Physical appearance. It’s something we all battle with each and every day. We constantly see “perfection” represented in the media, and some of us are willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that level of perfection. The mirror can be your worst enemy just as much as your insecurity can. I understand what it’s like to be insecure, and I think we've all had our moments of lack of confidence. But this article isn’t a complaint about how I hate the idea of “perfection,” and this isn’t a bash to anyone who is used as these models of “skinny” or “flawless.” This is simply me telling you my story of how I realized that my “flaws” truly weren’t flaws at all.
I was born just like any other healthy baby, a good seven pounds with a plump face and all 10 fingers and all 10 toes. It seemed to my family that I was in great health. This wasn’t a false assumption, because I totally was OK. Until I went home and a few weeks later I began to break out into hundreds of little hives that lasted for a little while, until they turned into big pigmented spots on my body. My parents tried everything to remove them and stop them before they happened. Bottles of lotion and antihistamine just weren’t doing the trick, so they took me to a doctor.
After many pokes and prods of needles and blood work, the doctor was at a loss. More and more doctors filled the room and they took a biopsy of the skin on my back. Finally, after a few hours of confusion and studying, the doctors found an answer in an old book. They gave my mother and father a diagnosis. maculopapular cutaneous mastocytosis, otherwise known as urticaria pigmentosa. Crazy words that made absolutely no sense my family. To make a long story shorter, essentially they said I would live the rest of my life with a rare skin disease caused from too many mast cells in my skin. They went on to explain that there was no cure, but it wasn’t anything to be too concerned about. However, I would have to go on with many big brown “spots” on my body that would itch like crazy for the rest of my life. There was a chance they would fade with time, but they were basically there for good. This wasn't the best news in the world, but it was something we could live with. It would all be just fine.
I grew up not really caring about my “itchy spots” as I called them, and I taught myself not to itch them so they wouldn’t get irritated and hive up my body. Never did I think of myself as different or imperfect until I turned 11 years old and got my first two-piece swimsuit. I was so excited to finally wear it to the beach with my friends until I was questioned about why I had “spotty skin” or why there was a big scar on my back from my biopsy that “looks like a bear claw.” It was at that moment that I wanted to put on a big sweatshirt and jeans (regardless of the 85 degree weather) so I didn’t have to be asked a thousand questions. I don't think the girls intentions were to hurt me; they were just curious, but it made me upset to think that I was so different and foreign to them. That was when my struggle began. I started noticing that I didn’t have “pretty skin,” and it made me feel bad about myself. I tried so hard to cover the spots up with makeup, but never found the right mix of “nude” and “sand” coverup. It was hard to be asked why the most obvious one on my neck had turned into a hive when I itched it. I was sick of saying, “No, it’s not a hickey.”
As I struggled with my self image, I started wondering why I even let this be a problem for me in the first place. I was going to have this forever and it’s a part of who I am, so why should that make me upset? It shouldn’t. It absolutely shouldn’t. I am a human being with imperfections, and I am not afraid to say it or be proud of them. They tell the world my story and they keep me grounded. My bear claw scar is a symbol of realizing that there was something unique about me. And the “spots” on my body are reminders that I am different, and it's completely OK to be that way.
We all have self doubt and struggle with how we see ourselves, but you should never let something as simple as a “flaw” be the reason you can’t smile. Stop letting the mirror and other people's comments dictate how you perceive yourself. Let those "flaws" tell your story, because it's a beautiful one. My skin disease isn’t my enemy anymore, but it's more a reminder to be happy with who I am and to know that my “flaws” aren’t really flaws at all.
