Acne

I used to have bad skin. Like, really bad. Not as bad as some, but it did have an impact on my physical and emotional health.

I couldn’t shave because my jaw was covered in pimples.

There were days it physically hurt to talk.

I couldn’t go out in the sun because the UV would fry me to a crisp.

I went through all the steps to try and curtail the outbreaks. Tea tree oil, cucumber, Clearasil, pHisohex, Benzac, PanOxyl (I can still smell the earthen, toothpastey stench), minomycin, doxycycline, just to name a few. Finally, and eventually I went on Roaccutane.

Now, Roaccutane has a bad name – but for me it was a boon. I was told that my skin would get worse before it got better and that this was a natural occurrence. By this stage I was willing to try anything. How much worse could it get? I felt like my body was Lisa’s science fair experiment where she creates the mini universe in a tub. But instead of highly developed beings, mine was full of purulent, oily zits.

There was one particularly bad day where I was so bloody sick of having a batch of buttery pustules casing my right cheek. Look, I’m not saying this was my smartest move, but the science seemed to work in my head.

I was in front of the mirror in the bathroom having a good ol’ session traumatising my already traumatised skin, excavating blackheads and digging whiteheads. While searching the cupboard for a tissue/cotton bud/cotton ball/anything to soak up the bloodied, pimply discharge dotted around my face, I happened across a bottle of Dettol. Now, I had used Dettol in the past to disinfect and sanitise cuts and abrasions and I thought the application of a Chloroxylenol-based product would cleanse the skin and disrupt the production of the enzymes that were hell bent on ruining my life.

I began with wiping the Dettol across the face with a tissue but knew deep down that this would do nothing. In order to loosen whatever was underneath the skin I would have to hold the bottle to the area for an extended period of time. Three seconds? Nah. Five seconds. Absolutely not. Until you feel a severe burning sensation? You betcha.

I removed the bottle and knew on the double that I had done wrong. A fierce, red circle of wounded flesh with an already bubbling blister was now adorning my face. Fun, hey?

I spent the next day shopping for birthday presents with my best friends in Chadstone and held a hand to my cheek to attempt to conceal the embarrassment of my actions.

After the acne started to die down, everything started to dry out. I was going through paw paw ointment like there was no tomorrow, QV moisturiser was my best mate, and I was introduced to the wonder that is nose oil. I suffered persistent blood noses, but this was a side effect of the treatment. I could endure a couple of blood noses, cracked lips and achy joints for perfect skin.

In my final year school, I was fully committed to Drama and making my solo performance the best that it could be. Months of researching, brainstorming, improvising, scripting, editing, rehearsing and refining (VCE Drama playmaking techniques, anyone?) had gone into this one assessment. Mum even made me a pair of royal purple tights.

As I entered the examination room I began to sniff as I had so often done in the months preceding. I paced the space, worked out the acoustics, had a bit of a jump around and continued to sniff. The assessors were ready, and I took my place in the back of the space, all the while continuing to sniff.

My first line was delivered… “One immortal, flung fast in a world of beings, in Stratford-upon-Avon where we lay our scene.” How do I remember something that happened over 14 years ago? Some people would call it an unhealthy attachment to the past, I like to call it wistful reminiscence.

Sniff.

Sniff.

Shit.

I knew this feeling all too well. A tepid trickle, an indifferent dribble, a fucking blood nose. Are you kidding me? For the remainder of the 7-minute solo performance (timed to almost-perfection) I continued to snort up the blood. Now, I’d like to think I did it subtly, but also making the assessors think I’d really thought about my options and given the characters some sort of cute sniffing idiosyncrasy.

I finished the theatrical marvel by rubbing off the white makeup mask to symbolically reveal the character’s “inner self”, cupped my hands beneath my nose and recited the final line, “what’s in a name?” Then I let the floodgates open. Blood poured violently from my nostrils in a tidal wave that rivalled that time I did a good bomb in the Wonthaggi Primary School pool. Ok, it didn’t. But it was completely noticeable, and they asked if I was ok. I was. I rushed out of the room and straight to my teacher. The white makeup from my mask had mixed with my sweat and blood and I was just a right old walking mess of a 17-year-old. #trauma

Anyway, I’m not glad I had acne, but I think it taught me a few things about loving yourself. And it’s probably completely inappropriate, but when I meet someone with great skin, I usually stare with great admiration. I told someone a few months ago that they were “luminous”.

Another fun and brief anecdote was that of the inquisitive student who asked if a scar on my face was due to being in a fight. No, hun. Just some gentle acne scarring. What a laugh.

Note: Photos on the left were taken about two months into treatment, photos on the right are at the end of the treatment. I blame not having a jawline on the swelling/puberty and not on second dinner four times a week...