What falls under the umbrella of NOH8? Part 1

As a new infant, it wasn't all that noticeable. It took a few days for my birthmark to settle in. It's approximately the size of a man's thumb, in the center of my forehead. To make it less noticeable, my mom maintained a steady style of longish bangs for years. She wasn't embarrassed, but she knew people always had something to say. My Irish grandmother would tell my God got His hands a little dirty when he was making me. I felt that God should wash His hands a little more often. I was always told that I was a beautiful little girl and my birthmark made me special. I agreed, until I entered school.

I was a child whose parents were encouraging.When I wanted to cut my waist length hair into what can only be described now as a "mushroom cut", my mother made sure I knew what I was doing. My response, that it's only hair and hair will grow, solidified my mother's belief that I did. Off went 16 inches of hair, with no tears. It eventually grew back, only to be sacrificed again and again to the gods of fashion. Once it even went to Locks of Love.

In school, I was mocked for being different. Different meant a kid who dressed how she wanted and felt totally comfortable in her skin. The hero of my young life, Clarissa from Clarissa Explains it All. I loved her devil may care sense of style and commitment to her unusual friend. I emulated her fresh take on life, until I started pushing my bangs aside and thinking of growing them out. That's when all the other kids zeroed in on my birthmark, it was the beginning of the end.

The year I entered junior high, my mother gave birth to my gorgeous little brother. That same day she was told that her father had committed suicide. What followed was a horrific descent into postpartum depression. My father couldn't cope, so he went to work. My mother turned her depression and rage into physical and verbal abuse. I was the stand-in for what my father should have been intercepting.

Things were not great at home, school used to be my safe-haven. Now, at school, I was being ridiculed for a birthmark. Something I had no control of. I was called "coffee", "dot-head", and other well thought out monikers. I was a little more developed than most girls in my class, which led to the always amusing, "hey coffee, got any cream". Teenage boys are incredibly ironic.

At times, the misery at home and the misery at school was too much for me. I considered suicide. One night, I was in my bedroom, racked with sobs. I couldn't do it anymore. So, I went into my bathroom and took a bottle of pills. I was horribly sick. My father heard me vomiting and yelled up the stairs, asking if I was alright. I just yelled yes and went back to bed. It was awful, I was even more depressed. I couldn't even kill myself. I was 13.

The torture went on for years, teachers were oblivious. All this time I fought to survive. I can remember being in the bathroom at a youth group meeting. I always wore earrings so that I could alleviate the pressure from the dark thoughts. I was sitting on the toilet in the bathroom of a church, carving my legs. Even in a place of worship I felt as though I did not belong.