I’ve had problems with my skin for as long as I can remember.
Imagine you’re in a boat; the boat has a hole in it and so it’s filling up with water. You’re filling up a bucket and throwing water out the side of the boat. Bucket after bucket are thrown out as the despair rises. No matter how many buckets you throw, the boat keeps filling up.
That’s pretty much how adult acne feels. Helpless.
When I think about my skin in my twenties I can’t as much as glance at a photo and not flinch at the sight of how painful my face looked. Now in my thirties, I’m rightfully P.O’d that things haven’t calmed down. I eat well, I exercise, I cleanse and moisturise religiously and believe me when I say I’ve tried everything. Including:
• Ointments & creams
• Natural skin-care products
• Antibiotics
• The oil cleansing method
• Hospital grade body wash
• Oral contraception pill
• Herbal concoctions from a Chinese Medicine doctor
• Acupuncture
• Meditation
• Natural make-up
• Praying (I’m not technically religious, but thought I’d give it a shot)
• Vitamins & supplements
• Diet alterations (dairy free {even cheese gah!!}, gluten free, sugar free)
• Avoided caffeine and alcohol
• Endless doctor appointments and
• Blood tests
Literally nothing – nothing – and I mean nothing has ever worked. I’ve actually lost count of how many times I’ve said: “That’s it – I’ve had enough! This is my rock bottom!”
Some days can feel so debilitating. When your face hurts to the touch and the thought of slapping on more make-up inevitably rocks your self-esteem. I’m serious when I say my life dream is to not feel like I need to wear make-up. Way higher in my life priorities than getting married and buying a house.
My last “rock bottom” drew me to speak with a dermatologist. I was warned of the (hefty) price tag associated with the appointment, but I was also desperate. My G.P arranged the referral and the appointment was set, in three months time, the earliest I could get in.
In the months leading up to the appointment I fantasised about how it would go down. She would offer condolence for my pain, I’d get a prescription; take the miracle drug and Voila! A miracle!
What actually happened couldn’t be further from the miracle, and I’m sorry to tell you, I still have a sore face as I type this. This particular dermatologist, who will not be named, called my name from her clip board and asked me to follow her into the refrigerated office. I sat on the edge of a plastic chair with a facial expression that signalled both trepidation and hope.
The next fourteen minutes forced my close-mouthed smile to morph into a furrowed brow.
What happened next was depressing – she blurted out the words “hormonal” and “it’s the only option I recommend”. I asked more about her recommended drug: Accutane. I’d heard about it of course. I’m a poor-skin connoisseur, I’ve heard of everything.
