During the summer, I sit in the sun, letting myself soak up the warmth. I feel good wearing the floral, sleeveless shirt my mom gave me. As I stretch, I move my head to the side, causing myself to look at my arms. I run my hand along my skin, smiling, I haven’t thought about it in a long time. The marks that cover my body are on display but I don’t care because they are a part of me. A part of my identity. My indifference hasn’t always been there; for many years I hated the marks and wished that I looked like everyone else. Now, it’s not a defining factor in my life but rather, something that is just there.
I was born with something called keratosis pilaris. It’s a genetic condition where my skin produces too much keratin, resulting my skin to be covered in rough, red dots. It covers my entire body, in some places more than others. There’s even a little on my face but it’s covered by my hair. When I was really young, I really didn’t think about it that much; it wasn’t until I was ten that I became self-conscious. During band practice, one girl grabbed me and asked, “What’s wrong with your arm?” I yanked my arm away and told her it was something I was born with. From then on, I began to notice things more, how when I would sit next to someone their gaze would be focused on my arms, which is where my skin is most affected. One of my friends told me that I reminded him of a pepperoni pizza because my white skin was the cheese and my KP was the pepperoni. I think he realised how upset I was about this remark when I became a bit hostile with him. After that, he referred to it as a “birthmark” which for some reason is a term that I prefer. Since then, I have often wondered why I liked that term, I think it’s because in a way, my KP is a birthmark. I’ve had it my entire life, I cannot make it go away nor could I have prevented myself from getting it.
Another time, one of my classmates asked me why I had so much acne on my arms. I hated every moment I had to explain to him that I didn’t have acne there. This brought a question to myself: Did people really think that I was just covered in pimples? I wondered to myself why people had to make assumptions about me; if they had paid slightly closer attention, they would have known that it wasn’t acne. I also wondered if it would have been better if it was actually acne—at least it would eventually go away, unlike my KP. While going through this spiral, I felt bad for thinking this way; I was dealing with something completely cosmetic, not something that affected my health in any way. I should be grateful for this. There was no winning this war within my mind.
Meanwhile, I was going to a dermatologist for the acne on my face and the doctor decided to also deal with my KP as well. He gave me countless numbers of lotions that were supposed to “make it better” because I would never totally get rid of my KP due to how afflicted I was. None of the lotions worked; if anything, they made my skin redder from irritation. I became resistant to trying out these treatments. I hated the idea that I was trying to be “cured” while simultaneously hated that I couldn’t be. I spent many nights staring at myself in the mirror, crying and wishing there was any way I could change how I looked.
Having KP in middle school was the worst. Middle school is already notorious for being a time where everyone is trying to fit in and feel included. I, of course, was dealing with the same self-esteem issues all of my peers were dealing with and I also had to deal with the looks they would give me when I would take off my jacket. It wasn’t uncommon for me to have a conversation with someone and realise that they weren’t looking at my face, but rather my arms. I started to try to wear my jacket as much as possible. In hindsight, it was possible that they weren’t actually looking at my arms but the perception that they were stuck with me. At night, I would scratch at my skin, imagining that I could scrape off the KP and my arms would be smooth … normal. Why couldn’t I just be normal?
When I reached high school, my KP wasn’t on my mind as much as it was in middle school. People stared less and I stopped getting comments. There were times when I completely forgot that I had KP and others when I would look at myself in the mirror and immediately burst into tears. I looked up KP on blog sites and tried to find people who were feeling the same things as me. I wanted to know I wasn’t alone; I had never met anyone else with KP and craved for any sort of reassurance that I wasn’t the only one. The results I found were more than disappointing. Nothing I read was positive, it was full of people saying that they hated themselves and wanted to “shave off their skin”. Although this showed that I wasn’t alone, it didn’t help. I wanted to see people who had learned to accept it and love themselves despite the condition so I could do the same.
Despite this, I still learned to accept my keratosis pilaris. It wasn’t something that happened overnight. It was a long process. I learned to not care; my KP is as a part of me as my eyes. I can’t get rid of it, so why worry about it? There is always going to be a chance that people will stare at me or ask questions but that’s their problem, not mine. Having KP doesn’t make me a lesser person, or ugly, it makes me, me.
However, there is always a conflicting and complex feeling behind accepting something that you have been insecure about for most of your life. It is like a snake, waiting to strike a mouse. I could be unbothered for the longest time, only to one day go back to where I started.
As an adult, two things happened: my insecurities mostly became been a thing of the past and I started to feel less alone due to KP products becoming available at stores rather than through a prescription. Whenever I see a new product specifically made for someone like me, it reaffirms that I’m not alone. Also, as a bonus, I finally found something that actually helps me.
At this point of my life, the majority of the instances my insecurities that have appeared are mostly afterthoughts or subconscious decisions.
Whenever I went on the first few dates with someone, I always wore a long-sleeved shirt. This was mostly due to the weather but I was also hoping that the other person wouldn’t end things with me because of my KP. Logically, I knew that anyone who would become disinterested with me because of my skin was not someone I wanted in my life. However, I didn’t want to deal with rejection for something so trivial and couldn’t help myself.
Needless to say, that fear never came to fruition. In fact, the opposite happened.
On the first date with my current partner, I pulled up the sleeves to my sweater because it was warm in the restaurant we were in.
“You have freckles?” he asked. “That’s so cute!”
A part of me wanted to correct him but insecurity made me hold my tongue. Instead, I just accepted the fact that he thought that my discolouration was cute.
The first time he saw my KP uncovered he asked me what it was. After I explained, he stared at me for a split second before saying, “I’m never going to get that name right. I’m just going to call them carrots.”
I laughed at this and from that point on that’s what we called my keratosis pilaris.
“Does it bother you?” I eventually asked.
“No, I love it. It’s you.”
That was the first time my KP made me feel beautiful. It’s not a feeling I get often, but it is one that will always make me feel warm inside.
Throughout my life I’ve come to accept the fact that people will stare and will ask me, “What is wrong with you?” Now that I’m older, I accept the fact that I’ll have KP the rest of my life. Since I want to be an author, I have told myself this: if I ever have a platform big enough to open up about my experience with KP, I will use it because I don’t want people to feel as alone as I did when I was younger.