mental health · skincare

how i fucked my face (1/2)

I can be relied on for a number of things. Not like, remembering birthdays or being where I’m supposed to be, when I’m supposed to be there. I can be relied on for important stuff, like the lifting of heavy-ish boxes and remembering exactly why we hate Carol from your office (you know what you did, Carol).

Most of all I can be relied on to take a bad situation and make it immediately ten times worse. It’s a gift.

Last week I was pissed off. A new product had caused a very minor break out on my jaw line and because I don’t patch test, I didn’t know who the culprit was. The betrayal stung worse than the break out.

Okay, time for a full disclaimer. My skin has always been okay, aside from some hyperpigmentation issues and the usual dryness/dehydration complaints. But because I am not wired quite right, this means any tiny perceived imperfection must be obliterated with extreme prejudice and no mercy. I like to think of it as the slash and burn approach to skincare and indeed, my life. Complete and utter overreaction, every. single. time.

Decisions were made that I’m not proud of. Put it like this, do you remember Roald Dahl’s George’s Marvellous Medicine?

George’s Marvellous Medicine is a whimsical and light-hearted children’s book about a boy called George who mixes up his own brand of medicine to give to his nasty old grandma. The medicine is made up of all sorts of  household goodies, like gin and shoe polish and anti-freeze, yum. Spoiler alert. Grandma blows up.

Silly George. 

George, however, was eight years old. I am not eight years old, so I’m at a loss to understand why I take a similar approach when approaching a pretty minor skincare issue.

What I’m saying is that everything went on my face. Acids? Fuck yeah! Physical exfoliants? Bring it! Just slap it on, mix it about and BOOM.

Yeah, boom is about right. Three days ago I had fairly normal skin, with a few blemishes you could barely see. The good news is that you can still barely see the blemishes. My raw, chapped cheeks are much more noticeable.

It’s interesting to me, how I am unable to to cope with any imperfection. And how I immediately panic and end up making it a hundred times worse. Right now I’d trade my sore and painful cheeks for those blemishes in a heartbeat.

I’m making a note of this because it could have all be avoided by one simple step. Being kind to myself. Hopefully I’ll remember next time.

(Spoiler alert – next post is how I unfucked my face)

 

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