‘My worst nightmare’
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words have been the most painful... Kiana Smith, 40
I tried to brush off the horrible comments
Running across the playground, I tried to block the cackles of laughter and roar of insults.
‘Purple face!’ ‘Prune face!’ Finding a hidden space inside an old tractor tyre in the play area, I curled myself into a ball.
Then I placed my head in my hands and sobbed.
Earlier that week, school bullies had stolen the wheels from my bicycle.
Tracing my fingers over my cheek, chin and left ear, I wanted to scratch it all off.
Get rid of the reason they were taunting me.
A big purple pigmentation, known as a port-wine stain birthmark, engulfed the left side of my face.
I’d had it since birth – but now, aged 6, I was more aware of it than ever.
The kids at school made sure of that.
Made certain I knew how ugly they thought I was.
‘You’re beautiful, inside and out,’ my mother Ann, 30, would tell me. Determined to stay strong, I tried to brush off the horrible comments.
But it was harder to do than it seemed.
I knew I had a likeable personality, but nobody at school gave me a chance. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me... I never believed that for one second. Starting high school, teenagers were a little more tolerant. ‘You would be so pretty if you didn’t have that thing on your face,’ the girls would say. It was a compliment... Well, sort of. I began to feel more comfortable in myself and wondered if, in the long run, my experiences would make my life better. One thing was for sure, the birthmark was inoperable and I was stuck with it for life. I just had to learn to live with it.
Mum found it tough when people stared and commented.
‘That’s my worst nightmare,’ one said.
Mum blamed herself for the mark. But there was nothing she could do about it either.
As I went through puberty, it wasn’t just my appearance that got me down. The pain was becoming immense.
Since I was little, I’d suffered agonising earache and my hearing had started to fail.
As I grew, so did the birthmark, becoming thicker and darker with each year.
I felt as if I’d a pulsing, purple steak hanging off my face.
And the pressure behind the skin would throb and burn.
As my cheek and lips swelled, my speech was affected. I’d dribble during conversations. So embarrassing.
As if I didn’t have enough to deal with.
‘Who would ever employ me?’ I cried to Mum when I graduated school.
‘You’ll find something, love,’ she soothed.
I yearned for a job, a relationship, the confidence of my friends.
But the birthmark held me back time and time again...