A Collage Story
I have always been different. At first, the difference was being able to use both hands equally, while many people could only use one. As a child, I could not understand why people only held pens in one hand, whereas I could use anyone I wanted to. Later on, I discovered the word for it was ambidextrous.
Being different was good for a start. Everyone stared at me in awe whenever they saw me write with both hands. They said I was unique because not so many people could do that. In secret, I saw it as a superpower. I could not help flaunting it too. Little did I know that life would reveal to me that there were layers to being different. Some were an acceptable kind, and others were not.
It all began with a white spot around my eyes. I had not been using the mirror for a while, so when I saw the spot, I assumed it was eczema. I applied the lotion for eczema on it, hoping it would disappear in a few days; surprisingly, it didn’t. Over the next few weeks, it became a noticeable ring around my eye. I could not bear being stared at, so I started applying make-up on my face every day. People who noticed this new change only assumed I was trying to be more fashionable and be a “Sisi”, as the Yoruba people would say.
Just when I was adapting to this new daily routine, the patches began to appear on other parts of my body — my hands, my thighs, and my chest. At that point, it could not be hidden anymore. My parents became concerned and took me to the hospital. After many laboratory tests, the doctor announced that I had vitiligo. I knew what vitiligo was, at least that it made people look unevenly bleached. But my name and vitiligo did not seem to be a match — or maybe they were, Victoria with vitiligo.
I remember crying for many days after my diagnosis. I really wanted to know if there was something I did wrong — if I was to blame for the patches that had begun to disfigure my smooth, dark skin. When I researched, I discovered it was an autoimmune disorder that caused my body to produce antibodies against the cells responsible for skin pigmentation. Knowing that, I found someone to blame — my body. If my body was waging war against me, it deserved something in return. It was a body war.
Just like that, I began to develop self-harming practices. I exposed myself to harsh conditions. I refused to eat. I felt a bit appeased by harming my body because it had betrayed me. I could not use make-up on every part of my body and had to live with being stared at in public.
People would often refrain from shaking my hand because they thought they would get what I had by touching me. It was tough to maintain a social life, and I preferred to stay at home most of the time. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be different. I really wanted to be like every other person, even if it meant that I would lose my one-time superpower. Above it all, I hated my body.
The downward spiral continued till I saw an interview featuring a famous entrepreneur with the same condition. In the interview, she shared her experience with bullying as a teenager. She said she was often called a collage by her mates, and she hated the word. After battling with self-hatred and stigma for a long time, she decided to use everything that was used against her to redefine herself — she founded a design brand which she named ‘The Collage Company’. In her words, “The obstacle is the way”.
That interview was the first step in my journey to recovery. I knew I could not blame anyone for what had happened, not even my body. I assumed that it was only trying to protect me by releasing those chemicals in the first place, so I decided to forgive. I tried very hard not to hide any part of me. I also took it upon myself to reeducate people about my condition and let them know I was not infectious. I have to admit that is a very tasking thing because many people already have presumptions.
Despite my best efforts, some still treat me with scorn or tell their children to stay away from “that aunty”, but I am not disturbed because I know the truth. It is this truth that keeps me going, loving myself all the way. Even if they say I am a collage, I am proud of my collage story.
A Collage Story is work of fiction. Characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
Aderemi Temilola is a second-year medical student at the University of Ibadan. She loves volunteering. When she is not studying, she is either reading a crime novel or watching a horror movie
