Of Acne and Anxiety
Silence
It started as a stubborn patch of pimples on the left side of my chin.
I was a freshman in college, and until that point I’d never dealt with acne before. Sure, I had the occasional breakout caused by teenage hormones and improper skincare, but it always faded over time.
This time, it didn’t.
The patch began to spread, and before long the majority of my face was covered in bright red bumps. No amount of exfoliating or cutting back on dairy did the trick. It just kept getting worse. I was stumped.
What is going on? I’m nineteen years old. Isn’t this supposed to happen when you’re in high school?
Eventually I realized this beast wasn’t going away on its own. But instead of asking my parents or friends about treatment options, my solution was to ignore it.
There was a strange sense of pride attached to this silence. I did my best to be an advocate for positive body image, and deep inside I believed that admitting how much my acne bothered me would make me seem hypocritical or weak. I even thought that maybe if I prayed and trusted the Lord enough, it would go away.
The only person I was comfortable opening up to about it was my sister, who had also started to experience acne around the same time as I did. I knew she understood. I knew she could relate.
The thing is, I didn’t want to talk about my acne with people who didn’t have acne. There was no way they could empathize with my struggles. They couldn’t know what it was like for me to follow all the skincare rules perfectly and still feel like my body was betraying me. They couldn’t understand the deep sense of shame I carried around, subconsciously believing the state of my skin made me inferior to my peers with smooth complexions.
So for about two years, I just didn’t talk about it.
It started as a thought that wiggled its way into my brain on a sunny September morning in 2008.
It was the second week of my freshman year of high school and my first year at the public school in my district. I had recently transferred there from a tiny Christian school about an eighth of its size, and I was desperate to make friends after some painfully awkward years of trying to find my place in middle school. And so far, I’d felt like I was doing an okay job of it.
As I was climbing the steps of the school bus, a thought popped into my head. It wasn’t violent or disturbing in nature, but it was a “what if” question that embodied some of my deepest insecurities.
It startled me.
Then, it consumed me.
Every waking moment for the next nine months or so, I found myself obsessing over that thought. It grew from that one little question into a monster that took over my mind, making it impossible for me to interact with people around me without overthinking everything I said and did. I soon learned that the only way to prevent this was to shut down and stay quiet.
A couple months after that fateful morning, another unwelcome thought made its entrance while I was watching a PBS Kids show with my younger brothers. This one was more terrifying and existential in nature, and it threw me into an even deeper spiral. I was in a dark hole with no way to climb out.
I remember typing a long email to my friends from church, then reading it over about a hundred times before deleting it. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, dialing the number of a woman at my church who had given me her number in middle school, then staring at the phone for twenty minutes before hanging up. I remember breaking down around Christmastime and crying to my parents about how l was struggling to make friends at school, then wiping away my tears and going on with life.
Towards the end of that year I started to open up a little about the loneliness I felt, but I didn’t talk about what was actually happening in my brain. I didn’t talk about the constant rattle of thoughts following me around, the noise that was so loud sometimes it threatened to swallow me whole. I didn’t talk about how I lived in a constant state of fear, convinced that all it took was one wrong move on my part for even my closest friends to realize I wasn’t worth keeping around.
I didn’t talk about it because I was sure they wouldn’t understand. There was no way they could know what it was like to have your own brain suddenly betray you one day, to be lost in a swirl of thoughts that were so abstract and irrational you felt like you were going crazy.
So for about six years, I just didn’t talk about it.
Breaking
Around Christmastime my junior year of college, three friends and I squeezed into a photobooth to take some silly pictures. As soon as our faces appeared on the screen I found myself shrinking back in horror.
I realized at that moment that until that point, I had trained myself to look in the mirror or at photos of myself without really looking. I’d spent the past two years ignoring my acne, and I thought I was fine that way.
And suddenly there it was, illuminated in that fluorescent photobooth, impossible for me to unsee.
I tried to hide my face behind my hands. Don’t you see this? I kept thinking as my friends continued smiling at the camera. Don’t you see me?
Of course they had. They’d been seeing it all along. They’d been seeing me all along.
And in spite of the way I saw myself, they still loved me.
That same year I was on a weekend retreat with the Christian group I’d gotten involved in on campus, lying in a field and reading 1 John 4 for my morning devotional, when five words jumped out at me and stopped me in my tracks.
“There is no fear in love.”
No fear in love? That can’t be right. Of course there’s fear in love. People you love can hurt you.
And that is true.
There’s no fear in God’s love. And when you know how deeply loved you are by the Creator of the universe and that there is nothing you can do to change that, you can allow yourself to be loved by His creation. And being loved means being known. And being known means sharing the darkest parts of yourself, the things you don’t even understand, the broken pieces you’re sure will send people running.
The first time I attempted to put my thoughts into words, to voice the anxiety that had lived inside of me for so many years, it was raw and scary and clumsy. It was with a friend I didn’t even know that well yet, but there was just something about her that felt safe.
And so, after six long years, I began to talk about it.
And in that moment, I was loved.
Healing
A few weeks after the photobooth incident, I began the first in a series of treatments to combat the acne. Everyone’s experience is unique, and there is no one-size-fits-all solution. It usually takes a lot of trial and error, and even after several years I’m still figuring out what works for me.
My acne is currently in remission, but if I’m honest, there is still a deep-seated fear that it will come back. There are times when I’ve spiraled into anxiety over losing my medication, terrified that those red bumps will return with a vengeance. I’ll always have faint scars to remind me of its presence.
The difference is, I have the tools to handle them now. I know that it’s okay to reach out and ask for help. I know that there are doctors who can use their expertise to get my skin back on track. I know that on bad days, I can share my pain and frustration with the people around me even if they don’t struggle in the same way.
Those are some of the things anxiety and acne have in common.
Here are some more:
Both of them have distorted the way I see myself.
Both of them have shamed me into silence.
Both of them have told me I’m alone and that there is no hope of getting better.
Both of them, by God’s grace, have drawn me closer to Jesus.
Because what I’ve learned through both of these experiences is that even if the worst happens — even if suddenly one of them flares up and decides to stay for a while — in the end, it will be okay.
Because even when my skin is misbehaving and my thoughts are misleading, the people who love me will look at me and see my heart.
Because even when my mind and body let me down, God’s love will be enough.
Always.
One of the most crucial parts of my healing journey has been receiving counseling services through The Peacemaker Center. I am so grateful for this organization and the work they do in helping clients along the path to mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. If you or someone you love is considering therapy, this is a wonderful place to start.
ABOUT OUR BLOGGER
Kati Lynn Davis grew up in Chester County and returned to the area after a brief stay on the other side of Pennsylvania to earn her Bachelor’s Degree in English Writing from the University of Pittsburgh.
She currently works as a Library Specialist and earns a living mostly by reading children’s books. She’s pretty sure she’s an Enneagram 4 but is constantly having an identity crisis over it, so thankfully she’s learning to root her sense of self in Jesus.
A few of Kati's favorite subjects to write about are social media, mental health, and films, and she especially loves to explore these topics through the lens of faith.