When I look in the mirror, all I see is a very vague outline, with some blotches of something else here and there.
I can’t see my face.
The funny thing is, I don’t even care. No, it’s true: I really don’t give a shit. Never seen, never will, won’t cry over something I can’t change. It effects me sometimes, but not often.
That’s not what I want to talk about.
I’m not fat.
I’m not ugly.
I don’t look like a troll.
That’s what I’ve been told. And I know it’s true: my wrists are too skinny, but I’ve been told I’m pretty. I have to believe people, because if I don’t, I can’t trust them.
That doesn’t mean I’m not insecure about my physical appearance. I’m just… It just manifests in a different way.
Okay. This is going to sound odd, but just bare with me?
Close your eyes. Hmm, no – open them just a tiny, tiny bit, so a little slit of light gets through. I think that’s how it works?
Put your hands on your face. What do you feel? Is it smooth skin? No. Not many people have smooth skin. I’m not jealous of them at all; honestly, it doesn’t bother me so much.
So, you can’t see your face. But you can feel it. You can feel the texture of it; you can feel the lumps and spots that just won’t bugger off. Does it bother you? Forget about how it looks – just for a bit. That’ll come back to you once you’ve stopped worrying about how it feels.
Because for me, it FEELS horrific. Of COURSE I still worry about how it looks! That comes with the paranoia.
But it still hurts. It bothers me, and I try to think of how it isn’t grotesque, and people probably can’t see it anyway. Though, how am I to know? I don’t. So I have to trust myself and trust other people, which is pretty shit. Like I said, it doesn’t ALWAYS affect me: sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t.
Remember this, though: you’re fantastic. All of you.
I never wear makeup – except some concealer, but I’m forced. If the spots are REALLY bad, I ask someone to put some on. But that doesn’t stop me realising I can still touch them. It doesn’t help get rid of them – it worsens it.
What I’m trying to say here is that I’m not bothered about looking great. I don’t care. But I AM bothered in some way. It’s not a classic way, but it’s a different way.
Just because I’m blind, it doesn’t mean I’m not immune to it.
Just because I’m blind, it doesn’t mean I can’t feel insecure about appearance.
But just because I’m blind, it doesn’t mean that I try to make an effort to please. I don’t care usually. That’s the crux of it.
I’m not a spokesperson for the whole blind community. I wouldn’t want to be, because I don’t fit in there. I don’t talk about my blindness a lot – it’s not because it bothers me or makes me feel upset because it doesn’t, but it’s because it doesn’t define me. I refuse to turn into the person who spouts off inspirational quotes about how to live your life with a disability, or what it’s like. I COULD do that, but it’d be on my own terms.
I know a lot of people can understand my insecurity. I don’t want to ‘enlighten’ people on what it’s like to be insecure when you’re blind – you can probably guess. I’m just giving MY interpretation.
Thanks for reading!