Facing Acne: Part 1
Disclaimer: The following essay is not medical advice. It’s not a judgement of the choices other people make for their bodies and unique situations. This essay is based off of my experience and opinions alone.
Birth control is a complicated topic. It has undoubtedly aided in women’s liberation and is a resource all uterus owners deserve access to.
If you’re interested in learning more about the controversy around contraceptives, watch The Business of Birth Control.
And thank you as always for reading my writing! If you’re subscribed, Part 2 will land directly in your inbox next week.
I never had perfectly clear skin, but after I went off the birth control pill in 2020, my face and back erupted with painful, inflamed cystic acne, even worse than what I had experienced as a teenager (and the reason I went on birth control in the first place). What followed were the most transformative years of my life, not in a “glow up” caterpillar-into-butterfly kind of way, but more of a deep and unavoidable reckoning with the most emotionally wounded parts of myself.
I knew I would break out. I tried going off the pill once before and gave up when the acne got too bad. But a ping of intuition propelled me to try again.
I wanted to get to the bottom of years of gut health issues that doctors had no helpful explanation for. It was from that place (my gut) that I knew that being on the pill for the last decade of my life was having a profound impact on my health. The more I researched, the more it was confirmed.
(A small section of the Yaz birth control warning label)
The acne didn’t come back all at once, but by the time it really started to ramp up again, I was in the midst of a very sticky situationship.
I described my connection with “J” as trauma bond-y. I was self aware enough to call it by name, but not evolved enough to prevent getting sucked in. We both had spent a good chunk of time working in restaurants in the Bay Area, circulating the same groups and spray painting the same walls. He was a recovering addict who had replaced heroin with pints of ice cream and packs of cigarettes.
On our first date, we sat on a curb in Silverlake eating tacos and talking about addiction and attachment styles. Between his aspiration for self growth and inability to let go of the past, we had a lot in common.
We would talk everyday for weeks and then he would drop off, stop responding to my texts for days at a time, only to reappear with a gift, a ceramic hand from a vintage store, a poster, a bouquet of flowers. It was a familiar pattern, the teeter totter of highs and lows that kept me hooked.
At the same time, I was battling the increasingly uncomfortable state of my face.
I was so embarrassed by it, especially in front of J. I caked on foundation, slept in it and woke up early to sneak into the bathroom to smear on another coat. As much as I wanted to heal holistically, I was desperate to relieve my bodies reckoning with the influx of hormones.
I was prescribed all kinds of topicals, tubes of white and yellow creams that I would dab onto the painful welts on my face and back. They made my eyes water and bleached my clothing. My skin dried up and started peeling off in patches. My acne continued to get worse even long after what would’ve been considered the “purging” phase. When areas on my jawline did clear up, new pimples appeared, reaching up to my cheeks and down to my neck, places that I had never broken out before.
I was also prescribed a blood pressure medication, spironolactone. My doctor raved about it. He had seen great results. He even waved the recommended blood testing that came with the drug’s list of potentially life threatening side effects because he was so confident that it would work and I would have no issues.
At first, it was just the nausea, which I could handle. It felt worth the potential reward. Then I started bleeding in between periods. By the time my eyes turned yellow, I had lost ten pounds and my acne had not improved.
All the while, J grew distant, fueling my insecurity. I confronted him about his inconsistency. He told me he was in love with me as if it was an explanation. I responded, “I love you too and it sucks.”
A week later, I sat in his car, trying to angle my face and position my hair in a way that would cover the new patch of bumps on my chin. He told me it was over, handed me a stack of books he had borrowed and did all but shoo me out of the car. He drove away and vanished out of my life for good.
I stood their reeling, my deepest fear confirmed, without my appearance, there wasn’t anything left of me to love. If I wasn’t “pretty”, I had no currency to exchange for companionship.
I cried. I obsessed, dissecting every conversation and interaction we ever had. It was all I could talk or think about to anyone who was willing to listen (or simply in my proximity). And all the while, my skin got worse.
Make sure you’re subscribed, so you don’t miss Part 2 next week.
Every view and subscription inspires me to keep going. Feedback and comments always welcome! You can also find me on instagram @gwengwenzine.