I'm tired because I couldn't sleep last night. I kept waking up and staring at my scars which were barely visible in the light of the lamp on the nightstand next to my bed. I kept the light on because I couldn't bear to be in the dark again.

As I watched the Olympics last night I couldn't concentrate. My eyes invariably went back, time and again, to the scars.

I remember so clearly what the doctor said to me when I woke up in the hospital. He told me the scars would never go away, that when I looked at them they would remind me how close I had come to the end of my life.

He was wrong, when I look at the scars it never crosses my mind how close I had come to death. When I look at the scars I'm reminded of the end of my childhood dreams. I'm reminded of how many things ended in those days and months. I'm reminded of the terror I felt, the horror of not being in charge, the outrage felt by others shaping my future.

There were many deaths in those days and months that led up to the scarring of my body and spirit. There was the death of childhood aspirations. There was the death of adolescence. There was the death of a higher education. There was the death of marrying for love. There was the death of a certain naivete, of innocence and of personal ownership, there was most especially the death of freedom.

When I look at the scars on my wrist I see the utter desperation and the loss of dreams suffered from being forced into something I never wanted nor had any knowledge of. Motherhood hit me like a trainwreck that shattered my hopes and dreams. Forced motherhood left me bereft. Forced motherhood left me despondent and it left me wanting, wanting the life I would have had if I had had a choice.

I entered my senior year of high school with high expectations. I was a young girl who was born an enthusiasts of life. I was born with a sparkle and an exuberance that was clear to all who came near. I was born with a lust for life, a pure unadulterated joy for each new day. I applied to several universities and private colleges in my senior year. I was accepted to most but when news of my acceptance came from Lewis and Clark I was ecstatic. I would go to college and in the summer I would intern at the Shakespearean Festival in Ashland. I was charmed by the life I was stepping into. I would be truly free for the first time.

I was two weeks late before I realized I hadn't started my period that first month. There was in me a dread as I marked off each new day without any of the usual signs of my period. The second month came and went. The dread turned into terror. There was morning sickness but there was also a sick feeling inside because I knew what was on the horizon. I knew there were no choices for me, I knew my life as I had known it was over. I also knew I had no business or desire to be a mother. I started on a downward spiral in those days that would take many years to climb out of. I was the shadow that lived behind my shadow. The effervescence was dead, gone, buried under the quicksand that became my new life.

My son was still a toddler when I went into the kitchen and used the knife to cut the arteries in my wrist that left the scars I've been staring at the past couple of days. The scars that don't remind me of how close I came, the scars that remind me every single day of the gut wrenching and terrifying reality when women and young girls don't own our bodies. The scars speak to me of those horrible days after I realized I was pregnant. The scars scream to me of battles lost before they had even been waged. The scars are the voice of a kind of violence against women and young girls. The kind of violence that hides behind women not having a choice.

I was afraid to be in the dark last night because the scars reminded me of when I came home from the hospital after I slit my wrist. The movie, "I Never Promised You A Rose Garden" kept appearing in my head. I was that girl, my greatest fear was that I would end up in a state run mental hospital because I was so far down in that deep, black, dark hole. I couldn't imagine a day being lived without that ever present fear. I didn't belong where I was, I belonged in a mental institution and when I was found out I would spend the rest of my life there. The doors would shut and they would be locked. The windows would be barred just as the windows in my soul were.

I had to sleep with my mother that first year because I was so afraid of the dark. The same darkness I couldn't stand to be in last night. The same darkness my scars lived in, the darkness we live in when we are no longer free.

Those very same scars make me weep for all the women and young girls who will be made to give birth when they're not ready to have a child. Those very scars will be seen on the wrists of women who can see no other way. Those are the visible scars, the scars on our hearts and souls are there for a lifetime also.

This is the land of the free except if you're a woman or a young girl. This is a democracy except if you're a woman or a young girl. This is a country that prides itself on justice except what's just for a woman or young girl. There is a Declaration of Independence except if you are a woman or a young girl. There is liberty except if you are a woman or a young girl.

For those who doubt if this is all true, rest assured, we have the scars to prove it.

I weep today for all those young girls who will be in a land of darkness with no light at the end of the long, narrow tunnel until they find a new sense of freedom that can only come with time and a new found resolve to live life once again. It takes courage to get beyond the abyss. It also takes a tremendous amount of patience and love, above all else love, from others and the love we need to give to ourselves.