I don't understand my face.
My face breaks out like Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption: dramatically and without fail.
A year ago now, I was at my annual check-up when my doctor asked me about my acne. I wanted to say, "Well, it's there," but I remained silent. Then he asked, "Aren't you self-conscious?" I looked down at the floor as he passed me a paper with the name of a recommended dermatologist. I took it and left his office. I didn't understand his question because I wasn't sure he'd understand my answer: OF COURSE I'M SELF-CONSCIOUS but I don't let it control my day. Usually. Sometimes.
Sometimes my self-conscious is like white noise: I don't notice it until it's perfectly quiet and I'm perfectly content--like a whisper curling around and into my ear, planting diseases to destroy confident synapses.
"Aren't you self-conscious?"
"Isn't EVERYONE self-conscious?"
Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm not, like, hideous, but I'm also definitely not America's Next Top Model, y'know what I mean? I'm normal. I asked a friend once if I was a pretty and she answered, "You're pretty, but you're not like Vogue-pretty [which technically no one is.]"
To a certain extent, I think what my doctor meant by his question was, "Are you not doing anything to heal your acne?" And I'm glad he was concerned, I guess...right?
It's just...it's my face. I know what's on it. I am well-aware acne is embarrassing. I know I'm self-conscious, I don't understand why you need to know- why you need to confirm my self-consciousness? I don't even need to use the possessive adjective 'my' to express how personal self-consciousness is because SELF.
I guess...if yooou don't want acne on my face then imagine how much IIIIIII don't want it on my face.
"So, why don't you just use ----?"
Because I have wishy-washy morals. Suffice to say I no longer want to use anything with sulfates or parabens. Yep. Simple as that.
Although, admittedly, removing harmful things from my life is about as easy as growing carrots in wintery Jersey, which is like Leonardo DiCaprio winning an Oscar...so. No.
When did I become an adult?
When did I become an adult?
Perhaps when shy became self-conscious.
When loud became obnoxious.
When pretty became a standard.
When money became an object.
When people became collector's items.
When things became morals.
When fun became a luxury.
When decency became a rarity.
When dreams became responsibilities
and responsibilities became torture
and reality became prison.
When did I become an adult?
When hate overpowered love.
When I lived for the next romantic date.
When I cried more over chick flicks than death counts.
When newscasters only broadcast death counts.
I remember wanting this.
Why did I want to become an adult?
Because adults could wash dishes
and drive cars or fly airplanes or perform surgery.
Because adults could buy candy
and slept when they wanted and crossed the street without holding hands.
The illusion was so well-believed adults never warned children.
Or, at least, adults didn't know to warn children
because they're not entirely sure they're adults.
My face breaks out like Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption: dramatically and without fail.
A year ago now, I was at my annual check-up when my doctor asked me about my acne. I wanted to say, "Well, it's there," but I remained silent. Then he asked, "Aren't you self-conscious?" I looked down at the floor as he passed me a paper with the name of a recommended dermatologist. I took it and left his office. I didn't understand his question because I wasn't sure he'd understand my answer: OF COURSE I'M SELF-CONSCIOUS but I don't let it control my day. Usually. Sometimes.
Sometimes my self-conscious is like white noise: I don't notice it until it's perfectly quiet and I'm perfectly content--like a whisper curling around and into my ear, planting diseases to destroy confident synapses.
"Aren't you self-conscious?"
"Isn't EVERYONE self-conscious?"
Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm not, like, hideous, but I'm also definitely not America's Next Top Model, y'know what I mean? I'm normal. I asked a friend once if I was a pretty and she answered, "You're pretty, but you're not like Vogue-pretty [which technically no one is.]"
To a certain extent, I think what my doctor meant by his question was, "Are you not doing anything to heal your acne?" And I'm glad he was concerned, I guess...right?
It's just...it's my face. I know what's on it. I am well-aware acne is embarrassing. I know I'm self-conscious, I don't understand why you need to know- why you need to confirm my self-consciousness? I don't even need to use the possessive adjective 'my' to express how personal self-consciousness is because SELF.
I guess...if yooou don't want acne on my face then imagine how much IIIIIII don't want it on my face.
"So, why don't you just use ----?"
Because I have wishy-washy morals. Suffice to say I no longer want to use anything with sulfates or parabens. Yep. Simple as that.
Although, admittedly, removing harmful things from my life is about as easy as growing carrots in wintery Jersey, which is like Leonardo DiCaprio winning an Oscar...so. No.
When did I become an adult?
When did I become an adult?
Perhaps when shy became self-conscious.
When loud became obnoxious.
When pretty became a standard.
When money became an object.
When people became collector's items.
When things became morals.
When fun became a luxury.
When decency became a rarity.
When dreams became responsibilities
and responsibilities became torture
and reality became prison.
When did I become an adult?
When hate overpowered love.
When I lived for the next romantic date.
When I cried more over chick flicks than death counts.
When newscasters only broadcast death counts.
I remember wanting this.
Why did I want to become an adult?
Because adults could wash dishes
and drive cars or fly airplanes or perform surgery.
Because adults could buy candy
and slept when they wanted and crossed the street without holding hands.
The illusion was so well-believed adults never warned children.
Or, at least, adults didn't know to warn children
because they're not entirely sure they're adults.
No comments:
Post a Comment