What is it about some people? Whatever happened to kindness? What happened about thoughtfulness and understanding? Whatever happened to thinking about people’s feelings? Nothing happened, I’m afraid, because some people, and it is only some people (but it’s enough people), who can say the most awful things. Not for the first time, it happened to me again last night.
I spent the evening enjoying a wonderful concert by a choir in which my partner sings. It was relatively local, although there were only two people I knew, whom I had not seen them for a long time. All was going well until one of these people pointed out I had put on a few pounds over the years, in the most blunt fashion. “Thanks for pointing that out,” I said, with a hint of sarcasm. “That makes me feel really good, thank you.” I did not have time to reply that Boris Johnson telling me to stay at home during Covid had had a detrimental on my physical and mental health and the disease itself had permanently worsened my asthma to the extent that I needed X-rays to see if there was anything seriously wrong with my lungs. (There wasn’t, it turned out. Just ‘long Covid.)
Later on the same thing happened, as the man explained that I had put on some “timber” since I last saw him, maybe a decade ago or more. I replied along the same “thanks for pointing it out, you’ve made me feel really good; thank you” lines again, but the damage to my head was done. I made no effort to explain that actually I was making real efforts to get healthier and fitter but it was a very slow process. What was the point? The agenda, his agenda, had been set, all that was left was repetition of the same thing. I lied that I had been pleased to see him and left him to it, presumably so he could find some flaws in someone else. As a self-pitying whinger, it completely ruined my sleep last night, as I woke repeatedly thinking about our encounters. What was the point of it?
I have written before about my self-loathing and intense dislike of both appearing in photographs and being photographed. This is not a new thing and actually goes back to my childhood. I was born with a large birthmark on my right cheek (of my face, in case you were wondering) and throughout junior school and part of senior school, I was ripped into by smart-asses and bullies. I was ‘Keyhole Kate’, a popular cartoon character of the time and later ‘mole’, the nickname that really stuck and, when I see old school ‘friends’ I am ‘mole’ again. The purple birthmark was shaped, depending on your hilarious sense of humour’, either like a keyhole or a map of Britain, without Ireland next to it. People would forever seem to be asking me what this purple mark on my face was, which really made me feel good, as you can imagine. By the time I reached my teenage years, I had two operations to have the birthmark gouged out of my face (this was before laser treatment became a thing), leaving me with a large and permanent scar, which was promised to me by the surgeon. Anything, said this young boy, was better than the birthmark. I spent the rest of my life being asked whether I had been ‘glassed’. I suppose it made me look like the hard nut I palpably wasn’t.
I never got over the birthmark/scar stuff, which at first felt like taunting and even bullying and I have been sensitive to the nth degree about my appearance. I can only see the worst side of me and even when I smile the camera appears to suggest I have Bell’s Palsy or have suffered a stroke. I see only imperfections and, sadly, so do others.
I should, of course, rise above this pathetic nonsense and be less of a snowflake. The person who last night pointed out my own extra ‘timber’ had put on far more himself than I had, but I did not feel the need to point it out since, I imagined, he was probably aware of it himself. My guess, and it is only a guess, is that people only use insults like this to make themselves better about their own imperfections. One thing for sure is that they neither think nor care about the damage they cause to others, especially those with back stories they don’t know.
It’s a form of bullying, though, isn’t it? I well recall people being bullied at school for things like being short-sighted and having to wear extremely thick glasses, having a cheap satchel for school rather than a trendy, more expensive rucksack (me), for supposedly having big feet and, if I am being honest, not saying or doing anything about it because of how the insults would once again be about me again.
Let’s be clear and open. I am not without sin in this department. I have said and done things about people’s appearances about which I am far from proud. One or two of them, I am actually ashamed about and wish I could turn back time and do things differently. And you know what? I am glad I feel that way. I am glad I still feel bad about it because it shows, if nothing else, that I have learned some kind of lesson. I might have been a total piece of shit to others, but I am not anymore. My experience from last night is that not everyone learns or even cares.
I will not be returning to this particular establishment again for the foreseeable future, even if my attempts to restore my health and fitness closer to what they were years ago. And if this happens again, regardless of the circumstances and situation, I will walk away.
I am not oblivious to the effects of the ageing process and I know that what I see in the mirror today will be ten times worse in ten years time, in the unlikely event I live that long, and without extensive plastic surgery, which I am not going to have, things can only get worse.
It is not that I am a snowflake with regard to many things, having acquired more of a ‘don’t give a fuck’ attitude as the years have gone by, but the scars, like the one on my face, run deep. I would no more go up to someone and make disparaging remarks about their weight, for example, than I would point out someone’s cleft pallet or missing limb. That, I would like to think, is because I try to be kind to people.
You may view the comments directed at me as being small beer and not worth fretting about, but you are you and I am me. Words have power and, as they say, the pen is mightier than the sword (and much easier to write with). Sticks and stones can break my bones but words definitely can hurt me,as they did with my ‘mole,’ with my added ‘timber’ and with the bullies and abusers of the British Red Cross.
If the best people can manage is ignorance and rudeness, then please don’t waste my time. I certainly won’t waste yours by being in the same room as you again, that’s for sure.
