What the Medical Community Doesn't Understand About Acne

I have had moderate to severe acne since I was 14. It has become an intrinsic part of my identity and often dictates the way I interact with the world. To my chagrin, it also dictates my mood. When my face is covered in pimples, I am overtaken—possessed by the insecurity monster. This monster makes me act out, rage, and react in ways that a normal 29-year-old woman does not.

I have been to countless doctors. I have been to naturopaths, Chinese medicine practitioners, laser light therapists, and even psychics, in the hopes that someone, somewhere will have the answer to curing this debilitating disease.

When I express how debilitating it is to Western doctors, they smirk. As if my vanity is hilarious to them. As if I’m imagining the psychological pain and trauma these bumps have had on my life. That's because when they look at me, all they see are the bumps. They don't see anything life-threatening, contagious, or dangerous. They see superficial bumps, a few scars, and an otherwise healthy human being.

But it's not about the bumps on my face.

It’s about 16 years of my life gone to thoughts of wanting to cut my face off and be someone else. It’s 16 years of waiting for the acne to go away so I can live a normal life—whatever that means. It’s the countless hours spent every single morning putting on makeup in an attempt to erase my acne identity and assume a different one. Putting on a mask that still betrays my deepest desires to have smooth skin. Because, of course, underneath the layers of plaster that I use to build the mask, the incessant bumps poke through—a cruel reminder that I am unworthy of anything I want in life. I am less than a woman.

It’s about the countless hours then spent in the evening taking that makeup off because I can never go to bed with makeup on (what a disaster that would be!). It's about having to sneak out of bed early when sleeping with a new partner because, heaven forbid, they’ll see how flawed I really am.

It’s about avoiding intimacy and never wanting to have children because I may pass this curse onto them. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.

It’s not about the bumps.

It’s about the voice in my head that tells me that no one will ever love me if I have acne. That I’ll never love me until this affliction goes away. It’s about the heartbreak. The debilitating heartbreak followed by panic and anxiety that I will never be able to do the things I want to do because this problem still has not and may never go away.

It's not about the bumps.

It’s about the hundreds of thousands of dollars my parents spent on me as a teen trying to clear my skin. It’s about the hundreds and thousand of dollars that I continue to spend.

It’s about the uncertainty—not knowing what lies ahead and when I’ll ever feel like myself anymore. It's about not even knowing who I am anymore (or who I have been for the past 16 years) because the idea I have of myself in my head does not match the person I see in the mirror.

It’s about the glances from other people and the questions: “What happened to your face?” “Have you tried this?” “How often do you wash your face?” “Have you tried eliminating dairy?”

Yes I have, thanks.

It's not about the bumps, the shine, the redness or the scars.

It’s about the anger—the constant rage I feel towards myself and those around me with clear, perfect, porcelain skin. And then comes the shame. The shame that I’m still possessed by this adolescent disease and that my mindset and reactions are similarly stuck in that regression.

Will I ever be an adult? Will I ever be a beautiful woman? Will I ever feel okay? It’s about not knowing the answer to those questions. And it’s about feeling like I’ve missed out on 16 years of my life because my mind has been hijacked by the reflection in the mirror.

My dermatologist once said to me that he only has so many arrows in his quiver to treat my acne and that it was up to me to pick my poison: be it Accutane, antibiotics, topical creams, birth control, or any combination of these. I have tried them all. None of them have worked long term.

I know there has to be an answer. I know there has to be a reason. I just hope I can find it before my acne-ridden face is taken over by wrinkles and age spots.

I’m ready to live a full life—and would love just one year of unbridled normalcy and absence of worry about my skin.

Just 365 days of feeling beautiful.

Please.