"Ugh, what happened to you?" "You're not pretty like the other girls." "No one likes you. You look like you're covered in dirt." "No one is ever going to like you."
These remarks were the norm for me when I was growing up. Every comment hurt a little bit more than the last. I subconsciously hoarded them until they started to become the very things I was telling myself. I have a rare epidermal nevus condition called Phacomatosis pigmentokeratotica, which affects about 1 in 2,000 people. A nevus is the scientific term for birthmark or mole. My case is caused by a genetic mutation, although the specific gene remains unknown. It isn't something you'd see everyday, which was why I garnered this kind of attention.
I might've only been 7 or 8 years old, but I could still understand the magnitude of disgust behind every mean comment. I was constantly bullied in school by my peers. They would make fun of me for looking different. During sixth grade lunch hour, a boy threw food at me and crumpled notes with mean things written on them such as, "You're ugly." The harassment didn't stop with my classmates.
Parents of these kids would tell my mom and dad that I should have surgery to remove them, because I wasn't attractive. Adults walking past me would sneer at the sight of me and take pictures to laugh at. My sixth grade Spanish teacher even publically bullied me in front of class and said, "Why don't you go and connect the dots on your face?" You could imagine the amount of emotional trauma this caused to my self-esteem. I received positive comments here and there, but it was always the negative ones that held more weight to me.
My mom would take many measures to cover me up as best as she could to protect me from the world. I was always outfitted in turtlenecks and long pants. When it got hot, my mom would slather on foundation that was five times too light and too sheer for my skin. I was always running around so the makeup melted off anyway. It was not ideal.
I was taught was to hide and to cover my skin so people wouldn't say anything. But no matter how hard I tried, every negative comment and experience felt like the weight of the world. I hated what I looked like and soon I embodied everything that hurt. I believed that I wasn't beautiful and that I never could be. I briefly contemplated suicide around the end of middle school. If I just stopped everything, I wouldn't have to hurt anymore. I could stop my parents from tirelessly trying to find the best medical care for me, since at the time, most dermatologists didn't know what to do with my case. "Maybe I could stop my parents from having to take the emotional abuse. It would be so easy to end my emotional suffering," I thought to myself. [Editor's note: if you or a loved one feels suicidal, find help here.]
I am now 24 years old, and all I can say is that I am grateful I chose otherwise. It was a painfully slow but steady journey to attain self-acceptance. To this day, I feel like I still have a lot to work on. There are days when I'll cry, but I'm only human, and I need to allow myself to feel emotion. Regardless of those bad days, I know that I will always pick myself up and continue on with my life.
Today, I can't help but tell you how much I love my life and how much I am appreciative for my birthmarks. Not only have they given me confidence in my appearance, but they have also given me the strength and drive to pursue my dreams. I grew up with a lot of negativity, but slowly, I learned to stand up against it. I kept telling myself that they were wrong and that what they said meant nothing to me. I began to apply the mindset of "never taking no for an answer" to all aspects of my life.
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