I, admittedly, used to be a hot chick. I didn't realize it at the time. Nor did I realize that being a hot chick meant a lot more than dressing pretty and smiling a lot. I thought people liked smiles and that as a woman, dressing pretty was part of the package.

It wasn't until after high school that I realized what I looked like. I had been tied down to an abusive relationship for most of my high school career so I never really knew the reaction of the opposite sex until the end of that relationship on November 11, 1995. I graduated high school the summer of 1996.

During the time after my break-up, I found myself approached by all kinds of men. The comic book geeks and "artsy fartsy" kids I had considered my peers, the gelhaired, muscle shirt wearing men I considered my "brothers", even the older guys I would sip coffee with late at night at Dunkin Donuts would approach me and say "I always thought you were hot." I hated the attention.

It was shortly after my break-up that I learned about passion. Not in a sexual way. The type of passion that burns within you. Some people may call it drive. Some people call it an "itch". I call it the very fiber of my being. I am an artist. I am a writer. I found that I needed to create in order to feel whole. I found a need for validation as an artist and as a writer BEFORE finding validation that my ass looked good in a mini skirt. But I got side-tracked by the attention.

Underage drinking. Hot girls can drink at strip clubs because they want you to be a dancer. Guys buy you things and drive you places because they want to have sex with you. You get better job offers because people don't like to look at ugly people for 40 hours a week. People are drawn to talk to you. You get invited to the best parties. You get in to the hottest clubs before everyone else. You get in places for free because good looking women attract men who will spend money...even places like Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Burger King and the corner store practically hand you things because you have a pretty smile. Good looking people are treated differently than everyone else. Unfortunately, I was one of them.

I found myself getting in to places for free while my friends sighed as they paid cover charges. I didn't want to be special. I didn't want them to have to pay while I did not. I didn't want the attention. I found it to be negative attention. Although getting free things and millions of compliments are always fabulous ego boosters, Do you really want to be known as a hot chick?

Dates, dinners, parties, college, work...I was treated differently. Nobody asked what I did or what I liked. Nobody even cared what my name was. My paintings went unseen. My words were never read. My voice was never heard. I was seen. I was noticed. I was miserable. When the only thing the world expects of you is a friendly smile and a little cleavage, you kind of want to jump off a cliff or scream like a bratty child until you are heard. Luckily, in a strange twist of fate, I didn't have to.

In the summer of 1999, while trying to be perfect in an attempt to appease my boyfriend, I tried a skin cream only allowed by prescription in order to get rid of a few unsightly blemishes. I put the cream on excessively hoping it would work overnight. When I woke up, I had 2nd and 3rd degree burns to my entire face. I felt like Freddy Kreuger. The doctors couldn't make the pain or the agony go away fast enough. The physical pain was nothing in comparison as to what I was about to endure.

I tried to carry on my life as usual. After a day or two at home facing what could mean no longer being attractive, I attempted to carry on. Hoping that I was exempt from gazes and stares. Hoping to have the same warm welcomes I had grown accustomed to, I decided to carry on without make-up and a very burned face.

I went to Dunkin Donuts on my way to work. The employees who usually gave me my morning coffee or a donut for free suddenly turned cold. I was asked to pay full price and not a single offer for a donut or a cookie came my way. The usual customers turned their heads rather than greeting me with "off to work again sweetie?"....It hurt to find out that people were only nice to me because of my looks. I felt as though I was baring my soul, underneath the flaking burning skin. I was transparant. Worst of all. For anyone who looked at me, they saw through me and they didn't like what they saw.

That day, my boss said "what the fuck happened to your face?". My boyfriend said " You're so ugly. I feel bad for you."...and so it began...

Although my face healed with minimal scarring, sometimes I look at a zit or a scratch, even when I have a bad hair day or my jeans don't fit quite right...I remember that it could be worse. I realized then, that it COULD be me that someone is whispering in their friends ear "don't ever let me look like that." I'm hot now. i know it, but I learned that what's on the inside should be seen from the outside.

And so I begin my story in hopes of healing and helping. This is the diary of a recovered hot chick.