“You’re beautiful too, you just gotta take care of your skin,” a woman commented.
A punch landed in my abdomen; I had no words, just nodded. I was sitting with my two friends at the Morgan Hall food court. She called them “beautiful queens”, but I couldn’t just be beautiful. It was never going to be enough. My $40 purchases from Ulta, over five years spent in a dermatologist’s waiting room, and my favorite stained hoodie, my acne would be perceived as poor hygiene.
I was eight years old, in the second grade, when I first experienced what felt like a volcano growing on my face. My pediatrician introduced the p-word early on, before other children my age. I was beginning to develop before any of my classmates and despite my continuous efforts to tug at the hem of my shirt, my face showed it.
Whichever product aired a commercial with a teen washing their face with a Colgate smile, we tried it. Our bathroom cabinet was filled with products like Clean and Clear, Proactive, and Clearasil. My mom bought me designated white washcloths so I wouldn’t ruin her towels with benzol peroxide. I was always excited to go to school with a doctor’s note, but ashamed to tell my peers which type of doctor I was seeing.
My insecurity with a skin disorder didn’t form until middle school. Although I was finally at the age where it was an acceptable teenage problem, I experienced years of large painful inflamed cystic acne. I was young and impatient with my skin, so there were many days I attended school with bright red flesh showing through my broken brown skin. In the worst cases, I covered it with a Band-Aid, which brought even more attention.
I thought my acne spoke for me before I had the chance. It made me feel dirty and self-conscious as if I wasn’t taking care of myself or washing my face.
I was asked countless times, “Have you ever tried just washing your face with water?”
I believed having acne stole my chance to be considered beautiful. The LED lights from retail fitting rooms made me want to crawl out of my skin and find a new home. I tried hiding from mirrors.
I’ve used oral medications, Tazarotene, Sulfacetamide (that face wash that smells like Nair), almost every percentage of benzoyl peroxide, and physical exfoliants (that cause microtears into the skin). I even indulged in bleaching cream, which was very counterproductive, and expensive. I declined Accutane, purely out of my fear for needles, and the small fine print warning about mental health.
Doctors reassured me that acne was something I would grow out of, and I haven’t. I’m okay with that. My skin goals have shifted, instead of striving to eliminate acne, I aim to control it while prioritizing my skin barrier. I am hesitant to try trendy products because my skin is sensitive.
I don’t want glass skin.
I want to be happy about the improvement of my skin condition and not let my emotions be tied to my oil glands.
I don’t currently have the funds to buy expensive dark spot treatments with a high concentration of vitamin C, but I can continuously work to use sunscreen to prevent any hyperpigmentation. I’ve learned to live with acne, no matter what random woman feels the need to tell me how beautiful I could be without it.