Note : This has nothing to do with depression the mental illness, but it’s my personal story on how I was depressed (the expression).

(I include my picture here to show how ugly it is)

I have a pretty bad face. I’m your typical Asian girl, with yellow tone skin and monolid eyes, but that’s not why I said I have a bad face. I have pimple scars, with occasional pimple one or two, here and there, whenever I have my period. The scars were pretty severe, seemingly sever enough for my grandmother (whom I live with because I’m going to school away from my parents and birth town) to say …

“How could you stand having that face? It was not my face but I cringe whenever I looked at you”

Yes, it is very mean. I cried when I hear that (silently and not in front of her ofc), but now I’m just meh though it does feel stabby(?).

I never really that much conscious of my scars, I actually kinda feel great because its scars now, because back then it was all explosive puss filled pimples. Yet her comments (and her daughter, my aunt with super silky face because of expensive treatments), can change me completely.

It lowers my self-esteem, I become ashamed to lift my face up. I wore masks to campus to cover it. I become self-aware at how I look, because my grandma always reminded me the big elephant in the room which is my ugly scarred face. I become aware at how ugly I really am.

So, I run to make-up. Though I know make-up causes pimples, but I didn’t care. I explore the world of make-up, and the most struggle I had was the right shade, it was never perfectly a match. Another struggle was to keep it full coverage and matte because I have more oil than the whole Saudi Arabia’s land.

I’m not rich, so I search for drugstore brand, like elf, Maybelline, LA Girl, stuff like that (which bomb af). And I did it, my skin is so snatch! I learn contour, eyebrows, liner, and my friends told me I’m pretty, that it’s snatch too! I gain confidence again! I’m a matte full coverage *snap snap*

But the more pretty I look with makeup, the more I’m ashamed of my real skin. I won’t go out of my house without at least sunblock, bb cream and two-way cake powder.

Of course, I’m not perfect every day. I was testing this new foundation and it was ugly af. I looked like preserved dead body (it was dermacol, the so called the most coverage, maybe it was a fake one…). I wanted to wipe it off, but it was lunch and my uncle (which live there with me and grandparents too btw), was calling me down to the dining room to eat together. So I still have it on.

He read me to filth. Saying that it was fugly as , and I don’t know about makeup. Well duh, I know I look nasty but then he always says so every time on daily every time I put on makeup.

Everyday. If I don’t put makeup, and there’s no topic, in the dining room, my grandma would critic my face. Even though she didn’t say anything I know she mentally did. But when I wear makeup she always says ‘wrong, you’re wrong’

I am wrong, I am always wrong. It’s not always about makeup, it’s about everything. The way I dress, the way I act, the way I put on eyeliner, the choices of my lipstick.

I know I shouldn’t take it too heart, but there’s something about painful words from family that always have more power. My self-esteem is lowering again.

Whenever they decide to speak its always pointing out my wrongs ‘You’re wrong’

Oh, it echoes in my ear, in my brain, for days.

I did all the skincare but I’m trying, can’t they see I’m trying? Can’t they just credit me that I’m trying? I don’t want these pimples too, I’m trying with my limited budget (my grandma won’t pay me for despite being rich herself because her successful daughter gave her money).

She told me to ask my mom for money to go to expensive clinics. The expenses of my university, and the gadgets are already expensive enough, how shameless can I be?

I want to wear makeup and not be shamed and told wrong, just because I didn’t meet their old fashion standards.

I don’t want to be shamed because I have pimple scars.

I don’t want to be shamed by my own family. That’s it.