skin hate

They tell me, when I was born I had "perfect skin". It was white, that's very important no matter what anybody actually says out loud. Apparently my skin wasn't blotchy red like some new-borns, and the nurses called me "peach pie". When I was in elementary school I couldn't stop picking at my skin. Other kids thought I was gross, so I picked at my skin more. I'm not sure if it might have been a fringe feeling from my dad's second-hand smoke, or maybe I already knew I was gay and my heart didn't fit in. Or maybe it was a coping mechanism for extreme anxiety, and it was almost certainly all of these things. When I was a teenager, I picked at my face. I cut my arms and legs and hips. I hated my skin, it hurt me. The thought that I once was lucky enough to have something perfect bestowed upon me, through no effort of my own, and then squandered it, was more than I could bare. I was full of hate at this formerly perfect skin that I can't remember but people told me I have. In my early twenties I got tattoos. It felt like I was taking back possession of myself. I got words and symbols to try to remind myself of the lessons in the pain I was feeling. But they faded and the words became illegible, and I hated myself more than ever for the decisions I can't stop making, and now everyone can see my shame, especially me. What lesson will I learn from this? The one I've known all along.