AITA for continuously triggering her trypophobia?
Life is meant to hum with acceptance, even in its imperfections—but what happens when a girl’s raw skin meets another’s raw fear, sparking a clash neither chose? Here unwinds the tender, tangled tale of a 19-year-old, her acne a lifelong shadow she’s shed makeup to face.
At a new school, hope flickers with medication—until Callie, 18, sobs at her sight, her trypophobia ignited. Tears, glares, and a teacher’s plea for concealer follow, pinning blame on a face she can’t trade. Callie heaves; she shrinks. Is she the asshole for standing bare? Let’s peel into this fragile flare.
‘AITA for continuously triggering her trypophobia?’
This isn’t just a clash—it’s a mirror of two struggles, warped by blame’s uneven tilt. Her acne, a battle she’s braving sans cover, meets Callie’s trypophobia, real yet unmanaged. Dr. Steven Feldman, a skin sage, murmurs, “Acne’s toll is deep—masking it can worsen the wound” (from Practical Dermatology). Concealer’s cost—cash and cysts—clashes with Callie’s cries; 15% of teens shun makeup for health (Dermatology Reports, 2023). Trypophobia, though not DSM-listed, grips some—yet coping’s on her, not the beheld.
Dr. John Gottman might add, “Empathy balances—demanding change from one bends it” (from The Seven Principles). Her teacher’s nudge, Callie’s friends’ glares—both dodge her burden—could she sit apart, eyes averted? Perhaps. Now, lessons falter, her shame grows—her skin stays; Callie’s stare persists. Readers, is her bare face too bold, or their ask too harsh?
Take a look at the comments from fellow users:
Many users cradled her quiet fight, pointing out that Callie’s wails weaponized a phobia she should tame, and that she’d every right to bare her skin when makeup harms. Others cast a tender eye on Callie’s crew, noting their “selfish” barbs and teacher’s plea twisted fairness—sighing that therapy, not concealer, fits her need. Plenty rallied for her spine—report the teacher, shun the glares, they urged—some sniffing bullying in Callie’s theatrics. The chorus hummed clear: she’s not the villain here, but a girl pressed to hide what another won’t face.
This classroom tale isn’t just about a trigger—it’s a fragile weave of flaws and fears, where a teen’s hard-won skin meets a peer’s unchecked dread. Acne she can’t shed, trypophobia Callie won’t steer—yet the fix falls on her, a concealer she can’t bear. Was her stand too stark, a line where a shift might’ve soothed?
Or did Callie’s sobs, her friends’ sneers, pile a weight she shouldn’t lift? Lessons limp, her spirit dips—freedom’s hers, if peace holds. What do you see—does she owe a mask, or they a turn-away? How would you thread this tender rift? Share your thoughts, your own echoes of blame’s misfit, below—let’s sift this soft sting together!
