The Wound Wasn’t the Beginning

I saw this picture on TikTok. I don’t know who made it. I don’t know what they intended it to mean. But somehow, it reminded me of myself. Not because I am a rabbit. Not because I have horns. But because I know what it feels like to turn something that was supposed to be a part of you into a weapon against yourself. Look at it. It’s almost beautiful at first. White. Delicate. Surrounded by flowers and soft green leaves. Then you notice the blood. The wounds. The way its body seems frozen in the aftermath of something irreversible. And that’s what people always notice. The damage. The evidence. The scars. They see what happened and suddenly they want to understand. But look at its eyes. That red eye is what gets me. Because the pain didn’t begin with the blood. The blood was simply the first thing nobody could ignore. The eyes had probably been screaming long before the body ever spoke. That’s what I understand about self-destruction. People see the aftermath and think that’s where the story begins. It doesn’t. There was a version of you before the scars. A version that cried quietly. A version that stared at the ceiling at 3 a.m., wondering how much longer it could keep pretending. A version that smiled when someone asked, “Are you okay?” A version whose eyes were already red, but somehow nobody thought to ask why. And then one day, the pain becomes visible. Suddenly you’re no longer just “quiet.” You’re “struggling.” Suddenly everyone notices. Suddenly everyone has questions. But where were those questions when the suffering was invisible? Where were they when all you had were tired eyes and a smile that was becoming harder to fake? That’s the part of this picture that feels too familiar. Everyone looks at what the rabbit did. Almost nobody looks at what it had been feeling before it did it. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t scroll past. Because sometimes I feel like that rabbit. Not because I want anyone to see my scars. But because I wish someone had seen my eyes before I ever had them. Before the evidence. Before the explanations. Before the damage became something other people could finally understand. Maybe that’s the cruelest part of pain. You can scream without making a sound. You can fall apart without moving. You can be drowning while looking perfectly alive. And sometimes people don’t believe you were hurting until you leave them something they can see. So if you ever look at someone’s scars and wonder what happened to them, remember this: The scar is not the beginning of the story. It’s proof that there was a story you weren’t there to see. Look at their eyes. Sometimes they’re telling you everything.

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