You see, my parents got divorced when I was young. I was in either first or second grade. Their divorce impacted me in many ways, and it put a lot of stress and anxiety in my life. As I said before, my Pop always encouraged me to stop picking and wanted me to take care of my skin. However, my Mom was also a picker, and I would remember nights seeing her face just like mine. I followed in her footsteps.
When I was thirteen and fourteen my cystic pimple problems just got worse. More importantly, my picking problems got worse. It was my luck that most of the acne formed all over my forehead because I had blunt side bangs to hide them. Because of my bangs, people did not really know how bad my acne was. I was lucky compared to some people. However, my bangs could not help me forever, because I was and still am a ballerina dancer, and ballerina dancers are supposed to have all their hair up in a bun. My acne would become exposed.
I remember the difficult day when I had to put my hair in a bun and I felt ugly, and I was only in seventh grade. It was only seventh grade, and my self-esteem was at an all-time low. It was my fault. At this time, I was lucky that I got to wear stage makeup, but I could still notice all the tiny bumps beneath the thin layer of makeup. The cystic pimple is just hidden underneath. My family would still tell me I look so pretty and danced so well, but I was too caught up with my blemishes to notice.
I think there is always one year during the teenage years that we get rebellious. I always told myself when I was younger I would never be one of those people, yet there I was in eighth grade and was a total butthole. I was caught up in all the cool kids, and I acted like I had everything figured out. However, back home, I was treating my family like trash. I did not care about anyone but myself.
Eventually, I had a wake-up call. It was a wake-up call that I needed, but it brought back the terrible picking days. I was stressed and the immense amount of picking I used to do come back. Cystic pimples started to form on the sides of my face, and I tore my face to pieces. I would not stop squeezing until blood would show. Scarring was already forming on my face, and I was only in eighth grade.
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