It's Never Been About Being Ugly

It's no secret that I'm really self-conscious about how I look, at least not to people who know me. And to those who don't know me, I don't try to hide my insecurities although the internet makes it easier to pretend that I am much more comfortable in my skin than I actually am. But the thing is, my self-consciousness has never been a matter of ugliness.

There has always been a great degree of honesty in my family and we speak frankly with each other. We have a policy of Brutal Honesty, because if the ones you love tell you the hardest things to hear, no one else can ever hurt you with the truth. That, paired with the fact that I have had my whole life to think about it and to understand my situation, means that I have a rather intimate understanding about where my self-consciousness and insecurities come from and why I have them. And I am also quite certain that it is not because I am ugly. I know for a fact that I am not.

I hate looking at myself, it's true, but for far more subtle reasons than just what can be summed up under the word "ugly."  "Ugly" is used commonly as a catch-all term for something that aesthetically makes us uncomfortable, but in truth, it's merely a word to describe something unpleasant, not something uncomfortable. Sure, I am not the least bit photogenic and despite being closer to thirty than I would like to admit to, I still look like a boy of sixteen (and with the same amount of pathetic patchy facial hair as a twelve-year-old).

But overall, I don't think the general package is too bad. I am aware of being incredibly blessed. I am healthy, have the use of all my limbs, and possess all of my senses. I am reminded of this every day since I live with someone who is blind. And for as vibrant and independent as Dea is, I am certain that I have the much lesser burden. Like anyone, I wish I could make changes to myself. I dislike my hands. They're squat and square and calloused all over the palms from work. I wish my hair was thicker and fully black rather than its natural brownish-blackish-can't-decide-on-a-color. I wish I were taller. I wish my face were a little less round. I cannot change any of these things though, and for what I have, I think it's pretty good.

Sometimes when I see pictures of myself, a thing which I have done extensively over the past week out of some hope to cure me of some of my insecurity, I have the fleeting thought that (I suppose going hand-in-hand with thinking that I look like a teenager) I could be a pretty guy without the scarring, like... genuinely pretty (side note: I don't understand why people think "pretty boy" is an insult. Hell, if someone wanted to tell me I was a pretty guy, I'd be very happy). The scarring however.... that's a nuanced and loaded subject.

When I think about the scars, my immediate reaction is frustration and anger. I have so much of it, but I know it's reactionary to the way they hurt me. Physically, they are not painful and any recollection of the initial pain has completely faded from my memory. At the most, they are uncomfortable on occasion when they pull. They only hurt in the small pernicious ways.

I hold the belief that scars should only ever be considered as documentation at having lived, having experienced life, having it written on your body. But most scars are the results of accidents or of medical necessity. In my case, mine are neither of these kinds. They were deliberately inflicted and done with no apparent intention other than to deface me. I don't remember a time in my life when I didn't have a permanent smile. And knowing that someone did this to me, with full knowledge of what they were doing and doing to a child... that is the most difficult piece to live with.

And it makes me wonder, who could have hated me so much to do this?

And the tragedy, the cruelty, of it is not that is has made me ugly, but that it has rendered me ridiculous. My face feels like someone's bad joke, something people cannot take seriously, something worthy of derision. And for this, I have become so deeply ashamed of my appearance. It's not the ugliness but the shame that hurts so badly.

I think perhaps having just been ugly might have been better.