I just realized something. And it rattled me to the core. I’ve been self-sabotaging my love life for as long as I can remember.

Why?

Because the thought of revealing my deformed, disfiguring scars to a potential love interest is just too FRIGHTENING.

Last week, on the Melody of Melanin, I wrote a piece titled, “How the Universe Told Me My New Love Interest is an Asshole,” and looking back on that article retrospectively, there was a little voice in the back of my mind that asked, “Are you sure he’s an asshole? Or are you just deathly afraid of unveiling deepest, darkest secret?”

*Whispers* My secret is I have keloids.

I kid you not. Just to get through the day – just so I do not slump myself in a corner and bawl my eyes out pleading, “Why me, why me!” – I have to pretend my keloids do not exist. I do not look at mirrors. I avoid touching them. I don’t like talking about them. I hide them. I want nothing to do with them.

Because once I look at them, reality sets in that I have stubborn scars that, despite spending tens and thousands of dollars on various treatments, refuse to go away. This, then, reminds me that I’ll never get my dream job as a TV journalist because – come on – who’s going to hire a woman with a scar-filled face? Then that thought leads me to lament that I am not where I want to be in my career because of my keloids.

Next, I start thinking, “Gee, what other ways have these keloids f***ed up my life?” “Oh yeah,” I’d respond to myself, “I can’t go out as much because I can’t wear anything nice, thanks to a few ugly keloids sitting so unattractively on my chest. So, there goes my social life!”

So do you see how acknowledging my keloids’ existence initiates this psychotic domino effect of depressive thinking?

But the absolute worst thing about these keloids is they are the impetus behind the wall I’ve erected around my heart. Shoot, it’s not even a wall, it’s a f***ing fortress!

It’s so insurmountable, so indestructible because knocking it down would mean I’d have to be vulnerable – and that is my absolute worst nightmare. You mean to tell me I’d have to expose my scarred skin to someone I want to be loved by when, truth be told, I can’t even love myself when I look at my keloids? How can I “reveal” the same scars I make a conscious effort to forget?

I remember showing my father my chest keloid for the first time ever – I had no choice. He was financing some of my treatments and I had to show him.

I’ll never forget how his face contorted into an expression that seemed to be a mélange of nauseated repulsion and twisted disgust.

I don’t ever want to see that face again – on anyone. Especially not on someone I truly care for.

So every time I’ve ever gotten too close to someone who truly cared for me, I would break their hearts, fall off the face of the earth, and disappear into oblivion. I’d come up with some bullsh** excuse – oh, he’s too young, he’s too old, he lives too far, he’s not my type, he’s overbearingly interested in me, and my most recent one (and perhaps my most ridiculous excuse), “the universe told me that he’s an asshole.”

I’m the real asshole here. Having the upper hand in knowing I dumped ‘em before they could ever dump me (for my skin defects) made me feel powerful when I’ve always felt powerless in being enslaved inside a scarred body. None of them know the real reason why I’ve cut them off, and the sad part is, they probably never will.

For many, being “forever single and alone” is some sort of spooky, spine-chilling situation to be in. You know, with the nine cats and all. I can’t relate to that fear. The thought of basking in solitude and never having to expose my deepest, darkest secret – these disfiguring keloids – sounds like a dream.

But I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t have those indescribable moments when I thought, “Wow, our connection is so strong right now. I think this is where I’d take my clothes off all sexily like they do in the movies and make love – but I can’t because I have keloids.” Or I’d think, “Whoa, I could actually see this guy as a long-term partner – but I can’t because I have keloids.”

To Chris, Brian, Denzel, David, and Patrick …

I want to apologize to you all – my past lovers who I still have in my heart. There was nothing wrong with any of you. Au contraire – there is something wrong with me. And I didn’t mean to hurt you all.

This piece is also a big ol’ sorry for the next gaggle of men who will have the misfortune of dating me – only because I don’t expect this bad habit to go away any time soon. I really don’t mean to hurt you, but I most likely will. On the upside, I am doing you guys a favor, I suppose. I’m a psychological, insecure mess because of these keloids. You’re better off without me – I promise.

For all my unrealized dreams, I’ll apologize to you, too, ‘cause I know that I’ll never get to meet you because of these keloids.

To my idealized self – the woman who is secure and mentally healthy with a high self-esteem – I am sorry I’ll never get to be you. You are the entity I am the most devastated I’ll never get to meet – the basis of success in all aspects of our lives is self-love, and unfortunately, I know I’ll never meet you.

To all my fellow keloid sufferers, I am sorry that this wasn’t the uplifting post you were searching for. All I can do is share, with you, the dark corners of my subconscious that fester within, and I hope, at the very least, you’ll find comfort in knowing there is someone in your shoes who understands exactly what you’re going through.

All illustrations are drawn by me.

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