Almost everyone I had ever met since I was 11, had asked me about the burn scar on the left side of my face. What each of them didn’t stop to think was that the story behind the scar might actually be more painful than the mark itself.
My mom remarried when I was 8 years old. My stepdad was a relatively nice guy, but his family – not so much. They never took a liking to me and didn’t really appreciate the fact that my mom had a child from her previous marriage – something they chose to take out on me.
I was 10 years old when my parents had to attend a family wedding, and therefore I was left with my step grandparents for the weekend. My step grandparents didn’t make me feel welcome at all. I made my peace with the situation as knew it was only for a couple days, and all I had to do was stay out of their way and this would pass easily. My granddad was going out for the evening, so it was going to be just me and ‘dadima’ at home. He was the more gentle one of the two, and so I knew I was in for an awful evening.
I was sitting quietly in one corner doing my weekend homework, when the house help came up to me to ask me if I wanted something to eat. My grandmom screamed at the poor maid for this. She told the maid that she was not supposed to offer me anything and that I was to be treated like a ‘stray dog from the road’. As tears rolled down my cheeks, I decided not to say anything to aggravate the situation. The maid was dismissed and I was told that I was to make my own food if I wished to eat. My grandmother said this to me as she pointed towards the staff food cabinet – this was where I was supposed to look for dinner. After this, she went back into her room to watch television. I tried to light the gas to make my self what looked like a triangle-shaped roti, but was unsuccessful. I tried again, and this time a large flame came out. It was a flame so big and powerful, that it caught the left side of my face and eyebrow. My left eye just about got saved from it. Of course, I screamed for my grandmother and she came running. However, it was too late. I was rushed to the hospital and was treated for second degree burns and there was bound to be scaring once my skin healed, the doctor explained. So that’s the story behind my scar.
This scar and the horrid memory from that weekend followed me around everywhere. No matter what I wore, no matter how I cut my hair, no matter what makeup trend I tried – people would always find a way to ask, ‘Woah, how did you get that?!’ I felt as though my entire identity and self worth was reliant upon that mark. I never felt confident, I never felt adequate – I just felt the same way I was made to feel when it happened to me – like some stray animal.
When I was around 18, I went to see a skin specialist about some rash that had developed on my neck. She, very politely, asked about my scar. For some reason – maybe the fact that she was a doctor or maybe because she was the third person to ask me about my scar that week – I told her the whole story. She then suggested I pay Dr Mehta (a plastic surgeon) a visit. He was the one who gave me back my identity.
After initial consultations and some counselling, I had plastic surgery done on my face. Once the procedure was complete, my scar had vanished! It no longer defined me! There are many, many reasons why people opt for cosmetic surgery – not all of them are superficial choices. I don’t regret my decision at all, nor would I judge anyone else – whether it’s a nose job that makes you feel good about yourself or the breast reduction that makes you feel more comfortable. It’s your decision, it’s your story.
*Names changed to protect privacy
Images: Shutterstock
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