Here is a thing that you may not know about me. I hate my face. And not in a casual sort of way that is modest and attention-seeking. The self-hate for my face is real. Amid all my insecurities, from some of my unpleasant personality traits to my guilt of not working out enough (whoops!), my face, unfortunately (and quite shallowly) takes first place. Perhaps writing down this insecurity, taming it, and confining it to a series of paragraphs will help me see how senseless it is to fret so much about something, that, frankly, is irrelevant to my worth as a person, and how my obsessive insecurity might, ironically, make me a more irritable and spiteful person instead.
Ever since the age of twelve, I have had acne. You know, the usual teenager "T-zone" acne on the forehead, cheeks, chin, and occasional nose and neck. Except maybe a tad worse than the "usual." That means, for the past nine years of my life, I have woken up every single day being self-conscious. I don't know when it started exactly, but with the gradual slippage from perfect pre-puberty skin to not-so-perfect skin, I started to acquire some strange habits that I retain to this day.
If you do not know me well, you probably won't realize that I avoid mirrors. Especially in the light of day. Artificial light is worse than sunlight, actually. I'm like a vampire, I guess. I tend to stand a metre or so away from a mirror and I usually won't look at myself in the mirror unless I have already put on makeup. I like to leave the light off in the washroom (because it has a mirror) and normally avoid eye contact with myself if I am forced to, say, wash my hands and therefore tread closer to my gaze in a public washroom.
This oddity does not spring from nowhere, though. When my acne was decidedly worse, [what seems like] everyone, from distant family friends to Shoppers Drug Mart ladies (I'm here to buy some paper towel, leave me alone!) tried to force their clinical advice onto me. "Your face would be so nice and fair! If you JUST used this product/cleaned your face with koala leaves/prayed to the saints and sacrificed a sheep for a prettier face..." Even if I wanted to avoid the subject, the subject became a part of my daily life. Finally, I saw a dermatologist in the eleventh grade and my face got remarkably better, but I still get heavy breakouts from time to time (for example, now).
So, the odd habits remain with me. I have conquered so much: high school, almost my entire undergraduate degree. I have battled fights of love, of courage. Family issues and romance issues, being bummed about my grades and being on dean's list. Applying to grad school. Working various jobs. Moving. Writing my senior thesis. But the one constant, the one static, pesky insecurity remained daily throughout all these changes, because I can confidently say that there has not been a day in those years where I haven't looked at myself and been a little broken inside.
Everyone has their insecurities, I know. Height, weight, posture, hair or lack of, whatever. I know my skin isn't the worst it can be, but it irks me that it just isn't the best. Hating my face makes me a hypocrite. On the outside, I am a proud feminist. I help with social activism on campus. I help women feel better about themselves, I help them overcome pain, and I hope for a future where women aren't judged solely for their looks, because it isn't where one's worth and value springs. And I know all this! I know it well and have been versed in feminist rhetoric. But now you know, that secretly, I harbour the same feelings of feminine inadequacy that pervade a patriarchal society. I let my looks define me.
When I talk with my friends and peers, they all have insecurities of their own. I'm not trying to minimize anyone's concerns. But I admit that I am obsessed, addicted, even, with Benzaclin gel and tea tree moisturizers as my drugs. It makes me less of the person that I wish to be. No, not the acne. Benzaclin won't cure my insecurity, because I know my face will never be perfect. My insecurity itself holds me back. "Do unto others as you would have done to you..." Well, sometimes, what you do to yourself is what you do to others. If I am critical of myself, I am envious of others, and this makes me a more shallow and rigid person. If you are angry at yourself, you will release your anger on others. This problem is so much more than skin deep. Perhaps I have been falsely comforting myself by telling myself that an over the counter drug can expand my philosophy on life.
Now that my insecurity has been released onto the internet, regardless if anyone reads it, I can sleep well. A gigantic boulder has been lifted off my back. When others tell me of their physical insecurities, I literally do not notice them, because they are a part of who they are. They are what make you unique and beautiful. One day I'll stand in front of the mirror and tell myself that. It will be the day when I will truly begin to love.
Ever since the age of twelve, I have had acne. You know, the usual teenager "T-zone" acne on the forehead, cheeks, chin, and occasional nose and neck. Except maybe a tad worse than the "usual." That means, for the past nine years of my life, I have woken up every single day being self-conscious. I don't know when it started exactly, but with the gradual slippage from perfect pre-puberty skin to not-so-perfect skin, I started to acquire some strange habits that I retain to this day.
If you do not know me well, you probably won't realize that I avoid mirrors. Especially in the light of day. Artificial light is worse than sunlight, actually. I'm like a vampire, I guess. I tend to stand a metre or so away from a mirror and I usually won't look at myself in the mirror unless I have already put on makeup. I like to leave the light off in the washroom (because it has a mirror) and normally avoid eye contact with myself if I am forced to, say, wash my hands and therefore tread closer to my gaze in a public washroom.
This oddity does not spring from nowhere, though. When my acne was decidedly worse, [what seems like] everyone, from distant family friends to Shoppers Drug Mart ladies (I'm here to buy some paper towel, leave me alone!) tried to force their clinical advice onto me. "Your face would be so nice and fair! If you JUST used this product/cleaned your face with koala leaves/prayed to the saints and sacrificed a sheep for a prettier face..." Even if I wanted to avoid the subject, the subject became a part of my daily life. Finally, I saw a dermatologist in the eleventh grade and my face got remarkably better, but I still get heavy breakouts from time to time (for example, now).
So, the odd habits remain with me. I have conquered so much: high school, almost my entire undergraduate degree. I have battled fights of love, of courage. Family issues and romance issues, being bummed about my grades and being on dean's list. Applying to grad school. Working various jobs. Moving. Writing my senior thesis. But the one constant, the one static, pesky insecurity remained daily throughout all these changes, because I can confidently say that there has not been a day in those years where I haven't looked at myself and been a little broken inside.
Everyone has their insecurities, I know. Height, weight, posture, hair or lack of, whatever. I know my skin isn't the worst it can be, but it irks me that it just isn't the best. Hating my face makes me a hypocrite. On the outside, I am a proud feminist. I help with social activism on campus. I help women feel better about themselves, I help them overcome pain, and I hope for a future where women aren't judged solely for their looks, because it isn't where one's worth and value springs. And I know all this! I know it well and have been versed in feminist rhetoric. But now you know, that secretly, I harbour the same feelings of feminine inadequacy that pervade a patriarchal society. I let my looks define me.
When I talk with my friends and peers, they all have insecurities of their own. I'm not trying to minimize anyone's concerns. But I admit that I am obsessed, addicted, even, with Benzaclin gel and tea tree moisturizers as my drugs. It makes me less of the person that I wish to be. No, not the acne. Benzaclin won't cure my insecurity, because I know my face will never be perfect. My insecurity itself holds me back. "Do unto others as you would have done to you..." Well, sometimes, what you do to yourself is what you do to others. If I am critical of myself, I am envious of others, and this makes me a more shallow and rigid person. If you are angry at yourself, you will release your anger on others. This problem is so much more than skin deep. Perhaps I have been falsely comforting myself by telling myself that an over the counter drug can expand my philosophy on life.
Now that my insecurity has been released onto the internet, regardless if anyone reads it, I can sleep well. A gigantic boulder has been lifted off my back. When others tell me of their physical insecurities, I literally do not notice them, because they are a part of who they are. They are what make you unique and beautiful. One day I'll stand in front of the mirror and tell myself that. It will be the day when I will truly begin to love.
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