Birthmark

“I cried when you were born”, is how my childhood framed the birthmark on my face thanks to my dad, who continued on to say, “…because you were different”.

Family genetics were awesome enough to bless me with a port wine stain (birthmark) that covers most of my left cheek. Everyone I know of on my mom’s side of the family has a birthmark somewhere, but usually it’s somewhere easily concealed by clothing; I just drew the short straw.

As a young kid it only bothered me when strangers and classmates would point it out. Kids, especially in the 80’s, were prone to bullying and I was an easy target when they went looking for one. I remember being pushed around by kids who had encircled me for what felt like no reason at all. It was a hierarchal playground, and this was just their way of posturing. I really doubt any of them had a real understanding of what they were doing…but it still hurt me inside.  Just as it hurt when the family would be out at a restaurant and some stranger would stop, stare, and question about what’s “wrong” with me. I believe it was these stories from the playground and the embarrassment my dad felt in public that drove him further to “fix” me.

But as a kid I didn’t really understand the fuss. I had a great group of friends, was often “going out” with a cute girl and felt no limitations to my ability to get an education or excel in sports. How was something wrong with me yet I was still able to live this happy life? But my dad knew best.

At around the age of 14, right about when puberty was in full swing, laser technology had advanced to a point where removal of my birthmark seemed like a possibility. My dad was so excited and spent hours researching local resources and different treatment options.  All I knew is that this is something he wanted for me, so I was on board.

It was about the middle of grade 9 that I went for my first laser treatment. It would take place early in the AM at the children’s hospital about an hour away, so we were up super early. After a bowl of cereal in my belly, and teeth were brushed, it was time to apply the thick numbing cream onto my face. A cloudy cream, about the same consistency as Polysporin. The to stop it from dripping or rubbing off, my parents covered it with shrink wrap which was adhered with white medical tape. Imagine, if you will, the self-confidence hit I took walking out the door that morning. I looked like I had an issue while I was a perfectly healthy kid beneath the plastic.

Once at the hospital we went to the special ward, passing by children my age and younger who were facing real life challenges, not a vanity one.  Being in my angsty social-justice teen years I made mention of this to my dad, but he assured me that since he pays taxes we had just as much right to be there.

The kind doctor, a lady from eastern Europe, peeled back my plastic cover and poked at my face with a needle to ensure I was numb…I was “numb enough”. In a 3” x 3” square on my face she administered over 500 laser zaps, all feeling like the snap from an elastic band. I winced when she was on numb spots and shed tears when she got into the crease of my nose and up around my eye socket. My dad held my hand and offered support within the vein of “suck it up and be a man”.

After it was all done the doctor applied a thin layer of Poly and we were off. Not home, but to sales calls my dad wanted to make while we were in the area. For most calls I stayed in the car, but frequently I was asked to come in where he’d display me as his science project while his customers looked at me with judgement.

The next day I’d be off to school, with now half a face covered in dark burgundy spots lit up by the new layer of Poly which was meant to stop scaring and bleeding. As the days went on the spots got more angry looking and the area began to scab, develop pimples, bleed, and flake. I have never been so thankful than I was for the friends I had who would circle around me, both literally and figuratively, and shield me from teenage drama. It took about three weeks for the red spots to be gone, and another two weeks before we’d see any change in my birthmark.

We repeated the treatment 17 times within 3 years.

When I saw the treatments were no longer having any effect, I really started to resent the procedure.  I talked to my friends about it, and I remember sitting in the cafeteria one day with my best female friend, who also happened to be one of the prettiest in the school. She bluntly asked why I was doing it anyways, saying that my birthmark is what made me unique! Not different, not flawed, but unique. That pretty much settled my mind on it…I was going to be done but I didn’t know how to tell my dad as he was only focused on 100% removal.

A couple weeks later I had another treatment scheduled but my dad was able to take me, so I was left in the hands of my step-mother. She had faced many health issues in her life so on the morning of the appointment I asked her how she was feeling, thinking/hoping that she might be in too much pain to make the drive. But she was fine that day. She asked why I’d asked, and I came honest about not wanting to continue with the treatments. This is where you’d think I got support and caring, but boy oh boy did I get the opposite. Her response? “I don’t know why you’re bothering anyways…it’s not like you’ll be good looking”. She might have said other things, but as a kid all I felt was the knife in my back and the mud on my face. For forever and 1 day…fuck her. We didn’t go that day after all, but I do go back one more time with my dad which felt like the compromise between he and I.

So now what? In my dad’s eyes I wasn’t normal yet, so his project wasn’t yet complete. Well maybe instead of getting rid of it, we would just cover it up! Yes! What a fantastic idea! Dad found the specialty store that sold cover-up cream (aka, makeup) and off we went for a pigment match. I was bought a container of cover-up and another of finishing powder to knock down the sheen. I would have been around 17 when all this happened, and I wore the cover up until I was 22 or 23. All of my clubbing, deejaying, promiscuous, partying years were shrouded by the uncomfortable feeling of wearing makeup to hide a grotesque birthmark.

- Friends and I would head to the beach for a day…some of my face would tan while my cheeks (because I covered both for evenness) stayed the same, now lighter, color.

- I’d wear a dust mask at work, then not take it off until I was back in private where I could fix my makeup.

- Every photo from that period makes the coverup obvious, and I know I ruined at least one series of wedding photos by standing out.

- I’d let nobody get close to me, and certainly entertain nothing more than a one night stand so I could keep my secret.

- I was constantly embarrassed for my friends. I knew they knew, and I knew they were being seen by others as the friends of the “freak” who wears makeup.

- It was awful, and I developed such deep mental health issues that almost took my life more than a dozen times. I’d cry in my apartment for hours, thinking unsuccessfully of any way I could stop wearing the cover up yet be accepted by society. Thankfully my cat loved me unconditionally and needed me to stay alive to care for him.

When I was 22 or 23 I’d just had it. I couldn’t hold down a job, I was always struggling for money, and I could feel my mental health spiraling further and further into dark places. It was time to cut bait one way or another. But because I’m a tad stubborn I chose to keep going with life and opted to move in with my mom for a short while. With that, came relocating to another city about an hour away, and an opportunity to start fresh. When the last truck of my stuff had been unloaded at her place, I finally removed the cover-up, and never once put it back on. I made trips back to see my old friends and decided they’d just have to be ok with who I am, and never once did anyone make a comment. I was accepted, despite what the demons my dad had put into my head were telling me all those years.

It was amazing.  I spent over five years trying to hide, while actually making myself stand out more.  I was an embarrassment by who I chose to be, rather than accepting of who I was.

I’m now a middle aged man, with a fantastic wife, an amazing life, and free from most of the birthmark demon grips. Every now and then a dim person will ask “what does the other guy look like?”, suggesting my birthmark is obviously the result of a fight, which does bother me a bit, except for that they’re assuming I won the fight. I can stand in front of work associates and feel judged only my abilities, not my appearance, and I’ve been fortunate enough to be given the opportunity to talk to random kids with similar issues.

So, I don’t care much about my birthmark anymore, but the long term mental trauma is still something I work through daily. I’m never good enough, I should keep to myself, and I don’t fully trust anyone. Thanks, dad.

For more of my stories please check out www.timwilde.ca