Beneath the angry, red lesions, beyond the reach of my fingertips, I believe there is skin as smooth as glass. As I look in the cloudy bathroom mirror, angry red pustules glare back at me. Every attempt I make at intervention is met with ridicule, as my poking and prodding only worsens their temperamental demeanor, and each red dot stands taller by the minute. My heart begins to race. Panic courses through my veins.
On my cheek, selfishness reveals itself in the form of red, swollen, mountainous cyst. Blood trickles from an abused pore on my chin, the embodiment of the red-hot temper my mother so admonishes me for. Above, on my forehead, laziness glares back at me: a sluggish bubble of white pus threatening to spread its filth across my face. The mirror has ceased to be a passive reflection; it is an accusing opponent, demanding I account for each flaw it reveals. I stare down my interrogator and reach for my weapon: a cotton ball soaked in salicylic acid. The sharp, stinging sensation that follows feels righteous, a penance paid in the pursuit of change.
If I scrub hard enough, if I squeeze in just the right places, if I learn to embrace the sting of chemical burn, that layer will emerge. I picture the dark spots freckling my cheeks gradually fading into smooth olive, and become convinced that the awkward naivety of 14 will fade with them.
Today, I have reached many of the milestones of adulthood I looked towards in my teen years: I live in a beautiful home with an in-unit washer dryer, I’m financially independent, I go to synagogue of my own volition, I prepare reasonably nutritious meals, I go to yoga at 7 in the morning, I’ve fallen in love. I still have acne.
I don’t fight my skin as I once did. These days, I wake up in the mornings and wash my face with care. My fingertips caress old craters and new bumps. I pat my skin dry and layer creams and serums with patience, devoid of any anger or urgency— my skin feels flawed but familiar. The teenager I was might have seen acne in adulthood as a sign of failure, proof that I hadn’t grown up as gracefully as I had once imagined. But with layering experience, softening edges, I am learning to love imperfections that persist with time. When I look in the mirror now, the face I see is no longer an opponent, but a companion.