Adios, Acne! Or: Breaking Up With Breakouts.

Photo from www.eutic.eu

As someone who has always had terrible skin, I can say with certainty that pimples are The Worst.

I have always been encouraged to love my body, embrace curves, celebrate weirdness, and to be an individual, however, I can say with certainty that Pimples. Are. Not. Included.

I fully encourage body positivity, but pimples are the final frontier. If there are people out there that can live with, or even love, their puss-filled, red, infected pimples, then all power to them. If you can confidently look in the mirror and celebrate acne, flaunt it, and be proud of it, then you deserve every medal there is. Truly. Because I can't.

Pimples are debilitating. Crippling. People who complain about them are not caught up in some self-involved vanity spiral. If you have pimples, it can be a serious problem.

Now don't get me wrong, I've never covered up a pimple for another person. Ever. Nor have I ever covered up a pimple, because I've been brainwashed by the media's obsession with unattainable levels of their definition of beauty. I slathered on the four layers of liquid foundation for ten years, because I didn't want people who were within inches of my mug, to be up close and personal with infection. I don't show off my scabby knees from playing sport, or the mucus from my hacking cough, so why would I want anyone to see my pimples? Now, obviously it only exacerbated the problem - so much makeup prevented my skin from breathing, and the therein lies the cruel catch 22. 

The only evidence I can find (I avoided photographs when my skin was terrible) of my skin at its worst. 

This is what it looked like WITH  concealer piled in like putty onto any spot, the four, yes four, layers 

of liquid foundation, plus pressed powder, PLUS setting powder. Yikes.

In my final year of uni, I had an exceptionally benevolent friend, who had noticed my horrific skin, and offered me some life-changing help. She worked at a skin clinic, and gifted me with a facial that turned my skin around. After I took off my makeup with a makeup wipe, it took her FOUR more wipes to wipe the residue makeup off/out of my skin, FOUR. MORE. WIPES. 

She then gave me the most rejuvenating, healing facial, and I walked out floating on a cloud. My face was red, raw, and feral, but it was on the path to recovery. 

After this facial, I changed to a far lighter makeup, and got endless compliments on my skin. It really did change my life.

But there was more to it.

Over time, my skin didn't return to the hideous pimply depths it had once reached, but it got pretty gross again. Carrying pressed powder and concealer everywhere was non-negotiable. Swimming in company became difficult once again (that pesky, delightful water). And don't even get me started on taking my makeup off in front of people. Oh no. No, no, no. I think the only person who had ever seen my face without makeup was my Nan. Yes, I wore makeup to bed when I was with a boyfriend. Yep, I took my makeup into the bathroom before having a shower, so the process of taking it off, and putting it back on again, was witnessed by noone. It become so routine, I didn't even think of it. Until I realised I was getting up in the middle of the night to touch up my powder in the bathroom, if my boyfriend stayed over. My boyfriend, who, by the way, had never said one word about my skin, or ever said I was anything less than beautiful. 

Catching myself in this act, prompted me to finally see my doctor. The same doctor who had been medicating my skin for fifteen years. Every cream, every generic pill, every antibiotic. My doctor had always said that should I ever want to make serious improvements with my skin, Roaccutane (or Accutane, for the Northern Hemisphere dwellers) was the only option left.

I'd heard awful things about Roaccutane - the list of side effects were formidable. Depression, back pain, joint pain, blurry vision, insanely dried out skin, and a whole lot more very rare, but far scarier ones that I can't bring myself to type out (don't even think about getting pregnant whilst on this drug) To learn about how Roaccutane works, read more here. Despite the potential side effects, I was at the end of my rope, and needed a cure for my skin.

And so it began, last year. My wonderful boyfriend at the time was incredibly supportive. After I got my first prescription, we sat curled up on his couch, he listened as I talked through what I had to do, and promised me that I was beautiful, pimples or no pimples. My amazing housemates vowed to look out for me, take care of me, and if my mood changed, to tell me. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I was excited to take action.

Fast forward just a couple of months, and my skin was unrecognisable. Not a pimple in sight. No tiny white bumps. Nothing. I just, just, uh, WHAT?! Whose skin is this?!?! I was out of my mind with happiness. Yes, I had crazy dry skin, and my eyeballs got dry sometimes, and my skin became fragile (read: taking two months for a scrape to heal), but OH SHIT - so, so worth it. Worth it all.

Earlier this year, my now boyfriend and I were getting ready to go to brunch. I was fully dressed, about to walk out the door, when I realised I didn't have any make up on.

"Oh my gosh", I said, "I nearly left the house without makeup! Just give me five minutes!"

"I think you look great either way. But you look beautiful just as you are, right now".

I died. Really, I did. Not just at his lovely words, but realising that I no longer felt trapped underneath my pressed powder, and I could leave my house without makeup on, feeling truly comfortable with the fact, if I wanted to.

So I did. We went to our local, and had brunch. Without powder, without concealer, without a care. And I felt really, really beautiful.

So why am I writing this? Because it's not worth living a life of acne related pain and anguish. If you're not prone to depression, severe dermatitis, etc, and your doctor/dermatologist approves and recommends it, you should absolutely consider a serious medication. Obviously I'm not a doctor, so don't do anything without consulting one. But, as someone who was sick of teenage style skin, it has freed me.

Today. No makeup. No filter. No flash. Just smiles!

Don't live in skin misery. Chat to your doctor. It'll change everything. 

2015: The Year of Yes, The Year of Radical Self Love, The Year of Magical Thinking

On New Year's Eve 2014, I tore two pages out of my sparkly pink notebook. Those two pages had writing all over them: back, front, up the margins, all over every square centimetre of space, the things I wanted to let go of from 2014. I wrote that list whilst at a talk I attended with a treasured friend, as prompted by Gala Darling (the brains and beauty behind Radical Self Love).

Writing has always been a mission for me. Not academic writing - I absolutely love the stuff. I could write essays for days. Paragraphs with structure, quotes, evidence, footnotes - if it was bottled, I'd drink it by the gallon. Creative writing, personal writing, journaling - no. No no no. It's hard to be raw and real, when you follow a script, and are at the mercy of a director for your job. In a profession where I communicate other people's words, thoughts, and ideas, pouring out my own does not come naturally.

Gala had instructed us to, after we'd completed our list, burn it. Leave it in 2014. I've never been one to do things by specific dates or times - my diet doesn't start Monday, it starts the second I choose to start it. As someone with Herculean willpower, I start things when I want, and don't stop until I want to stop. This  ritual however, was an exception.

On December 31, in the afternoon, I lit my favourite candle, which was nearing the end of its flame-producing life, and ceremoniously burnt the pages. The pages that contained countless sentences and scrawlings, listing every transgression, every faux pas, every hurt, everything I hoped to leave in the dying hours of 2014.

The second those pages hit the flames, the relief was real. Whether a placebo effect, or otherwise, when those pages went up in smoke, I felt lighter. It truly felt like I'd said goodbye to all the shit that had gone down in 2014, and that I was creating a blank canvas for 2015.

That night, as my best friend and I, and all our friends, counted down the dwindling seconds of 2014, I could feel a change coming. Self-manifested? Quite possibly. A higher power? Likely. Whatever the reason, it was there. It still is here. And it's making me excited for a year to remember.

So, based on the light bulb that was the centre piece on the Sydney Harbour Bridge for New Year's, my manifesto for this year is The Year of Magical Thinking. Not getting caught up in the shit, and saying YES to the spectacular! Hell yeah!!

And then, sometimes, you are left breathless.