Reptilian Skin
Tackling my insecurity
Growing up, I was self-conscious about my skin. My acne made me feel like a scaly slimy freak. A monster appeared in the mirror each time I looked. When I saw a big pimple on one of my cheeks, the little confidence I had from wearing a fresh outfit plummeted. One of my biggest habits and reliefs was popping a pimple. Sometimes, it still is.
The appearance of a soft squishy whitehead brought me joy. It signaled that an annoying attachment to my body could slowly go away after I pressured and squeezed the yuck out of it. Imagine having to deal with acne under your armpits! Putting on deodorant was a discomforting hassle. My parents dragged me to a dermatologist when the issue became quite noticeable. They believed I was too young to withstand flaws I could fix.
Constantly having to apply medicine on my skin to treat the problem was frustrating. I didn’t have the discipline to help myself in that manner. My lack of understanding brought forth inconsistency and withdrawal. Although my appearance improved, I did a poor job of maintaining my skin care routine.
This led to me not visiting the dermatologist and neglecting my skin. From middle school and all the way to college, I tolerated its quality. I didn’t want to put in the work and was content with how I looked. Besides, who did I need to impress?
For the past two or three years, I’ve felt bewildered by how many transformations I went through when I was a kid. My figure and appearance never stayed the same. I underwent numerous iterations. The version of myself that stood out was the kid with flawless skin, a lean body, and a bunch of hair. I looked happy and confident then, but I had to accept that I wasn’t innocent anymore.
Once I appreciated myself and the things I accomplished, I wanted to shower myself with love. No matter the aspect, it could’ve been spiritually, mentally, or financially. Any opportunity I had to create a brighter view of myself, I took the chance. Around the summer of 2022, I decided to visit a dermatologist again.
The process was uncomfortable for me because I was sensitive. When the nurse and doctor gave me critiques and advice, I took them as harsh criticisms. I was scared to take my shirt off and show how ugly my back and chest looked. All the markings on my skin made me feel battered and unworthy. In those moments, nobody could feel more like Frankenstein than me.
Once the doctor gave me my treatment plan and medications, I forced myself to follow instructions and not give up. I had to put forth my best efforts. Having the opportunity to say I tried was a huge step in the right direction.
To this day, I still go to the dermatologist and find myself struggling to be cheerful. My main enemy is comparison. Girls never showered me with Valentine’s Day cards and gifts like the pretty boys. I never attended prom and wouldn’t have gotten a date to it either. By faulting myself for having a disastrous body, I let others decide my beauty.
One thing that I always found difficult to understand was my vitiligo. A bit below my chest, I have white patches. They’ve been with me since I was a kid. The troubling factor was that I never worried about them like other people did. Those white patches made me feel unique. My interpretation was grand. I used my vitiligo as an excuse to believe I’m a superhero.
You see, I allowed others to make me think that I should worry about my abnormal skin. Thankfully, white patches aren’t everywhere on my body, but as I age, I notice that it’s spreading. I could’ve sworn I saw a faint glimpse of it on my face a handful of times. A few weeks ago, I noticed it’s showing on one of my fingers. Those are features I can’t reverse.
I’m trying to shift the narrative. I replace my pessimism with clarity. God didn’t design us to look or feel ugly. We’ve used people’s opinions to define a universal definition of attractiveness. Everyone has preferences, but I can’t allow people to think ugliness is a fact when it’s subjective. In a sense, I fear that my vitiligo will go crazy. Although, my skin condition doesn’t determine how valuable I am.
Attractive people want to be around those who look like them. The popular kids never want to be near nerds with eyeglasses and blemishes on their face. If you want to be in a certain place amongst distinct people, you must find a way to fit in with the crowd. Living in this era feels like an uphill climb towards meaningless reward.
I’m lost in a sea of wishes. There’s a side of me that wants a perfect complexion. I’d love to have that characteristic one day to see how people’s behavior would change. Another part of me wants to use my skin as body armor. I’d like to walk around letting everyone know that insults couldn’t pierce me. At least then, I could tackle my paranoia and realize that nobody might be judging me. Furthermore, I can accept I was the harshest critic of them all.
