Acne is a problem that many, if not most, people have to tackle at some point in their lives. Acne presented its glorious, inflamed, and recurring self to me when I was in sixth grade. I’m only sure of that specific time because I have looked back on incredibly frizzy-haired and pimple-featuring Facebook pictures from my 12th birthday party, which I cannot convince a friend to take down. My battle with zits and cysts was humiliating, but it existed initially in what was only in a matter of immature self-deprecation. No one I knew ever pointed it out, and I wasn’t bullied. But I was, without a doubt, impressively ashamed.

However, my worst insecurities concerning my skin were not aroused during this early pubescent season. While I was suffering as a pre-pre-teen with my untouchable, painful forehead, none of my friends had begun suffering through theirs, so my fight was for the most part a private affair. I didn’t dare complain to anyone, because that would draw attention to the areas where I’d applied copious amounts of cakey foundation in an effort to maintain normality. My first meaningful pitfalls of self-doubt occurred when my friends, two or three years later, finally began to receive their own, personalized onsets of acne.

It was when my porcelain-skinned friend complained endlessly about the one or two pimples she got a month, while constantly adjusting her side-bangs to make sure they were completely covered. It was when my very tan friend went into the school bathroom at lunch to pop a small zit, leaving behind no trace, when I knew a similar effort on my part would leave not only a raised red mountain for the rest of the day, but a long-lasting scar. It was when we started to watch TeenNick instead of Nick Cartoons, and those friends would shriek “EW!” then quickly change the channel when Proactiv commercials aired, showcasing raw “before” cases of older teens, whose skin looked just like mine. I made the mistake of asking why a friend changed the channel the first time this happened.

“It’s gross. I don’t want to see that.”
She didn’t have to wear face makeup to hide her own acne. But if I didn’t, that sore skin in the gross commercial was the best I could honestly hope for.

My friend’s zit-talk did nothing but marginalize my problem. I was clearly doing something wrong, to have this skin. It wasn’t that mine was worse, I just wasn’t taking care of myself.

Of course no one ever said these things, but I filled my head with ongoing varieties of stupid suspicions. What they did say was poignant only in subtlety. Their words felt like targeted pain, but were doled out without second thought.
“Why aren’t you putting your head in the water?”
“I… I want to keep my hair dry!”

“Come on, Cordelia, just swim! Stop making such a big deal.”
These girls didn’t understand that if I let any water touch my face, it meant running out of the pool, pulling my hair down to fall Cousin It-style all over my face, until I could grab my bag and lock myself in a bathroom to check and re-apply cover-up.

Now, as a junior in highschool, I have several prescriptions for my skin, and I believe that I’ll have to continue to maintain them until my 30s, if not my 40s. Watching my older sister and mother age has taught me, very clearly, that this is going to be a lifelong issue, not a coming-of-age, temporary, typical middle-school experience. As everyone does, I’ve grown to learn the best methods of dealing with my skin, and when all fails, I’ve built a foundation of “whatever, I don’t care” confidence to tackle my days with brazen,  blemished skin. It’s not an everyday insecurity anymore. But my years of acne have highlighted a very interesting concept to me, of bizarre self-importance in one’s most personally significant issues. Having a flaw that is different from all of the rest of the world is hard, but happening to have a larger dose of a flaw everyone else also has can cast a bigger shadow on your confidence. For me, having worse-than-average skin in a sea of peers complaining about blackheads (which are, for everyone’s information, NOT NOTICEABLE) made me want to fade into oblivion.

For instance, my younger years have made me careful, now, in how I will try to console someone else in an instance of unhappiness. I focus on them as a significant, specific individual. I am careful not to compare anyone to another’s “similar experience.” To generalize, and normalize, someone’s personal source of insecurity, is for some reason considered to be valid encouragement. You think you’re fat? Don’t worry, everyone is insecure about their weight. You think you have bad skin? It’s not that bad, everyone has acne. You’re depressed? It’ll be okay, everyone gets sad sometimes. Power through it. If they can do it, you can.

I’m not saying this method is always unsuccessful, but there is undeniably an overuse of misery-loves-company. More often than not, when I’ve been handed this response, my thought isn’t, “If they can be strong, I can be strong!” but instead, “Why can everyone be strong, but me?”

It’s like studying hard and failing a test that everyone in the class agreed was difficult, while the rest then received grades in the 80s or 90s. Then, when you’re upset about this, repetitively being bombarded by the fact that it’s fine, because really, seriously, don’t worry, you’re not alone, please remember that everyone else thought that it was hard, too.  Please remember that everyone had your problem, but you’re the only one who failed.

This negotiated sympathy has never left me inspired for my own change. Maybe one day I’ll be able to channel self-pity into self-worth, and disparity into motivation. But for now, when my conflicts weigh much deeper than acne, my not-so-distant, clinging, lonely 13-year-old self still continues to be unintentionally hurt, again and again, by those who could only be so lucky to have the diluted insecurities that I mirrors in apparently inexpressible full strength. I just can’t find my makeup anymore.