Keeping an eye on the bathroom door, I furtively scrolled through my boyfriend’s phone while he was in the shower, desperately looking for proof he’d cheated.
This was despite the fact that there hadn’t been any red flag behaviour; no late nights at the office and clearly he hadn’t become protective of his phone.
Unsurprisingly, I found nothing. So, how had I got to this point, to this wild notion that bordered on obsession?
This horrible seed of doubt, which had flourished into a full-blown tree, stemmed from the revulsion I felt at myself – specifically the acne that had plagued my face for the last six months.
My spots appeared overnight not long after my boyfriend and I had moved in together. I was 27 and still had the odd hormonal outbreak but thought I’d left acne behind, along with homework and posters on my bedroom wall.
I hadn’t escaped spots as a teenager like a lucky few but I never had full-blown acne. At university, I stayed on friendly terms with my concealer, however it’s a new kind of hell when concealer no longer conceals.
Then, in 2014 I experienced a breakout like nothing before. It was an eruption. I wasn’t initially alarmed, embarrassed, yes, but not worried. Panic set in when none of the blister-like pimples had faded more than a week later.
For months, I tried and failed to treat the symptoms. I changed my diet to cut out dairy and sugar on the advice gleaned from too-many-to-count Google searches, and I spent a small fortune on skincare products: you name it and it was in my bathroom cabinet.
Stressing over my skin took over; sooner or later my thoughts turned back to my face.
When I suffered breakouts as a teen, the spots would shrink and then pass. This felt permanent; the spots never got smaller, never became fewer. They took up residence, grew roots and got stronger.
Every morning, I’d wake up extra early to put make-up on and cringed when my other half claimed not to notice my inflamed face. I was embarrassed. I was uncomfortable. I couldn’t even hide the massive zits under clever hairstyling unless I grew a beard, because they adorned my face like a grim goatee.
As well as feeling as though it looked ugly, they were also painful. It was mentally and physically exhausting. After six months, I was at breaking point – there was nothing left for me to try and I needed medical help.
Confronting the problem and finding a dermatologist was the last resort. Meeting with one made me understand that bad skin is not merely a vanity issue. Dermatology, he told me, was about improving quality of life. Hearing these words was like a weight had been lifted. He summed up thoughts I hadn’t even realised I’d been thinking.
A GP had previously linked the violent skin flare up to the contraceptive injection, a possible side effect not mentioned by my old doctor when I discussed coming off the pill. I was seething with anger – at the doctor, and at myself. The realisation I’d effectively done this to myself only added to the self-loathing. Although I never got conclusive evidence, a quick internet search backed the GP’s conviction.
Beauty may be skin deep, but battling adult acne (yes it’s a full on fight) cuts you to the core. A red raw face robs you of your confidence and shatters your self-esteem, a dramatic statement but the truth.
Over the eight months I suffered with acne, I turned down countless invitations to avoid social situations and couldn’t bring myself to look people in the eye, including my own reflection. I became a self-conscious shell of who I used to be, all because a cluster of spots, which seemed to only get worse, never better. I might as well have grown a horn in the centre of my forehead, that’s what it felt like.
Even under make-up, the shame of lumpy, bumpy skin burnt into me like a branding.
All I wanted to do was hide my face, which took a toll on my mental health and self-esteem. I simply couldn’t think rationally about the situation.
My dermatologist explained the reasons behind acne, and summed up that it’s generally just genetic bad luck. Diet and cosmetics can aggravate skin, but most of the time it’s a result of one of three things: overactive hormones, overactive sebaceous glands or a bacterial infection. The contraceptive pill or antibiotics can calm it but these are only ever short-term solutions and don’t tackle the underlying cause.
Adult acne is far from uncommon. According to a survey of 92 private dermatology clinics in 2015, there was a 214% increase in the amount of people seeking acne treatments in the UK and Ireland from the previous year. Just over a third of these patients were over the age of 35.
And according to the NHS, 95% of people aged 11 to 30 are affected by acne to some extent.
After a lot of thought, I decided to go on Roaccutane, a retinoid-based drug that works by switching off overactive sebaceous glands. It’s a controversial medicine and has a lot of fear surrounding it. The side effects associated with it range from dry skin to, in the most rare cases, depression and suicidal feelings.
For me personally, the seven-month course had the opposite effect on my mood – I started it feeling low and anxious, and finished elated with nothing worse than flaking lips and scratched skin to show for it.
And, best of all, with the guidance and reassurance of my dermatologist, who had no hesitation in prescribing it, my face cleared up.
It’s now six years later and, bar the odd pimple, my skin has stayed clear. Not even constant mask wearing over the course of the pandemic has aggravated my chin.
I decided to document my Roaccutane journey, to keep track of my progress. I look back at pictures now, and can’t believe it’s me. I still burn with humiliation though.
Notice how my eyes aren’t in any of the selfies; I made sure I had as little of my face showing as possible. Sharing these pictures feels like I’m posting naked photos of myself, that’s how private they are to me.
As for my boyfriend, he hadn’t cheated, and we survived the acne and self-esteem implosion; he’s now my husband and we have two beautiful children together.
For anyone dealing with skin woes, don’t waste your time, money and energy trying to cover, conceal and control it. Talk to your doctor, get medical expertise.
If you’ve read horror stories about Roaccutane, my advice would be to not let it scare you into avoiding seeking treatment as there are alternative routes you can take. Work out with your GP or dermatologist what’s best for you.
Acne is a crippling condition to suffer from, with self-confidence rocked by a face full of pimples. It’s easy to brush it off as an aesthetic problem, even when it’s having an impact on your mental wellbeing. We all deserve to walk with our heads held high.
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