She would be really pretty if she had nice skin.
What my dad said to my relatives after I went to bed. (via sanwichsays)
I almost don’t want to add to this because its so powerful on its own, but this just really struck a chord with me. This is basically my family’s mantra since I began withdrawing. Like too many other young girls, I’ve been conditioned to equate my outer appearance with my self-worth. My academic performance was always important, but not as important. My parents and relatives were not impressed by any of my achievements, as these were just expected of me. What really set me aside from my cousins was the fact that I was “pretty” too. As a testament to how fucked up my family is, I literally made bank at family parties just for looking nice. Relatives would half-heartedly ask me how school was and then move on to the important matters - “Do you have a boypren?” “You are such a lady now, so beautiful!” I’d receive anywhere from $50-$200 to “buy something pretty to wear.” If I didn’t show up in a cute outfit or if my rashes were visible, I simply wouldn’t get as much money. I remember accepting their generous gifts. I remember going to the mall and diligently shopping, trying on clothes and makeup and shoes. I remember slathering on the steroids to make my rashes go away.
Fast forward to here and now, after all that TSW has done to me both physically and mentally. I avoid those family parties now because I’m ashamed - I’m no longer pretty so what’s the point? When I do muster up the courage to go, I’m not celebrated like I used to be. Instead of money, I receive concerned looks and unsolicited skincare advice. They try to be sympathetic, encouraging even, saying, “It’s such a shame that this happened to you, sweetheart. You will be pretty again soon, don’t worry!” And in one fell swoop, I’m reduced to the state of my skin, my years of suffering nothing but a momentary lapse in prettiness.
I am 90% healed, and I am incredibly happy about that. As soon as I was 50% healed I was already happy about that. It showed so much in my face and arms. I remember when it was the worst, and I would get that look from strangers, but also family and friends. I was ashamed, and I did not want to show my face anywhere. I fell into a depression and had no desire to see anyone. I didn’t want to do anything.
I remember these words spoken to me by someone I loved too: “You’re pretty again.” Though, I was ecstatic about the state of my skin and healing... I couldn’t help but also think Well, damn... is my being pretty just how I look on the outside? Fuck.
I know the intentions behind those words were not evil, but it speaks volumes of how our world or society works. I always hated how media portrayed beauty a certain way, and it is unfortunate that so many of us strive to get to those ideals. Fuck that. The prettiest thing about my skin was the ability it had to heal, and the journey that you go through. Seriously tho.
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