You Look Different
An open letter to my facial birth defect.
Story by Alina Simone
Age 7:
You get your first full set of braces. You get to pick from the rainbow colored bands. Your doctor gives you an entire dollar as a reward because you didn’t cry.
You can’t have caramel anymore. Your smile feels bulky and silly.
You look different.
Age 10:
Your best friend keeps asking if you’ll “finally look normal” after your surgery. You don’t know what to say. You know you’ve had surgeries before, but you can’t remember.
6,800 kids with faces like yours are born every year. That doesn’t make you feel less alien.
Your next surgery.
“We’re going to take a piece of your hip to fix your mouth,” the surgeon says.
The laughing gas makes you cry.
You spend recovery watching every episode of “The Suite Life of Zack & Cody.”
You have a new scar on your side. A liquid diet. You get skinnier.
“Protect your right hip, it is healing,” the surgeon says.
You look different.
Age 13:
It’s been years of doctor’s appointments and braces. You’re told you talk funny and talk too fast.
You don’t smile with your teeth in pictures. It bothers your parents.
You meet new surgeons. “I can fix all of this,” the lead surgeon says, gesturing to your face.
Age 15:
Your next surgery.
You’re the photographer of the friend group. You’re never in photos. You like it this way.
“You will get all the boys once you’re done with this,” the nurse says. You don’t know if you should tell her you like girls.
The laughing gas makes you cry.
You wake up ugly, bruised and swollen. A liquid diet for months. You get skinny.
You look different.
Age 16:
Your next surgery.
You’re good at talking to doctors. You learned how to make them happy. Answer their questions with a smile, don’t look at Mom for reassurance. Come up with puns about surgery. Make them laugh.
They are impressed you’re so well adjusted.
They don’t know you put your hand in front of your mouth in every photo.
Studies show kids with facial birth defects struggle more than average with anxiety and depression. Your therapist Jenny could have told you that.
Side effects are loss of speech and blindness, but you have the surgery anyway.
The laughing gas makes you cry.
You spend the summer recovering. Your face is so bruised, your eyes swell shut.
Your friends go to summer camp and concerts. You stay home and play another level of “Spyro the Dragon.”
A liquid diet for months. You get skinny. Finally. Skinny again.
You look different.
Age 17:
“Wow, you’re so pretty now!”
“Do you have a boyfriend yet?”
“You are so skinny.”
Family members don’t recognize you. High school teachers don’t either.
You deleted all your photos from before you had surgery. You don’t hide your face in pictures anymore.
Your next surgery.
Friends are busy getting Halloween costumes. You’re busy getting X-rays.
“Don’t worry, we’re almost done fixing you,” the doctor says. “You won’t sound nasally after this.”
The laughing gas makes you cry.
Easier recovery. Liquid diet, but you’re tired of not eating. You sneak scrambled eggs and don’t tell your surgeon.
You look different.
Your next surgery.
You had surgery only a few months ago, but it is already time for your next one.
You start out the new year and new semester with a new operation.
You give the fancy surgeon from California pictures of how you want your nose to look. You design your new face yourself. You spend hours making Pinterest boards of noses and profiles.
“I will make you cute for the boys,” the surgeon promises.
The laughing gas makes you cry.
You wake up with blood in your ears. You hemorrhaged on the table, but you’re okay.
Post-op is better. It’s the first time they don’t keep you overnight.
No liquid diet. Good, you’re eating more now anyway.
You attend physics lectures bruised and swollen. You take advantage of your professor’s pity to get an extension on your lab packet.
You look different.
Age 18:
No more surgeries.
You’re sick at the smell of Country Chic Bath and Body Works lotion. It reminds you of trying to mask the hospital smell. No more chocolate milk, it reminds you of washing down meds.
You’re still oddly protective over your right hip.
You get your braces off.
After ten years of braces, you can eat caramel again. Too bad, you don’t like caramel anymore.
You post your first selfie to Instagram.
The debut of your new face. Golden hour. Wearing your favorite color, yellow.
You look different.
Age 19:
Your lip scars feel obvious. People insist they don’t notice.
Your new college friends tell you how much they like your nose. You laugh and explain that it’s fake.
Their compliments don’t change. They like your nose because it’s your nose.
When people ask you how surgeries were growing up, you brag about completing “Lego Star Wars: The Complete Saga” on the Wii while in recovery.
You’re still the friend group’s photographer. You finally let them take pictures of you too. You are in more friends’ photos. You like it this way.
You don’t starve yourself anymore.
You smile with your teeth.
You look different.
Age 20:
It’s been two years since your last surgery.
You learned to accept compliments.
You post more selfies. You pierce your $50,000 nose. You wear a bikini.
You look confident. You look healthier. You look happier.
You look different.