Beauty Marks & Body Dysmorphia

Prologue: I can’t say I’m diagnosed with this because there are people out there who probably really struggle with their accepting appearance or given body. It affects their daily lives and sometimes even hour to minute interactions with their appearance. 

For those that don’t know, body dysmorphia is an obsessive focus on a perceived flaw in appearance. The individual would spend hours and maybe invest time daily in fixing that part of themselves. 

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My whole life I’ve struggled with appearances. From the start I was born with physical differences from everyone else—a whole in my heart. Luckily, I didn’t face too many challenges or experience discrimination because of that.

But I did grow up with a lot of blemishes on my body, more specifically—moles. Or what most Filipinos call them, beauty marks. 

I never thought of them as beautiful. They were something only I really had and my cousins didn’t. And of course, I have a large obvious one on my chin. Not completely under my jaw, but visible enough to be noticed.

Growing up I didn’t think anything of it. I can’t really remember too many people questioning it, but I know I didn’t like it. Maybe more so when my pediatrician started pointing it out. That

“It could be cancerous”

Great. At the age I heard that, I knew what cancer was. It took away family members, and something that was going to take my Popo away soon. So why wouldn’t I want to get rid of something that could kill me. There was no way of telling what would come of it. So my doctor told my parents to monitor it.

I often was bullied for having so many moles. “Connect the dots” was a nickname I had been given. And for some reason, it only came up when I would defend my friends from their bullies. It’s like the first insult the bullies could come up with.

I didn’t back down, but it definitely made me think. None of my cousins or friends had moles or visible “beauty marks”. Just the old people. Parents. Aunts. Uncles. And it felt unfair. 

At some point, my parents asked if I wanted it removed. My pediatrician said that soon it will be too large to ice off [with dry ice] and that it would need to be surgically removed. I said no. I’ll keep it. I don’t remember all the reasons, but I knew that it was a part of me that I couldn’t just get rid of.

My parents even asked if I was sure—probably because they knew how I felt about it. 

Today, I still have it with me. Now-a-days it’s covered by my facial hair. And when I clean shave people forget that I even had a mole. I think it’s so normal to some people they just ignore it because I don’t make it a big deal of or draw any attention to it. A lot more moles that have just spawned all over my body. It’s said moles appear because of the over-production of melatonin from someone who’s outside a lot. So they cluster. And become “beauty marks”.

I think because of them, I’ve become immune to social pressures to look a certain way. It helped me accept that, I am the way I am. But even still, I struggle with accepting my own body as it is.

“Are you eating?”

“Did you lose weight?” 

“Why are you so skinny?”

I still don’t get it. Filipinos either call you fat or skinny. And neither of them are okay. Even if you’re in between they’ll just comment on whether or not you’re leaning towards one or the other.

In my case, when it came to friends or social settings, I was envied,

“I wish I had your ‘problem’”

“But it’s better to be skinny”

I understand, that I’m lucky to have my metabolism. I’m lucky I’m not losing weight in an unhealthy way. But hearing all these comments constantly reminded me how I’m not what everyone else is. Healthy. 

I’m in my mid-twenties and I have students who are larger than me. I’m so skinny I look younger than some of them. Over the past 2-3 years I’ve finally had the courage to enter the gym by myself. And I’ve definitely put on muscle, the most I weighed in was 135 from 120. But it fluctuates because I can’t afford the time to hit the gym religiously.

3 years ago, I didn’t think it was possible for me to gain weight. I finally did, but I can definitely go back down to 125 if I just don’t exercise. I know that in my late-twenties my metabolism might slow down—who knows. But that doesn’t change the fact that I still do not accept my body for what it is.

Whenever I see a young man that is definitely an adult with scrawny arms—that lack any meat or muscle. I just think, “shit, is that what people see when they look at me? No wonder I get all these comments about my weight” 

I’m pretty sure I’ve put on muscle. Or body in general. Enough for my brother and girlfriend to notice. But even then, I look in the mirror, see the muscle. But when if I’m not flexing, I still feel one-dimensional. I can still see my ribs. I can still see my spine. My collar bones. My shoulders. 

I still don’t feel enough. 

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Epilogue: it’s an everyday battle, but it doesn’t always have to be. I definitely don’t think about my body in that way every day or hour. But when I do, it hurts. 

I’m slowly accepting my body as it is. Trying not to compare myself to others. I can’t put on weight as fast, or maintain it. 

But that’s okay. That’s what I was given. It’s okay to accept that. 

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