by NATALIA HAWK
I used to have seriously terrible skin.
I’m not talking about having one or two pimples. I’m talking a whole colony of the ugly little things that invaded my t-zone and made me look like Harry Potter’s Dobby going through puberty.
It’s the sort of thing we say when we’re trying for dramatic effect but as a teenager, I actually did spend nights lying awake and imagining how much better my life would be if I just had NICE SKIN.
I’d have enough confidence to be able to take Joel up on his offer of a date. And talk to my friends without worrying that they were thinking about my pimples rather than listening to what I was saying.
I know that compared to many, many other things, pimples are a first world problem. But they are an embarrassing problem that had serious consequences on my self-esteem as a teenager.
For two years of my life I made it a rule to avoid general eye contact. That’s not really a great way to live.
And I tried everything to clear up my skin. I sampled about a thousand different products over the years, including a weird industrial-strength cream that discoloured half of my clothes. I stopped eating chocolate, which for me was kind of like the equivalent of a fish giving up water. I changed my pillowcases every day. I didn’t squeeze. Then I did squeeze. Then I got scars.