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352 pages, Paperback
First published August 6, 2013
“‘Hair and nails are dead. But your skin is alive. Live things have a dignity. They demand respect.’” (loc. 2169)
“I’m an egotistical pig. And I can’t blame that on vitiligo.” (loc. 2289)
“Vitiligo waits for no man. Or woman. Forget biology. Time’s up.” (loc. 2676)
I’ve been telling myself vitiligo is just a lack of coloring, so no matter how far it goes, it can’t look that bad. But it does. I can’t understand how—but it does. It’s revolting. A little shiver hums inside me, elusive and eerie.
Normally, I would be ashamed of myself for thinking this way, for being such a shallow jerk. In fact, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t think this at all. Normally, I would have empathy. If it weren’t me, I could look and be kind, charitable. But it is me.
I can't just look to others to be kind to me. I can't control that. I have to learn how to be kind to myself. To the animal that is me. To this body. This skin. This me.
The rational part of me knows that this is the job ahead.
It sounds so simple.
The world is a giant deception. Hardly anything is simple.
"I can’t just look to others to be kind to me. I can’t control that. I have to learn how to be kind to myself. To the animal that is me. To this body. This skin. This me."
"I don’t want to know other people with vitiligo. Not until I’m strong enough to be able to help someone else, and not so weak I could be dragged down by someone else."
"I’m not normal. So what? This is my life. It’s taking a shape I never would have planned - but it’s mine. It’s all I have."