You’re ugly, and so am I.

“Is everything okay?”, my teacher asked me.

I was fifteen. It took my puzzled expression, and moments of silence for her to realize I hadn't understood why she was asking me that question.

“Did someone hurt you?”, she pressed on.
“No..no one hurt me”, I stammered, still trying to comprehend why she was asking me that question.
“It’s okay sweetie,” she persuaded, “You can tell me. I will help. If someone hit you, you should tell me.”

I remained silent.

“Your bruise, does it hurt?” she whispered, her voice overflowing with concern.

That’s when it hit me. She was referring to the darkened part of my face.

“It’s a birthmark”, I replied bitterly.

“Oh”.

That was the day I became conscious of the way I looked. That was the first time I felt ugly.

Little did I know that in the coming decade, I would become a self-conscious, eternally worried adult, with zero self-esteem. And I blamed society.

“Oh God, did someone give you a black eye?”, “ Did you have an accident?”, “ I noticed the skin on the right side of your face is darker. What happened?” , were some of the more polite queries

And then there were others, “What’s that blue-green thing on your face”, “What happened to your face?” “Is that even normal” “Your face looks weird”.

Mostly, people assumed I was a victim of domestic violence. My self-esteem was scraping the bottom of the vessel, and then, to add insult to the proverbial injury, the insults kicked in.

Michael Jackson
Penguin face.
That’s what a bitchslap looks like.

and my favourite…
Harvey two-face.

Goodbye self-esteem.

I did EVERYTHING in my power to make sure it wasn't noticed. From flipping my bangs onto my cheek and looking like an emo person, to always standing a particular position to make sure people always saw my good side. I discovered the joy of make-up and worked excessively to lighten the tone to ensure the pigmentation was less visible. As the years passed, I gained a LOT of weight, and the skin on my face expanded, making the pigmentation less obvious. It was far easier to cover it up and “feel beautiful”.

I put up a façade, and pretended to be proud of my pigmentation — as if I were unique. In reality I was alone; I knew no one else who had this condition. I am blessed with great skin — blemish and pimple free, even in my teen years — yet it all seemed so pointless against this abomination. I had become so self-conscious, that even sub-consciously, I’d end up choosing where I sit so my good side gets maximum visibility. I perfected the art of taking selfies without exposing my “bad side”. I couldn't leave the house without makeup. I’d panic that my blackmark would be a deal-breaker on a date. I over-compensated.

And then, a few months ago, I had a realization that I cannot be the only person on earth with this condition. I needed to know if there’s a cure. I wanted to get rid of this liability. And with the help of good old Internet searches, I discovered, after 26 years, that it isn't a birthmark.

Nevus of Ota, Google said. That’s what it is.

Let’s get technical. Nevus of Ota, or oculodermal melanocytosis is a blue hyperpigmentation that appears on the face (oooh, Wikipedia). To break it down, a bunch of melanin producing cells get trapped (melanocytosis)in the eye (oculo) and under a part of the skin (dermal) on the face. Pretty cool, huh? (That’s what I kept telling myself). And it’s fairly common, but pretty rare in India. Daniela Ruah, is an actress who is afflicted by this condition

Now, I read that laser treatment can help me lighten this, if not completely remove it, and to be honest I was excited. I actually considered it, and then I felt ashamed of myself.

Over the years, I have accepted myself with all my flaws and imperfections, the exact same way I accept everyone else. So why was I unable to accept this one, tiny glitch? Would my family love me any more if I didn't have this patch? Would my dogs be more faithful to me if I looked any different? Would I have more fun with my friends if my skin was all one colour?

I guess I always knew the answer.

Your hair is too thin, your pimples leave scars, your nose is crooked, you have a giant mole on your face, your right eye is bigger than your left, your teeth are huge, your fingers are stubby, your thighs are jiggly, your ass is droopy, you have a double chin, your love handles give you a muffin top, your nails are uneven, your confidence is wearing thin, your voice sounds like you breathe helium. You’re ugly.

And here I am, not afraid to admit I’m one of you. I’m imperfect. I’m here to tell you, no matter how cliched this sounds, those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind. So if I need to be perfect to be beautiful, well, I want to stay ugly.

Ugly, and proud.