Au­gust 2000

Chat - - True | My Diary -

Walk­ing into the class­room, a dozen pairs of eyes turned to look at me.

Aged just 6, I knew by now that their skin didn’t look like mine. They had pink toes. I had dis­fig­ured, dis­coloured stubs.

The other kids could play with­out pain. I couldn’t. As they ran around in the park or watched car­toons on TV, I was go­ing for yet an­other hos­pi­tal ap­point­ment.

Yet at school, I made friends and their young, open minds meant no­body asked me ques­tions.

By now, I knew what had led me to be­ing the scarred lit­tle girl I was.

I’d been tak­ing a nap in our home when the wash­ing ma­chine ex­ploded. It had sent a scorch­ing fireball hurtling straight to­wards me. Dad had quickly snatched me to safety and Mum had given me CPR be­fore medics ar­rived. But the dam­age was al­ready done. The flames had ripped through my body. Now, I wore the scars of that fate­ful day. ‘Will I al­ways look like this, Mummy?’ I asked. She looked awk­ward as she smiled – and I knew the an­swer right then.

As a lit­tle girl, I soon learned I was dif­fer­ent

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