An Ode to Adult Acne
Thoughts on having a body.
TW: Discussions of weight + body + eating - if that’s not for you. No hassle. Mind yourself. I’ll catch you next week x
I always wanted acne. Growing up the marred cheeks, pink pustules and roaccutane rogue on the chins and cheeks of teenagers seemed so glamorous. I wanted those petal-like pimples to grace my prepubescent cheeks. For my skin to be sore to the touch.
At twenty-five, acne doesn’t feel so glamorous. As much as I scrub, rub, moisturise and beg, these nasty little mounds won’t budge. Although my acne has never been the catalyst of my self-hatred, these blistering red lumps under my skin feel like the puss filled cherries on top. The final straw. It feels as though the spots that pillage my chin physically brand me a failure. A failure in looks and in life. For as long as I can remember, however, to me a failure in looks always meant a failure in life.
We are all aware of our bodies. Some more than others. Along with an awareness, however, some of us experience a deep shame. In fact, I would argue that most of us do. If we didn't, One Calorie Cooking Spray wouldn’t exist. I really don’t like my body. In fact most days I am pretty repulsed by it. By the way it sits, rolls and protrudes from clothes that I have specifically chosen to make it not sit, roll and protrude from. Instead of having a body, I feel like I am wearing a suit from a charity shop. This suit is ill-fitting, tailored for someone else and smelly. It has sagging shoulders and too big a waist. The material; worn through, pilling and discoloured.
I cannot remember a time when I haven’t thought about my body, yet I have never felt much of a closeness to it. I feel it has been a separate entity to me my entire life. As though I am the owner of an ugly and lethargic dog or the landlord of an unkempt corner of bogland. It has acted as many characters in my life. The ugly step-sister, the thief of joy, the beast and the bully. Always an acquaintance but never a friend. It has been the litmus test for how I believe others should treat me and for how I should treat myself. I remember every situation and interaction of importance in my life through my shape, my size, my weight, what I did and did not eat, what I did and did not wear. What jeans fit and what skirts didn’t. My body, weight and relationship with the two acting as notches on the timeline of my life.
At seven, Múinteoir Deirdre weighs everyone in the class. I pretend to be sick so I can go home. The same year my friends and I discussed what our Mums did and didn't eat. Rebecca’s Mum never eats in front of other people. Lena’s Mum doesn’t eat potatoes, pasta or rice. At nine, I practice sitting down in my swimming togs in my bedroom the night before school swimming lessons. Conscious to keep my legs constantly lifted as when I place them down my bare thighs expand rapidly. At fourteen I know the calories in each chocolate bar in the school shop. Every night I do Blogilates videos on the floor of my bedroom in the dark. I count the amount of calories I burn in fictional chocolate bars. On a good day, one and a half Mars bars. On a bad day a humble Kinder Bueno. I stuff my bra with toilet paper at fifteen. I am convinced that larger breasts correlate to a high IQ, quicker wit and a more magnetic energy. I go to my friend's eighteenth birthday and cry everytime I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m talking to a guy, we’re twenty and our arms are touching. His friend stumbles over and not so quietly whispers that he “can do so much better”. For a week after, I move the food on my plate from left to right, then right to left, mash each element until it is sludge, too gooey to consume. I am twenty-five and the woman who has just painted my nails asks if she can massage my hands and arms. I refuse. I do not want them to touch any part of me that jiggles.
I have forgotten so many things in my life; friends' birthdays, my parents' wedding anniversaries and job interviews. Yet I can remember every group photo that I have hidden behind others. Every time I squashed my napkin on a plate of unfinished food to force myself not to eat more. Every time a weight-loss YouTube video pops up on my timeline and I Google how to block them. Every single one. My body has kept the score.
As I have grown older I feel as though my relationship with my body has become more distant, however, I have never felt so consumed by it. When I was younger I knew I had a body and the body was the issue. Now, however, I am far more conscious of each element of my body. I am aware of my hips, my bum (or therefore lack of) and how my hair, face, teeth and every other element of my physical being should and should not look.
There are now two additional elements that are key in my adult body routine; maintenance and apologising for my lack of maintenance. As I have grown older I have more money to buy more things to make me look more beautiful. More money to buy lotions and potions that enhance things that I should like or should I say, counteract something that I should hate. Skincare, clothes, make-up, tan, haircuts, highlights, eyebrow waxes, Brazilian waxes, Hollywood waxes, manicures, pedicures and anything and everything in between. I feel as though I should be able to look good all the time but the reality is I still feel as ugly, stupid and fat as I did at fifteen.
My hairdresser once asked why I always apologised. “I’m so sorry my roots are so bad”, “I’m so sorry my hair isn’t washed”, “I’m so sorry I didn’t get a chance to brush it before”. The worst part was, I had never even noticed I was doing it. Once I realised it in one area I could not unsee it. “I’m sorry I haven't gotten my eyebrows waxed in two years”, “I'm sorry my moustache is particularly pronounced”, “ya I’m sorry I haven't had a bikini wax in a while”, “I’m sorry I shave”, “I’m sorry I don’t shave” and “sorry I don’t fit into these pants”. I’m sorry I’m not pruned and plucked to perfection, that my eyebrows are sisters and not twins, that kitchen pickers wear bigger knickers, that a moment on my lips is now forever on my hips and that I have tasted everything so I do not know how skinny feels.
If my body is a temple, it’s one that has been pillaged, ransacked and is now dilapidated and derelict. It has been pawed at, stared at and groped by uninvited tourists who are ultimately disappointed by what they came to see. Who am I apologising to? Why am I apologising at all? Why do I feel so sorry for other people who have to witness me, see me for me? Why am I not only at war with the way I see myself and my body but also the way others do too? What I am really saying when I apologise is; I’m sorry. I am so so sorry that I take up space, that you could be looking at anyone else in the world and yet you are looking at me.
Huge, hairy, haggard, hulking me.
Although I have trained myself to hate my body. To connect my self-worth and self-respect with my jean and portion size, there are times when a voice reminds me how lucky I am for my body. In these moments it’s the things I haven’t been trained to like about myself I often like the most. I feel so lucky that I can yawn first thing every morning. Stretch each fragment of my body in opposite directions. My lumpy and bumpy body can run, jump over puddles and bumps gently off those around me on dark and sweaty dance-floors. I can wrap my arms around my friends. Who tuck me up within their love and their laughter. I can feel the throbbing pain in my uterus as I bleed. My body has fit into those I have loved as we sleep. Limbs, minds and hearts intertwined. I have kissed some of the most beautiful people in the world with my lips. I have felt my heart soar when a friend has told me they have thought about me, missed me, that they love me. I can wash my teeth and brush my face and stare back at myself in the mirror. Toothpaste coating my lips and skin shining, squeaky clean, luminous from moisturiser and love. How lucky am I to laugh? Laugh so loudly it bellows around a crowded Subway station with tears streaming down my face. To have hands that look exactly like my Dads. Square with deep and splintering life lines wedged within the fatty tissue.
As you can probably tell by this piece, I think about beauty a lot. I ponder if I will ever be or feel beautiful or attractive. To me, attractiveness and beauty are two different things. Attractiveness is easier to spot. It is what we are told is beautiful. Beauty is what we feel is beautiful, it is in the eye of the beholder. It is not one thing that makes someone beautiful, it is all of their little quirks, intricacies and tales that weave into something that you can never put your finger on. Something that shines so brightly in their smile, the way they hold themselves and the life you have lived together you want to kiss their soft cheeks.
I believe that beauty is almost impossible to see within oneself because beauty is inextricably linked to love. When you fall in love you lose control. You can’t eat or sleep or do anything without thinking about them. You want to be near them, share things with them and spend every waking minute stroking each tiny tender hair on their body. To love oneself is the hardest thing in the world to do as we have been trained to control ourselves and our bodies. To hold our tongue, smile on command and measure our food to the milligram. Maybe to see the beauty in oneself we must relinquish this control. We must replace the white knuckled grip that dictates whether we smile with or without teeth, the clothes we keep but don’t still fit into and the angle at which we contort our bodies with feeling untethered.
I want to be able to conclude this piece for you. To wrap it in pink crepe paper and a velvet bow. I want to say “in conclusion, a body is a body and a body is beautiful”. I want to make you feel comfortable by telling you that I am comfortable. The reality is that I am not, yet. Maybe I cannot conclude this piece for you but I can tell you what I hope for.
I hope for peace with my body. Not a size, a number, a letter, a shape or a fruit. I hope for a ceasefire in the war I am fighting with my body. Even for a moment. Where the bombs do not drop and the bullets do not fly. When I put down my weapons. Moments where I can see beyond the suit, the armour and the shield of my enemy. Moments when I can see the person. Together we are underneath the same sky, fighting a war that neither of us started yet we continue. I hope for there to be moments of stillness and softness that allow me to return home. To a body, that has never felt like it. To remind myself that my home is mine. Mine to do what I please with. Mine for the taking, the loving, the laughing. Not his, or her’s or their’s. I know, however, that these moments will be fleeting. However, I want to remember that these moments can exist. That I can make more space for them to exist. That I can make a home for the same sweet child who wished for acne, who cried over school swimming lessons and who still fears the embrace of strangers. I hope to make a home for her.