I have been pretty open in my posts here, acknowledging my insecurities with my weight, difficulties with making lasting connections among my peers, doubts about my aspirations and abilities, and my ever-present fear of the unknown. There is one aspect of my life I have not spoken of at all, however, and it is arguably the aspect that has affected me the most, from self-esteem to decision-making to my personality.

I have acne. As a 25-year-old. And have had it since I was nine. It may seem dramatic to dedicate an entire post about it, because it is accepted as an unfortunate but common occurrence that many people experience as they go through puberty, but it has affected me nearly every day for the past 16 years.

When my acne first made it’s appearance in the fourth grade, many of my classmates didn’t even know of it’s existence yet, causing a group of them to ask me one day if I had been attacked my mosquitoes. Inquiries such as this, along with not seeing anyone else with acne made me feel like I was infected and “other”, spawning a sense of alienation from my peers and a completely crippled self-esteem, both of which have still left a residue to this day.

As I entered my pre-teen/teenage years, my acne waged a winning battle against my skin. Whether it be large, painful pustules or small, flaky, red blemishes, my face was almost entirely covered. I would cry at night, trying to remember a time that I could have touched even a square-inch of my face without feeling bumps.

This deep-seated hatred and disgust with my acne spurned an unfortunate, counter-intuitive habit; picking at my skin. Even though I logically knew that picking would lead to scabs, more acne, and even scars, I couldn’t stop. I could feel each individual blemish, some of them painful, others pulling my skin taught with their dryness. Each and every one of them offended me so deeply, robbing me of my peace of mind, my self-worth and even my dreams.

I’ve had a passion for acting since I was fairly young, and while in Middle school, I felt an almost prophetic feeling that it was what I was meant for. But I ignored these feelings, because how could I possibly bare my soul (and face) to a whole audience, when I could hardly stand to make eye-contact with a single person, convinced they were fixating on my acne?

In 7th grade I went to a new dermatologist, hoping to find a respite, since nothing over the counter seemed to work. He instantly told my parents that I needed to go on Acutane, a potentially harmful and permanently damaging drug. My only hesitation was over the required monthly blood tests to make sure my kidneys weren’t failing, because I hate needles. My parents, on the other hand, were nervous because it sometimes can cause suicidal tendencies, and I had already struggled off and on with depression (although I didn’t know they knew this at the time).

I despaired over having every inch of my face covered in acne for another second, let alone the rest of my teenage years, so my parents agreed to put me on the toxic drug. Within a month of taking it, I had to hold an ice cube to my mouth every morning to ease my cracked lips apart. My angry, red hands looks like they belonged to Freddy Krueger, every pore visible from cracking and splitting. Because of these side-effects, I decided to stop taking Acutane at the six month mark, instead of taking it for the whole nine months.

To this day, I still question whether I should have kept taking it, even after hearing of all the class action lawsuits for side-effects of infertility, Crohn’s disease, and other gastrointestinal issues. Who knows though? The payoff may not have been worth it, considering I was so sensitive to the drug only a month in. Either way, here I am, 12 years later and well into my adulthood, still suffering from acne.

Having acne as an adult gives me an unpleasant sense of deja’vu, in which I am once again the only person with acne covering her face. Sure, a couple of my friends will complain of a pimple here and there, but whether it be my acting class or a backyard bbq, I am the only one with acne.

I went through a period of time, leading up to my sister’s wedding in May, in which my on-going fear of wedding guests noticing my acne was so prominent in my mind that I was able to stop myself before my habit of unintentional self-mutilation took over. This, along with my hormones taking pity on me and not wreaking havoc on my face, allowed me to have relatively clear skin day-of, something I was profusely grateful for. Unfortunately, it would seem that once the adrenaline of wedding activities left my system, all of the built up stress, along with my being unhappy with turns my life had taken, caught up to me, bringing on a vicious break-out that has taken up residence on my face ever since.

Without consciously intending to, I have provided fuel to my current predicament, as break-outs plus being unfulfilled have resurrected my bad habit, further damaging my confidence as I now feel shame over my actions along with disgust toward my features.

In typical Candace fashion, I had to hit a sort of self-esteem “rock bottom” to finally gain clarity. Months ago, I had a huge break-through in regards to body image and the pursuit of self-improvement. I wrote about how, for the first time, I was approaching fitness from a place of love, not a place of shame or self-loathing. I had to learn to love myself as I was, cellulite, stretch marks and all, before I could successfully achieve a healthier lifestyle. No longer were my workouts or meals developed as a response to hating my body, or trying to be “good enough”. Instead, they fed my already existing confidence and self-worth. I deserved to love myself.

Somehow, I have lost sight of that in recent months in relation to my skin. Of course, I shouldn’t be that caught off guard, as it’s difficult to love someone when you can hardly bare the sight of them. The issue of acne as it pertains to my confidence and self-esteem is significantly different and infinitely more damaging than the issue of weight, as I have a certain level of control over my weight. My body had never been built to be skinny, and it clings to every gram of fat with an iron-grip, but I don’t have a condition preventing me from being fit. If I eat moderately healthy the majority of the time, and exercise regularly, I am perfectly capable of being fit and healthy.

My skin is not so accommodating to my wishes and efforts. Even when I do effectively shackle my bad habit and (as I always do) wash my face daily, apply expensive acne medication, and apply expensive sulfur masks multiple times a week, my skin still is subject to the whims of the acne goblins. Every once in a while, I may get to enjoy only having 5 or 6 pimples, but without fail, there will be times like now, in which I have upwards of 20 pimples. I then spiral into this vicious circle of hating my skin/face, which then cripples my self esteem and subsequently contributes to my habit breaking free, as I want to peel these offensive blemishes from my face, never to be seen again.

This toxic level of disgust for my own face affects every aspect of my life. I have avoided social outings because I don’t want my friends to notice how bad my skin is. I find myself avoiding prolonged eye-contact and conversations (both of which I am normally an avid participant) because that involves people looking at my face. I sometimes wonder if I am offending whoever I am talking to by coming off as uninterested or antisocial, but still can’t seem to force my normally outgoing and talkative self to make an appearance.

It was just today, after another awesome work-out with my boot-camp group Training For Life, that I reflected on how much my body image has changed in recent months, and connecting that with my acne struggles. I may have to deal with acne for years to come, and allowing my acne to hijack my self-esteem and crash it into the ground is only going to provide it more fuel, while bringing my artistic productivity to a halt. Whenever I have particularly bad break-outs, I stop submitting for roles and, most recently, have allowed all my nice, new filming equipment sit, neglected as I wait for my skin to clear up.

Why isn’t having bad skin treated like struggling with weight? Why aren’t there people in the media/on the internet promoting self-love and “owning” your skin, regardless of how blemished it may be. Sure, there are inspirational quotes about loving your imperfections as the things that make you unique, but having blemishes all over your face isn’t the same as having a prominent nose or freckles. It is a parasite that is trying to over-take and upstage your face.

This is why I have an issue with the quote “Beauty is only skin deep.” I understand the intended sentiment; it is saying that beauty is not important in the scheme of things. And maybe it isn’t. But this quote has another, unintended message that surely is most clearly heard by people with bad skin, “Beauty is skin deep, so if you have bad skin, you can’t be beautiful.” So, while I have come to a point where I can feel sexy and confident in my body, despite it not at all resembling the idealization of beauty, I do not feel the same about my skin. And why should I? When people slather pancake batter on their faces and spend upwards of an hour applying layer after layer of make-up, while showing you “How to cover up your acne, and bring out your true beauty.”

Why can’t bad skin be treated like not having the ideal body type, in which we are encouraged to wear it proudly? While this is certainly not a prevalent message in the media or on social media (#nomakeup challenges regularly taken on by women who have enviably clear skin need not apply), for my own well-being and for the sake of my being able to finally pursue life, no holds barred, I need to approach it this way. I need to accept that I still have acne, and not hide it in shame from everyone, thereby hiding my own face, and stifling the conduit of my connections with the world and people around me.

I need to stop being ashamed of my face, so that I can finally turn it toward the sun and put the shadows behind me.

#nomakeup #noshame

Until next time,

Candace