Just thinking about sharing this next story creates an uncomfortable
tightness in my belly. As I type these words, I wonder whether I’ll have to
courage to actually publish them online. To you, the reader, this may just seem
like your typical personal struggle story, but to me, it’s like a shameful
secret which I’ve shared with few people until now.
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I REMEMBER during my high school days I’d get out of bed to go
look out the window as soon as I woke up. I’d roll up my blind and watch for
movement in the foliage of the trees or stray leaves dancing on Mum’s freshly
cut lawn. Anything more than a breath of air and I’d cringe at the thought of
crossing the football oval on my way to school. Most girls worried about the
wind lifting up their summer dress, but I worried about it revealing what was under my
heavy blunt fringe.
One evening, I walked into the formal lounge room to wish
Mum and her partner Dave* a good night. I sat down on the floor in my satin
pyjamas and leaned my back against the cream upholstered couch where they sat. Dave commented on the length of my shiny brown hair before brushing his
hand up over my forehead and resting it on top. My thick fringe was pinned
underneath, exposing my light brown birthmark the size and shape of a 50 cent
coin. I quickly ducked forward and hissed “get off me,” or something like that.
I was so horrified and embarrassed that he might have seen what I managed to
hide so well, I immediately left the room. Dave apologised the next day, explaining
he had no idea and was sorry for causing such discomfort. He had a soften look
in his eyes, as though he sensed my deep hurt. I don’t think he, nor I for that matter, knew why I got so defensive. But when I started to write earlier today, I
remembered a damning experience that occurred around the same time, which probably had a big impact.
I don't think I've retold this story to anyone since the day it happened. As I play the
incident back in my head now, I can feel my eyes turning sad looking. The memory is so powerful my mouth is doing weird things, as
if it’s trying to recreate the look on my face of utter humiliation. I was sitting
crossed-legged out the front of my year 7 classroom. Friends and I were
bouncing a ball against a wall and chatting as we waiting for the bell to
ring. An energetic girl named Beccy* bounded into our circle like a puppy dog. A
crowd of sheepish looking boys crept closer, eager to see whether she’d carry
out their dare. She dropped herself into my lap, pinning my legs under hers.
Then she scooped up my fringe with her hand and forceful tilted my head back to reveal my birthmark. Her eyes were gleaming like she'd achieved some long-standing goal. As I fought her off, the boys were
laughing like hyenas and shouting “mole”, along with other insults. Although
the ordeal lasted a few short minutes, it tore my self-worth to pieces. Most of
my teachers would have described me as a cocky little shit, but this cut so
deep, even I failed to recognise how much it wore me down. Now that I’m older
and have had time to reflect, I can recognise how the experience (and several similar) drove me to punish myself and others.
Although I don’t remember being teased in primary school
about my having a birthmark, I must have developed a complex about it from an
early age. I remember trying to think of ways I’d be able to hide it from my
future husband, which seems so ridiculous now. I planned to have very hot
showers so the glass would fog up in case he accidentally walked in; but I was stumped
on what to do upon getting out, because there’d be times when I’d want wrap my hair
in a towel like Mum did before applying makeup. I would mentally check off
instances I knew I could control, and figured by the time I was old enough to
marry, I’d have discovered new tricks to keep my birthmark a secret.
One time when I was at the hairdressers, I told Mum I hated
having a fringe. I think someone at school must have said were dorky. She told
me they were “all the rage” when she was young, and that they would come back
in fashion soon enough. I closed my eyes so the hairdresser didn’t poke my eye
out with her scissors as she cut along my brow line. I wished I was born a few
decades earlier.
Mum had a port wine coloured birthmark shaped like a stamp
on her arm. She said when she was at school mean kids used to poke it and make sounds
like they were pressing a button. On a separate occasion, she told me she was
fearful of having a child with a birthmark because of the torment she received.
She said something like she never cared about the gender of her children, but
hoped they were born healthy and birthmark free. I think she denies ever saying that
now, but I can’t imagine why I’d make it up. I would often compare her
birthmark to mine and wished we could trade. While hers was brighter in colour,
mine grew thick hair from the centre and was smack bang in the middle of my
forehead, just below my hairline. When I tried trimming the hair, it would
regrow and make my fringe stick out; so I let it grow long which looked much
worse when in full view. In year 10 I discovered I could almost cover the
slightly raised mark with a wide hairband and the rest with makeup designed to
conceal tattoos. I thought it was unfair that tattooed people were considered
normal and I wasn’t.
In year 11 I moved to the senior school campus where there
were so many students I barely saw the kids who used to torment me. Despite
feeling relatively settled by the time I turned 16, the damage had been done
and I desperately wanted the birthmark gone. Mum took me to a GP who said I was old enough
for a plastic surgeon to consider doing the procedure. I couldn’t wipe the smile from
my face when I was advised of my operation date. While I was knocked out cold,
the surgeon put two expandable balloons in my forehead to stretch out the skin
I’d need to replace the mark. I woke up with a bandage wrapped around my head
like Mr. Bump from the Mr. Men series. Days later, a nurse came in to change my
gauze and brought a hand mirror with her. I felt sick with nerves at the thought
of studying my wound. First I looked at the fresh red scar on its own, then
moved the mirror out to see how it suited the rest of my face. I was so happy.
Not for a moment have I regretted my decision to have it
removed, but I do question whether I could have minimised the amount of mental pain and
bitterness it caused.
Sometimes my scar catches the light or turns red from too
much sun, gaining unwanted attention from strangers or new acquaintances. It’s
not often people ask what happened, but when they do, I always respond with hesitation.
Sometimes when I don’t want to reveal my “sad eyes”, I smile and say it’s top
secret, or tell a ridiculously unbelievable story so they don’t ask again. On
the rare occasion I manage to utter the words “I had a birthmark removed”
(which is still so incredibly hard), I feel I have to immediately explain my
motives. I’m always conscious of my voice trembling and the way the person looks
at me immediately after, in case they see me differently. Once someone was genuinely
shocked to hear I had it removed, and I was shocked back, to think someone could
be so accepting that they couldn’t even understand why it was such a big deal
to me.
My “ugly” hairy birthmark is gone, but I’ll be living with negative memories forever. I doubt I’ll ever get to a point where I can speak
about it confidently, or find a silver lining. Being made fun of is terrible.
Being made fun of for something you’re born with and can’t change is really
terrible. Sadly, I wouldn’t be surprised if some people read this and continued
to make cruel jokes, despite everything I’ve already gone through and tentatively
shared.
Below is a recent photo of me. You may be able to spot my scar, which begins to the right of my hair part and finishes a few centimetres under it. I was so worried about friends looking at photo albums, any photos Mum printed showing even the slightest bit of my birthmark were ripped up and thrown away. I tried to track down the pre-op photo taken by my plastic surgeon, but was told the records have been destroyed.
*Names have been changed for confidentiality.