“My Eyes” by Anonymous Teen
Being a teenage girl often feels like you are a specimen placed under a microscope, being studied under an observant gaze. You walk into a room and it feels as if a spotlight has been placed on you and you’re being evaluated on everything from the placement of your feet to the stray hairs on the top of your head. For me, that spotlight has always landed on my left eye.
I couldn’t tell you exactly how it happened- my eye just suddenly had a pink tinge to it in the last few months of my seventh grade school year. I assumed it was just tiredness, but it stuck around even after many nights of good sleep and heavily restricted screen time. I scheduled a doctor’s visit after one morning when I awoke to find that it was bright red and wouldn’t stop watering. I cried to my parents that I couldn’t go to school and worried that there was something seriously wrong with my eye.
I was diagnosed with extreme dry eye syndrome about three years ago, which according to countless professionals was unusual for a teenager but harmless. Some days are worse than others but it doesn’t affect my health, and on paper, it doesn’t seem like a big deal. However, it never felt as small and meaningless as my doctors made it out to be. To me, it was a harsh reminder of something ugly I couldn’t control, right in the middle of my face. My left eye is constantly irritated and bloodshot, and the dryness makes me prone to styes. The redness never fully fades no matter how many drops I put in or how many times a day I use a heat compress. Not only has it become a permanent part of my face, but also my identity.
My mom had vision problems from a very early age, so the most important thing to her is that I take care of my eyes. When I was first diagnosed, I didn’t feel anything but relief that there wasn’t a more serious issue behind my red eye. In fact, I was unaware that it was obvious until I started getting constantly questioned about it. People would ask if I had allergies or if something had gotten in my eye. Some asked if I had been crying. Although the questions were
well-meaning, each one reminded me that my eye was something other people noticed. There were hurtful comments, too- friends would joke about me having “pink eye” and though I laughed along, it never just rolled off my back. I became more self conscious. I tilted my head when I talked to others. In photos, I positioned myself so the angle might hide the redness and smiled extra wide so my eyes would scrunch up till the whites weren’t visible. I am a loud, outgoing individual but with every comment, the light inside me became dimmer and dimmer.
Eventually, I lost the ability to make eye contact with people. If a teacher called on me or someone started a conversation, I could barely hold their gaze before feeling like I was being gawked at. I felt exposed, like they were looking straight at my eye and wondering what was wrong. It made every social interaction feel like a moment of scrutiny, even when no one said anything. Between every class period I would check my reflection in the bathroom mirror and douse my eye in temporary redness relief eye drops knowing it would return less than thirty minutes later.
Behind the scenes, I did everything I could. My parents took me to appointments with specialists and we tried all different kinds of prescriptions and at-home remedies. I sat in exam rooms while doctors shined lights into my eyes and asked the same questions over and over. They listened, nodded, and took notes, but every visit ended the same way: a calm explanation that there was no real cure, only long-term management. To put it simply, I felt doomed. It took me a long time to accept that my abnormality is likely permanent.
Things started looking up as I grew older and entered high school. I found myself in an environment where people are kinder and much more mature; however, I’ve come to terms with the fact that we as humans are always curious. The questions won’t stop no matter how much I wish they would, so I just have to remind myself that 99 percent of the time people are asking
out of concern, not judgement. I began to realize that maybe I had been the harshest critic of all. I had spent so much energy anticipating judgment in this new setting that I hadn’t given myself the chance to feel at peace. So I began pushing back against my own fears. I practiced holding eye contact, even when it made me squirm sometimes. When someone asks about my eye, I don’t look away, I explain with nonchalance rather than shame. I stopped hating my face for something I couldn’t control and started holding my chin up high. Slowly, the anxiety that used to consume me in every conversation started to fade.
I still have bad days. There are moments when I look in the mirror and feel that same sting of self-consciousness. I still get occasional styes and carry eye drops everywhere I go, but it has become a lot more about comfort than outward appearance. I no longer think of my condition as something that makes me “less than.” In fact, it’s made me more empathetic and wary of how small meaningless comments can affect someone in a meaningful way. Compassion is so rare nowadays and yet it is one of the most valuable traits an individual can have.
Having a visibly red eye as a teenager taught me more than just how to manage a chronic condition. It taught me the importance of self-acceptance in a world that too often tries to define us by our imperfections. It taught me how to be patient with my insecurities and the people around me. Most of all, it taught me that the spotlight will always exist, but I get to decide what people see when it shines on me.