Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, But Pimples Hurt Worse

I choose my pajamas carefully. Do I want cute PJs with designs on them? Or do I want mildly sexy ones, the cute little short shorts with the matching tank, all lined in lace. Or maybe I should go for the sweatpants and t shirt. They're easy, comfy, and they match my mood perfectly. I end up carefully taking my folded sweatpants and t shirt from my dresser before easing it shut. I take care of my things.

Walking across the hall to my bathroom, the carpet hugs my feet. Showers are great. Especially when I get to shave my legs. For some weird reason, I enjoy that part of my showers the best. Humming as I set up my pajamas and dig up my body wish, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I stop humming. 

The red bumps on my skin are clearly visible in the mirror. As I turn my head, they just get worse closer to my hairline. There are even pimples in my eyebrows. Plucking my brows can sometimes be more painful than people think. The area between my nose and my lip has broken out, creating a lovely mustache of acne. 

When I talk to friends online, ones on YWS, we usually end up trading pictures. Nobody believes me when I tell them about my acne. With a dash of makeup, the right lighting and the right color saturation, I can make my skin look almost completely clear. I'm a teenage girl and an artist. My age and talent just help me conceal the little red bumps that draw stares from others and pain from my skin.

Staring in the mirror, I take off my shirt and examine them. They cover my chest. They used to only extend as far as the line of my shirt. But now they're creeping down, down towards the line of my bra and in between my breasts. And then I see a rash on my stomach. The tears are welling up in my eyes, my irrational senses are taking over. I can't tell that they're not pimples, just a rash. So of course, like every hormonal teenage girl on the planet, I begin to cry.

The salt streaks down my face when I get undressed and in the shower. When I reach around to scratch an itch on my back, I wince when my fingernails scrape over the zits that plague my epidermis. It sucks when my parents try to itch or rub my back to comfort me, yet all they manage to do is cause me more pain. 

With more force than necessary, I lather my legs in shaving cream and scrape the razor over my skin. I'm going to pay for that later, the razor burn will sear my legs unless I put on four layers of lotion. I just want this shower to be over with. My sobs are broken and I sound like I'm hyperventilating. Like I'm gasping for breath because the acne won't stop suffocating me. 

Once I'm done with my legs, I wash my body. Then my hair, then my face. I've used so many acne soaps, topical creams, moisturizers and pills. None of them work. Eventually, I told my Mom to stop wasting money on dermatologist appointments. I told her I wasn't going to try any more crazy acne treatments. We spent over $300 a year for my acne treatments. I've had acne for almost four years. After my Dad got laid off, I insisted we couldn't afford it. I just needed to woman up and love myself.

And I did learn. I haven't cried or complained about my acne for months. It gets worse. Sometimes it's painful for me to smile. Sometime's it's painful for me to move my face at all. I've been so proud of myself for keeping such a good attitude about it. But for some reason, the pain overwhelms me. I just keep thinking, Is this all I'm meant to be? A giant zit? What happens when it's time for prom? What about when I get married? I imagine looking back on photos plagued with acne. I can't even imagine an adulthood without acne, or acne scars. Will I have acne then? What if no man ever wants me? What if nobody can ever see through my zits? Now, men care about a pretty face more than a pretty soul. So what happens if nobody can learn to love my face, or my soul? 

Then I get out and wrap a towel around me, still crying. My sniffles are audible when I put on my pjs and cross the hallway to my bedroom. After shutting the door, I collapse on my bed. I think of the stares I've gotten. The merciless teasing from kids at school. The immortal comments they make that have stayed with me over the years. Your face looks like it has herpes on it. That's the worst I've gotten. But even worse than that, are the people I actually care about. 

I love kids. I teach Awana at my church every Wednesday night (year round vacation bible school). I love the kids I teach more than almost anybody in the whole wide world. I remember one time when I had Gavin on my lap, I was reading to him. Gavin is about five years old. He looked up suddenly and his big, intelligent brown eyes widened. At first, I was worried. He pointed to my face.

"Why do you have boo boos on your face?" he looked genuinely concerned. He was, Gavin is always concerned about others. He has such a big heart, and right then, my heart broke. 

I've talked to girls at school about it. Girls who have the baby pimples around their hairline that aren't even red. Girls with a few blackheads on their cheeks or a zit on their chin that lasts about a week. I listen to them talk in the bathroom. Their acne will last a year. Maybe two, and it's not even visible. If it is, it goes away in a week. Me? Even if my acne does go away, I'll always have the scars. It's already beginning to scar. 

People with clear skin and sometimes adults in general just don't get it. They don't remember. I've talked to adults about it. I hear the same thing every time. "You're a teenager, it'll go away. I'm sure it'll clear up." or "It's just hormones, it won't last forever." They don't understand. I'll always have the scars. Even if my acne does go away, I'll always remember. I'll always have problems. I'll always remember the way other kids bullied me because I'm ugly. Because of the pimples on my face or the extra few pounds I just can't seem to lose no matter what I try. I'll never forget the way people looked at me or how the guys in middle school would ask me out as a joke.

Part of me is glad I have acne. I know how to accept people for what they look like. I know how to see past a face. I know that adults who say "get over it" are not worth my time. And above all, I learned the most important lesson anybody could ever learn.

While being ugly sucks, I'd much rather have an ugly face than an ugly soul.