Kiss My Scars

        "What's this?" he asks as his eyes glaring on my arms. I manage to breathe calmly; the tension   begins to strike now. Sigh. I stare blankly at his eyes doubtful whether I'll reveal the truth or make white lies. If he hasn't poke my arms then surely he won't see anything.  Won't see any white spots on my skin. I remember my dad teasing me when I was a child "your husband will be surprised with your first night together" he laughs. It was a joke, but it keeps on bothering me whenever I think of Lee. What if my dad's joke will turn into reality?

         It scares me, knowing the fact that maybe Lee will be the same with both of my friends during  my high school days. "Psoriasis! Psoriasis!" they kept on shouting after the class dismissal, after my report on our Biology class particularly about the skin as a part of the integumentary system. I felt ashamed of what they did that I can't move my entire body and can't stop from crying. Nobody cares except for those who ask me why I am crying. "Wala, wala . . . There's just something on my eyes" the only alibi that I could think of. I treat them as my barkada, but they never went back to the classroom or even asked me why or what happened. In the first place, they never know how painful it is to reveal the entrusted secrets I tried to bury. For the entire three years of being with them, I kept those hard feelings. It's just that I never want to destroy the friendship that we've made.  Friendship that left scars.

     Staring on other ladies skin reminds me of how unlucky I am. It distracts me to appreciate the good things that I have. Now, I have to think of ways on how Lee wouldn't see my arms. I just don't want him to be completely turned off. When we are together, I don't spend my time beside him, I spend the entire hours behind him "Why are you always on my back?" he asks. I forcefully smiled.

        Do I always need to pretend? To do this the entire time when I'm with him? There's one time when a boy asks me about the white spots on my arms "Connect the dots . . . ." he laughs while he admits that he is joking. When people asks me about my skin I could think of a hundred ways to tell white lies "Ummm. . . allergies".

        Having Psoriasis had been a burden in my life. I remember the time when I am in the hospital when everything seems at ease like the inner weather is stable; never too hot, too cold, too wet, or too dry with a kind of atmosphere that one wants to dwell with harmony and peace.  I spot a seat and make myself comfortable as I wait for my turn. To keep myself calm, I seemingly pay attention to the television positioned at the left side at the corner of the hospital in front to where I am seated. Somehow, the rattling noise brought by the TV helped alleviate the calmness and the pounding pressure. Little by little, the motion pictures flash in the TV shifts to sudden memory of "Salamat, Dok" (a health care morning show) where a woman of teenage years-wearing sweaters, was looking far beyond the window of their house depressed and was down in dumps for years. She was imprisoned in her own home because of her illness. Being paranoid, I immediately called my sister and asked her if we have the same problem. My sister acted like a doctor "Look! You had the same skin with her illness". I talked to my mother regarding this matter and decided to let a dermatologist see me and check my skin.

      Every beat of my pulse goes almost the same with the sound of my footsteps as we draw near the hospital door. The white washed walls in the room reveals not a spot of dirt and on the table, a short-haired doctor approach us with a smile-a gesture of hospitability and the willingness to answer any inquiries.  While she reads all my basic information, my eyes deeply enjoys the organized stuffed toys arranged in a hospital bed three meters away from her table. She begins to ask questions. I tried to be comfortable as possible letting my foot moved intensely as it touched the floor to release anxiety. After checking my skin, silence prevailed in the room.

        "Ma'am I have to be honest" the doctor explains as I was left doubtful with my situation. "Your daughter is suffering from Psoriasis"

        It is a long-term (chronic) skin problem that causes skin cells to grow too quickly, resulting in thick, white, silvery, or red patches of skin. Normally, skin cells grow gradually and flake off about every 4 weeks. New skin cells grow to replace the outer layers of the skin as they shed. But in Psoriasis, new skin cells move rapidly to the surface of the skin in days rather than weeks. There is no cure for the meantime. But, it could be prevented with ointments and lots of food supplements. Things that can cause these flare-ups include a cold and dry climate, infections, stress, and dry skin. 

        "Then I can't be a lawyer mom, because I will be stressed". My mother didn't respond. She always wanted me to become a lawyer following the footsteps of my lolo who was a judge. I lost lots of opportunities that my Psoariasis controlled the life that I wanted. I should have been an accountant by now. I should have been the team captain of our swimming team, when I left the team because my illness recurred again. I should have been wearing chic dresses by now, becoming the lady I wanted to be. I should have been acting by now before I quit being a member of a theatre arts organization in our university when it caused too much stress in my part.

        I should have been a flawless lover of Lee by now. The way his cheeks that chiseled like a finely-carved Michelangelo statue. His nose that's perfectly symmetrical. His lips that are slightly full: the kind that end in a cute little smirk at the corners and the rays of sun highlight the dimples in his cheeks and chin. "If he loves me then I have to tell the truth".

        I told him about my illness. "It's a complete turn-off, right?" I asked him.

        "Listen" was the only respond I heard from him. Lee was a man of few words. He gave me his warmest kiss on my cheeks while the lyrics kept on playing in his laptop:

You never love yourself half as much as I love you 

You'll never treat yourself right darling but I want you to 

If I let you know, I'm here for you

Maybe you'll love yourself like I love you oh and

I've just let these little things slips out of my mouth 

'Cause it's you, oh it's you, it's you they add up to 

And I'm in love with you (and all these little things)

        July 2013­­-I went back to the hospital again this year and found out that my doctor wasn't available anymore. So they recommended us to go to another doctor specializing my illness. Every now and then, their clinic served as my other home. I didn't know if they intentionally planned the colors of their wall as studies showed that colorful walls painted with green and bright colors made the surrounding more pleasant. The main door opened to a spacious sala on the right, and on the left was the information desk where nurses are truly hospitable and heartwarming. The chandelier that hung proudly from the ceiling gave the sala a cheery atmosphere and a comfortable feeling of being able to conform in a place where everyone accepts you especially by the one you truly love. It was in the hospital that I learned about my illness, it was in this clinic where I learned not to dwell on my past experiences, and it was Lee who kissed my scars.