arizona when I wrote this… when did I wear jeans?], I don’t look at my legs. Every day, I accept that my scars are a part of me. Acceptance seemed impossible three years ago, but now it’s second nature.
Now, all it takes is a few seconds.
Sincerely,
Shresta
