When I was little, my parents took us to church every Sunday morning.  In my congregation, there was a very unique man.  He came every week and always sat alone.  When I say alone, I mean in his own pew.  He had an average face and an average body, but every inch of his face was covered in very large (I don't mean acne pimple sized either) bumps.  The front of his head, back of his neck, his entire face, completely covered in protruding, flesh-colored, giant bumps.  As a small child, I viewed this man not with disdain, but with curiosity.  He was very different from me and everyone around us, but somehow I admired him for his courage to come out into the congregation and feel a part of something bigger than himself.  In my eleven year old mind that is.  As an adult, I have thought about him, wondering what became of this man.  We know all too well that society shuns people who are different.  We look at them from a distance, not wanting to get too close, sometimes pitying the person, feeling sorry for their own personal Hell that they endure.  Many years later, I actually saw this man again, briefly, in a public setting.  I didn't have the opportunity, but if I had, I would have gone to him and asked him if he was the same man who sat "with" me in church all those years.  I never saw him again.  It's easy to wonder, did he ever get married and have children?  Did he work and if he did, what kind of life did he have?  Always on public view, taking in stares, gasps, whispers and the occasional sneaky look that someone thinks he doesn't notice.  Can you imagine this? 

Well, as an adult, I have psoriasis.  I have raw looking red patches on my forearms and part of my upper arms.  They are very noticeable and they itch constantly.  (Did I say they itched constantly?  Think fresh mosquito bites that never calm down)  When they first developed, my mom was suffering from terminal cancer (I don't see terminal cancer as an oxymoron anymore) and I was trying to work for a very nasty boss from Hell and parent two children with special needs.  As you can imagine, my stress level was off the charts at that point.  I usually wore long sleeves, even when it was too warm, to hide my psoriasis from the world.  One day, while out with my son and husband, we stopped at a local butcher.  A young girl was behind the counter, perhaps 19-22 years old.  It was SO hot that day, I decided to roll my sleeves up and "go for it", hoping that the world would be kind to me.  The VERY first thing this little princess said to me was, "OH MY GOD, what is wrong with your arms?!!!!!  Is that POISON?  (she didn't even bother to add ivy in there)"  I said that I have psoriasis and it's an auto-immune disorder.  She looked at me like I had leprosy and said, "Ew, is it contagious?"  My husband and son just looked at me, we were just speechless.  I almost called the store that day to speak with the owner.  I wanted to tell him or her about that little bitch and what she said to me, how she humiliated me.  I internalized what the girl did to me for months.  Ninety degrees outside?  Long sleeved shirt.  Period.  I still carry her nasty and hateful diatribe with me to this day, although it has softened some.  I still have the nasty rash, although this past Summer softened it some.  It's noticeable enough that when I'm in line, I know people see it.  I envision someone pointing to my arm and making a face with the person they are with, but I have short sleeves on now.  I think about that man and the lifetime of ridicule and shame he's put up with.  What can he do, put on a face mask?  There is no long-sleeved shirt for him, but there are plenty of young girls behind the counter who don't care what they say.

When I take my children out, which I don't do as often as I wish I could, there is almost always some sort of confrontation between them and me.  Most recently, I took my son to a local chain to get his hair cut.  As usual, he had his hand held game system with him, which if he could have it surgically implanted in him, he would.  I told him earlier that he would have to turn it off when it was time to go back and I didn't see the signs that we were next.  I told him abruptly that it was his turn and he was in the middle of a "battle".  He started with a high pitched, "NoooOOOoooooo!!!!"  when I told him it was time to go back and he started rocking a bit.  At around 5'7", his has a commanding presence for 13 years old and in this very small place, very large crowd, the stares began. One kid asks his mother, "What's wrong with that boy?" and I can feel my face getting hot from all the stares.  Finally, I get him calmed down and he hands the game system to me so he can get his hair cut.  The wonderful stylist took the time to add, "You know, I don't have all day to wait.  Is he going to get his hair cut or not?"  Why did I stay?  I don't have an answer for that.  Defeat perhaps.  I do sleep well every night though, knowing I did my very best as a parent every day.