Suicide Scars

Mine doesn't exactly look like this. And it really isn't an attempted suicide scar. My childhood home on Woodlawn Avenue had originally been a grocery store with living quarters in the back. When my parents closed the store, that area was remodeled into a new living room with large display windows left in front that were covered on the inside by curtains. Kinda looked like this:

Except it had a big wooden front porch on it. At twelve, one afternoon right after a summer storm I ran up on the porch and slipped on the wet wood and went flying through the window to the left of the front door. I did have the sense to put my arms up in front of my face. I got the wrist of my left arm and the back of my right. The tendon and artery in my left wrist were quite sliced up. They told me I yelled and neighbors heard me a block away. The lady across the street came running, bandaged me up as best she could, put a sheet in her car and took me to the hospital. My mother was at work. They stitched me up and I had to keep my left arm in a sling with the wrist wrapped with a metal brace so that the tendon could heal.

Years later, my friend in New Orleans, which I talked about earlier here, thought she had found a soul mate because she thought my scar was like hers, self inflicted. Could have been worse.

In today's world, my mother would have been arrested for child neglect and the lady across the street for kidnapping. My grandmother was at home around the corner all day. Children were just sent out or they would just go and not come back until dinner sometimes. I rode my bike all over my town. There were other adults that would look out for you. I was also a very tall 12 year old.