My Active Acne Journey

June 14, 2017 2 min read 0 Comments

By: Olivia

Wow, what can’t I say about my skin. Since I can remember, I feel like I have always had issues with my face. At the young age of 9 was when I met Flo. I know! Shocker! I was so naive at that age. Here I am thinking I must have fallen down and gotten hurt since all this blood was coming out of me. Being the oldest of four girls; my poor mother didn’t know how to explain to me what was going on with my body. No mother thinks they’d be having that conversation with an innocent 9-year-old.

But there I was in my grandmother’s bathroom crying not understanding what was happening. Feeling ashamed that I could hurt myself there. Was it something I’d done? It didn’t hurt, could I put a band-aid on it? How do I make it stop? I took my panties off to show my mom; she was speechless. She was nursing my baby sister and just started crying. I ran back into the bathroom and started to cry. What was wrong with me? That’s when my aunt came in and sat me down to explain the process of ones’ period and how it’s a transformation that takes place for a girl to become a woman in order to one day have her own children. I had grown up that day.

Nothing was ever going to be the same. I was no longer that innocent little girl. My body had begun to change; I was growing hair in places I never thought I would have, my boobs were growing and active acne on my face was forming. Since that midsummer day in my grandmother’s bathroom, I have never been comfortable in my own skin. Acne was and still is a constant battle that I struggle with.  Having very oily and sensitive skin caused me to be allergic to certain products. Plus, I was a 9-year-old girl! All I wanted to do was just be like everyone else around me; eat what they ate, play outside like they did. I wasn’t concerned about my diet or what products to use to wash my face.

I simply wasn’t prepared to deal with Flo and her aftermath. Not only was I the only one in 4th grade to have started my period, I was the only one being called “pizza face”. I would walk with my head down so I could avoid their stares. It was painful to hear them whisper to each other about the way my face looked. I would come home crying, rubbing my face with a wet towel wishing so hard that my acne would just disappear. That is all I have ever wished for; for my active acne to one day disappear.