Last week, I noticed a small red bump forming on the surface of my chin. Encircled by the tiny mass was an even tinier white bump, protruding from the otherwise smooth exterior of my chin. “A PIMPLE!” I cried out (in my head, of course). I pinched myself, pleading to wake up from this hormonal nightmare. This can’t be happening, I thought. But it was happening, alright.
If reading about my “nightmare” fills you with an inexplicable rage, then I can confidently assure you that I know how you feel. And, I sympathize with you. It wasn’t too long ago that I was in your shoes, thinking, “Is this girl serious right now?” when one of my friends, whose skin was made of porcelain, would fuss over what must’ve been the world’s smallest pimple. Her’s wasn’t even cystic, which only irritated me more, as awful as that may sound. And so, my plight as an acne girly began…
The breakout
What started as one miniscule whitehead in ninth grade quickly escalated into heaps of red, colossal bumps that inhabited my chin, neck, and forehead. No amount of my Neutrogena concealer was going to cover the painful masses.
After some amateur research, I decided to invest in a spot treatment that took centuries (two weeks) to kick in. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw some minor progress being made. The redness faded and the size of my cysts reduced. You would have thought I won the lottery based on my elation at this tiny win.
What I hadn’t realized, however, was that my previously thought-to-be “miracle cream” acted only as a temporary fix. A few weeks after its ability wore off, I was back to square one, and was deciphering ways to hide my face at school. The classic “hand over the chin/mouth” placement was sufficient enough to cover that area, but my forehead would just have to bear the brunt of my classmates’ eyes.
The severe insecurity that resulted from my high school experiences trickled into my freshman year of college, when I initially thought that my acne would magically disappear. Due to the environmental, dietary, academic, and social fluctuations of college, the symptoms intensified to my disdain. Before I knew it, I was a freshman in high school again, doing everything in my power to avoid attracting any eyeballs–dodging eye contact, keeping my hands over my chin, and steeping in the safety of my dorm room.
the appointment
Throughout all four years of high school, and my freshman year of college, I must’ve visited every dermatologist within a ten mile radius, desperate to clear up my skin. In doing so, I put my health insurance through the ringer as I was prescribed what felt like every pill under the sun. You name it, I took it.
My frustrations grew as each pill exhausted its efforts to save my skin, which seemed to appear more inflamed every day. Frustrated as well, my mom could clearly see that I’d had enough. We bit the bullet, and scheduled one last consultation to ask about what we have been tiptoeing around for five years–Accutane.
My dermatologist was on board with the suggestion, but provided the obligatory speech that warned me of the drug’s harsh side effects. I patiently waited as she listed off: skin rash, skin peeling, joint or muscle pain, mood swings, anxiety and depression, nausea, headaches…I could go on and on.
When she wrapped up her spiel, I made up my mind almost instantly. It will all be worth it, I promised myself.
the needle
I was then handed the first of many urine sampling cups to come to ensure that I wasn’t pregnant. A few pregnancy tests, I thought, how hard could it be?
The sampling of my bodily fluids did not stop there, however. I was also required to have my blood drawn each month, a procedure I wasn’t thrilled with, but nevertheless, I bit my tongue and reminded myself that it would all be worth it. I even made a friend out of the phlebotomist who made the effort of making small talk and cracking jokes to distract me from the slender needle that was about to puncture my skin. Keep smiling, I reminded myself.
the peeling
The side effects of the pill combined with the dry winter air took a harsh toll on my skin for three months. After using an excessive, but necessary, amount of CeraVe moisturizer, and keeping my pores fed with petroleum jelly, I noticed the dryness and flaking start to wane. Distracted by this victory, I was caught off guard by the peeling that would shortly plague my lips. When I say that my lips were rotting off my face, they were ROTTING off my face. Aquaphor and Vaseline became my best friends. Although there was not enough chapstick in the world to keep up with the shedding, I was able to tame it temporarily.
Aside from the more evident complications, I was also afflicted with dry eyes, red scaly rashes, dandruff, and the occasional nosebleed. I had been a good sport for four months, but when the nosebleeds started to hit, I was just about done. That last appointment could not have come soon enough.
the last pill
On August 4th, 2023, along with my last Accutane pill, I swallowed the insecurity that I had been holding onto for years. It was a liberating feeling to look in the mirror and not want to cry at the sight of my skin. It was magical being able to eat without the pain of my acne constricting my mouth. Most of all, it was wonderfully freeing to show my face without fear of judgment, or wondering how I was going to hide my chin with my hands.
All that being said, I am an advocate for self-love. As a twenty-year-old girl, it’s something I struggle with, of course, but it’s also something I firmly believe is necessary to achieve self-confidence. So, if you are unhappy with a certain aspect of your life or your being, then who says you can’t make a change? Throughout the tumultuous relationship I’ve had with it, Accutane is one of the best decisions I’ve made for myself, and that is a hill I will die on.