It was the start of senior year when I strode into the commons on the first day of school. I was wearing a bright red, velvet jacket. My hair was proudly an obnoxious mountain of frizzy curls as I walked in with a chin up, shoulders back, and a sudden confidence even I couldn’t have seen coming.
There was something special about that morning. I remember stepping out the shower before running my hand across a foggy glass. I let out a sigh, slowing grinning (in complete relief and freaking, joyous disbelief) as I stared back at the reflection. My skin had cleared and my insecurities seemed to disappear with it.
Acne is literally the stupidest thing ever. Clearly, that’s a childish way to communicate my utter loathing (and I mean loathing) for it, but it’s the best I can do. Our hate-hate relationship began in middle school, before becoming a toxic problem in high school. It was there. Then it wasn’t. Then it appeared again. However this time the annoying thing really thought it’d stay.
However, in the very short time when I wasn’t cursed with a completely excessive amount of oil, the lack of pimples made me feel as if I suddenly had the right to say what I want. It made me feel like I could look people in the eye. It made me want to make jokes. It made me not mind laughing too loud. I wanted to dress crazily for once. Clear skin seemed to be (and really is) the most underrated, taken for granted superpower. It was something that magically expelled self-doubt. It gifted me with one of the things I wanted most: to feel normal.
Then the (unwelcome) red, inflamed monster came back. All I wanted to do was hide. I would hide my face with my sweatshirt. I would casually hide it with my hand, strategically placing it as if I was cleverly drawing attention away from red hills on my face towards literally anything else (I wasn’t fooling anybody). Fun fact: I once hid my face in a menu. Really, I couldn’t stand being looked at. It’s something that I still can’t stand today.
Having acne also feels like constantly having pity shoved in your face. In high school, I imagined my family would have meetings where they would decide how they could drop little compliments to boost my confidence. And bless them, because I remember oddly nice comments on my eyebrows.
However, what’s probably the most annoying assumption coupled with acne is that the occasional friend, family, and/or stranger assumes you’re somehow doing something to cause it. And maybe I am. I’m not perfect. Sometimes I can’t resist the cheesy callings of Mad Mushroom. Still, I can tell you for a fact that the majority of our pimple-covered selves would stub our pinkie toes fifty times in order to get rid of the root of a lot our insecurities. Strangers will assume you have bad hygiene. Classmates might think you don’t wash your face. In reality, you probably have the most expensive array of random junk in your cabinet. You’ve tried everything. You’ve done masks, antibiotics, topical creams, face washes, then more topical creams. Then in desperation, you try makeup. You slather it on thick. You know that a five-year-old who raided her mom’s makeup drawer could probably do a better job, but somehow you can’t seem to stop.
While I don’t remember every emotion, I can still feel that same underlying sense of shame. Throughout middle school, I would rush to the car as soon as it was three o’clock. As a teenager, I hated going out in public. As a sixteen-year-old, I did as little as possible to draw attention to myself. At the time, insecurity, frustration, and humiliation controlled me. It was embarrassing to have family members ask if I was seeing a dermatologist (and I was). It was frustrating having acquaintances (if they were even that) offering and explaining what cleared their mostly likely minuscule, prepubescent acne. It was difficult watching everyone jump into relationships while I jumped into another book.
But looking back now, the worst part wasn’t the pores. It wasn’t the people. The worst part of this recurring problem was me. I wish I could say I was braver. Sometimes it was harder to look in a mirror than in someone else’s eyes. I wish I kept my chin up. I wish I didn’t feel the need to cover up the scars and redness. I knew I wasn’t perfect. Nevertheless, I naively saw the need to pretend I was. To be honest, sometimes I still play that useless game.
Today, when I get out the shower and drag my hand across my mirror, I don’t see clear skin. But I’m content. I laugh loudly. I say the dumbest stuff (I really, really do). Over the two years, my skin’s changed, but luckily, I’ve changed too. I think I’m happier and I’ve learned more because of it.