I’m sitting across the table from you, eating dinner. The food is good, the company is good, but all that’s on my mind is my skin. Do you notice it? Do you think it looks awful? Can you see past it? Maybe it’s true what they say: nobody notices as much as I do. I am my own worst critic.
When we go home we get ready for bed. You go into the bathroom first and get into bed first, I insist. I need to make sure you are in bed and the light is out before I can take off my mask of makeup. Under the cover of darkness, I can lie with you face to face and talk freely. You are so kind and understanding, but this is something I’d prefer to keep hidden from everyone, including you.
I wake up in the morning and look in the mirror. Have the miracle-promising potions made it all go away? No, they have not. After 15 years, I should know better. My face has even welcomed a few more on board. Time to cover up. I cannot remember the last time I ventured outdoors in public without makeup, except for early morning runs and dog walks.
I visit the doctor, again. I am supposed to be a solicitor, I tell her. People don’t want somebody with acne fighting their case in court. She laughs at this. She thinks it is funny. I smile politely but persist. She gives me some tablets: risk of blood clots, risk of depression, come back in three months, if I am still fussing about this little problem.
I am back with you, and we are in the car. I am feeling OK; maybe things are not so bad. Then you look at me and casually comment that my skin isn’t looking so great. My heart is breaking, but I agree, and we drive on.
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