The Last Scar

Chapter 7

I have been writing a lot about my early years. That is because my research needs all the data available. Every detail. Every trigger. Every fall.

But also because my early years—as troublesome as they sound—were nothing compared to what I lived in my twenties. And later, in my forties.

I look back now and I understand: I was triggered. I was in a constant state of mania. I was not who I am now.

That realization hurts.

Because I was raised to be a success. Instead, I became an overcomer. And that is not the same thing.

— The Scar

This morning I looked at my last surgery scar. It is small now. Faded. Almost invisible.

But behind it is a terrible story.

I had an accident. Stupid, like all my “falls.” But this one was different. This one was caused by the man I loved to pieces.

I fell one story.

I remember the fall. I remember seeing the ground coming toward me. I knew I was going to land on my head and die. I saw it in seconds—the snap, the silence, the end.

And then I heard a voice. A little voice. Screaming: “Nooooo!”

I felt my baby angel’s hands—tiny, fierce, impossible—trying to stop the fall. And instead of landing on my head, I landed on my side.

— What Happened Next

Within seconds, he was there. Trying to lift me to my feet. Saying I was okay.

But I was not okay.

The bleeding was internal. The pain was unbearable. I could not stand. I could not breathe without crying.

He took me home. He gave me a cannabis gummy to “help” the ibuprofen. Of course, it did nothing. I was screaming. And he was angry.

Because he was abusive.

Because he was mad I did not die.

— The Love of My Life Was a Traitor

Just writing that sentence makes my whole body ache. My eyes fill with tears.

Because the love of my life—the man I left everything for—was not just abusive. He was not just unfaithful.

He was a traitor.

He watched me fall. He did not call an ambulance. He did not hold me. He did not care if I lived or died. In fact, I think he preferred the second option.

That is not love. I know that now. But knowing does not erase the memory.

— What I Want You to Know

I am not telling you this for pity. I am telling you this because I need you to understand: I was not who I am now.

That version of me was drowning. She was desperate. She was so hungry for love that she accepted poison and called it nourishment.

I am not her anymore.

But she is still in me. And sometimes, when I look at that scar, I see her. I see the fall. I see the voice. I see the man who wanted her dead.

And I am so tired. So exhausted.

I will write about how I finally made it to the ER another time. For now, I need to rest. I need to let this sit.

— A Note to Anyone Who Has Survived a Fall

If you have survived something similar—if you have been broken by someone who was supposed to love you, if you have landed on your side instead of your head because something unseen held you—I see you.

You are not alone. You are not the fall. You are not the story they tried to write over you.

You are the voice that screamed no.

You are the hands that saved you, even if they were invisible.

You are still here.

And that is not small. That is everything.

—

I will write again soon. For now, I am resting. I am letting myself be held. And I am remembering that I survived the fall, even when I was not supposed to.

With love, exhaustion, and hope,

Merida Paz

The Purple Witch, under the Purple Cape

💜 🧹 🙏 🕯️ 🕊️