Story Behind my Scars

“What’s wrong with your face?” a sweet 3-year old asked, not knowing any better.  “Nothing.” I said slightly salty, hoping she’d drop it immediately.  She proceeded to jab the pad of her finger into my face in a scooping, sweeping motion as if to read the braille on my face.  This wouldn’t be the first encounter like this with a child, or an adult for that matter.  Not only have I gotten, “what’s wrong with your face?” in college, but I’ve also gotten the same reaction of a finger to my face when I responded with, “nothing.”

I have a lot of acne pockmarks on my skin.  When I hit puberty, it didn’t take very long for pimples to plague my face.  When I said plague my face, I mean literally all over my face.  I tried everything from over-the-counter to what dermatologists prescribed me and nothing worked.  When it came down to it, I just had an unlucky draw with genetics.  My parents would always say, “I had the most pimples in my family, Mom/Dad had the most pimples in their family.  Two pimple-y people mixed together equals very pimple-y kids.”  My brother also struggled with bad skin.  However, with society’s instilled double standards, he didn’t have to deal with half the things I did.  I had books thrown at my head, pushed and shoved around all while people screamed, “GET PLASTIC SURGERY!” which I never did much about.  One day one of the few friends I had screamed back some obscenities at my aggressor. Wide-eyed, I asked her, “Why did you do that?”  She grabbed me by the shoulder and shook it slightly as a reality check, “You have to stand up for yourself, you’re beautiful just the way you are.”  I shook my head, “No, they’re right.”

When I lived in China, my mother in an attempt to help me with my self-esteem would subject me to a facial every single Saturday.  Sounds nice on the surface, but I’d later discover– these facials would be the root cause of all my acne pock marks.  They would poke, prod, and squeeze all my acne until my face was purple and oozing.  They were doing all of it incorrectly and inducing scars since China doesn’t have the same cosmetology licensing standards as USA (if they had any at all.)  I get particularly upset when people like to tell me, “Well, you shouldn’t have popped your pimples when you were younger.” Way to assume things, I got these from facials. “Then you should sue them for damages.”  Facials I got in China. “Oh.”  As if lawsuits and money would make my scars magically disappear!  People always felt compelled to tell me their opinions as if I had any control over changing the past.  “You’d be sooo pretty without all those scars on your face.” Don’t you think I KNOW that?  Then there are those kind-hearted people who say things like, “I barely notice them.  They’re not that bad.”  Thank you.  You’re lying, but God bless your soul for being so kind.

I remember my first time getting prescribed Accutane.  The doctor went over the symptoms which included blindness, hair loss, and suicide.  I said slightly under my breath, “If this doesn’t work, I’ll probably gauge my own eyes out to save myself the sight of my reflection, pull my hair out with the bullying I deal with on a day-to-day basis, and kill myself anyway– let’s be real.”  The doctor’s face changed to show real concern and I laughed saying not everyone shared my super dark sense of humor.  My mom nudged me in the shoulder as a reminder to keep my attitude in check.  None of those symptoms were enough to scare me off because I had become so desperate to be free from the burden of acne.  Accutane worked, but at that point, I had done a weekly facial for the majority of the year, and the permanent damage was already done.

I’ve known I wanted to be a professional actress since I was 5 years old.  I always took my training seriously and the stage was the one place where I didn’t let my looks discourage me.  In my head, I wasn’t the insecure acne/pock mark-ridden Andrea. I was a fictional character who may or may not share my real-life attributes.  “You know, in the real-world they actually care about what you look like for roles?”, one of my cousins confronted me one day. I responded, “Celebrities aren’t perfect.  Cameron Diaz has notoriously bad skin…”  She scoffed, “You’re no Cameron Diaz.”  I laughed, “I know.  I’m better.” I said with a wink.  Her face melted into extreme disapproval but I assured her she had absolutely no idea what I was capable of and was better off to mind her own business.  I already get told ‘no’ a lot at auditions for valid reasons, I didn’t need “no”s from family members that I barely interacted with and have never seen me act.

After undergrad, I treated myself with a year of educational hiatus since I graduated early.  I travelled to Taiwan for an extended period of time.  It was at this point, my father offered me facial laser treatment for my deep-seeded pock marks.  I struggled with this decision for a long time.  To be honest, there was a moment where I didn’t even want to consider it.  I finally came to appreciate my scars!! Without them, I wouldn’t have my strong character or my sense of humor to outshine what most considered as my “lack of” outward beauty.  I was afraid if I didn’t have them anymore, I’d be egotistical and vain like the rest of them. Some of my aunts on my mother’s side tried to convince me not to get it, “You don’t need it, you’re young, your skin will heal on its own.”  One of my aunts even had the procedure done herself and now was plagued with sun spots around her cheeks so dark it looked like she sported a bruise on each cheek.  “See this?  This will happen if you get the surgery.  I went for it, and this is worse.  You can’t get rid of this.”

I was already leaning towards not getting the surgery.  That is, until my father’s sister got involved.  “Your father is willing to pay for something that will make you more beautiful and you’re turning it down?  That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. With that type of mentality, I curse you to a lifetime of ugliness and unhappiness.  You deserve it.”  There are other, worse things she said to me that I dare not repeat or put down in words– immortalizing them on this blog.  A grown adult legitimately bullied me unapologetically to the point of tears until I got the surgery.  My own aunt. Believe me when I say her and I don’t have a healthy relationship to this day.  I had asked my dad to tell her to let up to which he responded, “Well, don’t you think it is kind of silly that you don’t want something that will help you?”  So I caved in.

Laser treatment is extremely painful.  It feels like they are tattooing your entire face.  A sensation of sharp pin pricks for every pore.  They literally burn off a layer of your skin which is why you become so prone to sun spots and rosacea afterwards.  They point a vacuum at your face to suck up the smoke from the burns so the smell of your own burnt flesh travels across your nose.  “Why aren’t you crying?” the doctor performing the treatment asked.  “Am I supposed to cry?”, I asked.  “Most of my patients cry…”, she responded.

“Whether or not I cry…it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

After the procedure, the doctor had to tell my parents how badass I was because she was so surprised of my statement.  My face literally felt like I had dipped it into the sun.  Constantly on fire.  Imagine your worst sunburn and multiply that feeling ten-thousand times. I did my due diligence and hid from the sun and any UV-producing lights for 2 full weeks.  I wanted to give my best chance to heal perfectly and to be honest, the treatment didn’t do jack. I still have pockmarks to this day.  I must give credit where credit is due.  My face has gotten a little bit smoother, however I still pay for it in sun spots here and there despite the precautions I took.

Having laser treatment didn’t improve my self-confidence or my self-image.  That’s something I still struggle with every single day.  When I take off my make-up at the end of the day, I always tell my boyfriend of 8 years, “Say ‘bye’ to pretty Andrea!” To which he always responds, “Hello, beautiful!!”  I’d call him a liar, and he’d say something like, “Why would you call my girlfriend ugly?  Are you saying I don’t have good taste?”  I surround myself with friends who genuinely believe I’m beautiful though I only agree with them less than half the time.  I photoshop my pictures and I don’t lie about it which often perturbs my friends when I admit it. When my friends are skeptical of it, I always take that opportunity to make the joke, “You’ve SEEN me.  You KNOW I don’t look like that.  Lol!” People photoshop all the time and add filters to make themselves more flattering.  Yet, when someone admits to actively doing so– all of a sudden it makes the act shameful or taboo.  Some tell me it’s obsessive and unnecessary.  For me, I understand everyone lives on the internet.  If I want to edit my pictures here and there to make myself feel better and make the picture reflect how I feel I should look like, how is that any different from a person going out and getting plastic surgery? (If anything, it’s better because I don’t have to spend any money outside of the software. Haha!) Should people be ashamed for doing things to feel prettier about themselves?

I wish I could provide a happy ending to this article where the laser treatment fixed everything– that I was able to finally learn how to love myself upon recovery and I become this outwardly beautiful person as deemed by society.  However, I wanted to be brutally honest in this post otherwise there is no real point in sharing something so incredibly personal to me.  Mind you, editing my pictures doesn’t make me less insecure about myself, but it does make me looking at pictures of myself more bearable.  As awful as it sounds, it’s a small price to pay for a peace of mind.  Maybe one day I’ll look at a picture of myself and think I’m perfect just the way I am.  For now, that’s how I’ve chosen to deal with my insecurities and it should be okay.  I know I’m not perfect. Everyone has their thing that obscures their personal realities– it could be telling white lies in everyday life to make them seem more interesting– I edit my scars out of my pictures.  I appreciate them for the lessons they’ve taught me in my life, but they don’t define me.  Having them on my face just makes it more obvious and more telling.  I rather tell the story behind my scars rather than have them tell it for me since it too often leads to wrong assumptions (as evident from the examples provided in this post.)

Things I’ve learned from having bad skin:

1. Never tell someone who is acne-ridden to “wash their face”.  Most likely, they wash their face more often than you wash yours.
2. Don’t assume they haven’t done anything to help themselves (go to a dermatologist, get facials, etc.)– even if you mean well, it’s probably GENETICS.
3. Do constantly remind them that they are beautiful with or without makeup.  Even if they never believe you– tell them until they’re sick of hearing it.  Tell them every time you see them.  (I PROMISE you, they’re not fishing for compliments.  If they’re like me, they genuinely believe they’re not worthy of such compliments which is why this is so important.) With every one person telling them they’re beautiful there’s an upwards of 10-20 people telling them different.  If it weren’t for my mother, my boyfriend, and my best friends constantly reassuring me that I wasn’t as hideous as others led me to believe I wouldn’t be here today.  No exaggeration.

Everyone has their insecurities.  Some are real and some are fabricated within their minds but regardless of their origins, they are valid because the person feels it.  Body dysmorphia is a real mental disorder.  While we can’t fully protect ourselves from people who take joy in putting down others, we can control how we, ourselves, treat other people.  You never know how some offhanded comment can severely affect someone.  So always be kind to one another.  Spread only love for everyone you cross paths with.  Be more open and seek others’ inner beauty.  It is harder to see, but truer to the person.