me vs. my skin... God, I hate her!

My Skin. My biggest insecurity. I have a menty-b (“mental breakdown”) about her, at least once a month… and it’s usually before or after my period. I can never tell, but as soon as I stare at myself in the mirror long enough, I start to pick on it. I just go to my room, crying, and my ever-so-loving partner just consoles me. He does the usual “how can you say that about yourself, you’re so beautiful!” yada yada yada. You get the gist. That pep talk doesn’t really stop me from the monthly sulk. It just tells me that I should work on it from within, or whatever, but it’s really hard.

Let’s make this clear. When I talk about my skin being my biggest insecurity, I’m not talking about the colour — I love the colour of my skin. I almost never peel. I just get brown, and when it’s winter I’m a bit yellow. I’m practically caramel. When the sun hits, I get golden? I’m just like a goddess… But! I’m talking about my endless acne, blackheads, whiteheads, winter-eczema, autumn-rashes, the spring-to-summer-uncontrollable-dry-skin, and just the stress that causes it to be a terrain in itself. The thing is, I know it sounds dramatic, like Gabbie, calm down; but my skin has actually been extremely sensitive and it's been like this since I was twelve. I know that I should be thankful because it could be much worse, I get that, but I write this piece as a beacon for myself. I need hope, I’m hopeless. I look at the mirror and I just fucking hate my fucking skin. 

It does have really good moments, though! I just have to be in a really humid climate, with no anxiety, only resting, no dairy, no gluten, no sugar, sleeping for at least ten hours a day, eating vegetables, having a daily dose of zinc, and my four-step skincare routine that I change every season — one for the day and one for the night! — So, it’s super simple, I just have to live a life that’s absolute pain, but my flatmate has said that beauty is pain… and he was so right. During summers back at home, when I’m devoting my body and mind to rest, my skin is divine… but I can’t always be doing nothing. 

I already took accutane for ten months when I was fourteen. It got better, until I turned seventeen when my hormones changed completely. I wasn’t even under any birth control, or anything, my hormones just changed, as my stress elevates (like most people), but the moment I feel stress about three pimples show up; so, you can just imagine me when I was writing my dissertation. My face was bedazzled. This also happened when I was working in hospo, during the Christmas season, my face was bedazzled too, but not with the Christmas spirit.

I already tried to conceal it with make up here, but nah.

I took a pic, and I was about to pick it but I didn't cry. Yay.

Me, post-menty-b, because I hate my skin.

me trying to be better.

dissertation week, 2022. Got my degree so it was worth it, but God, I don't even remember if I was crying about my skin or my uni... but I remember taking this pic and wondering why my skin was so ugly.

Please don’t get me wrong, when I see another person deal with acne — whether that's online or in person — I don’t think they’re ugly. I don’t think they’re less beautiful than they are or “could be''. I really don’t. It’s just my own problem, with my own self. I’m a human, this is me doing the being. I’ve been trying really hard to love myself for myself. I don’t wanna pay another doctor to write me a script just to get accutane. I’ve already spent so much money trial-and-error-ing this whole thing, I don’t want to do it again. To add, accutane makes your skin so bloody dry. I actually peeled for the first six weeks in Manila, so I can’t imagine that in a colder, dryer climate. We’ve all heard of Icarus. I have a feeling that taking accutane AGAIN, would be my sun; and my insecurity and obsession with getting baby-smooth skin are my wings. If it happens, I will burn sooner or later. I just know it.

So, in hopes of not burning, it’s been two weeks since I’ve been trying to accept the texture on my skin. It’s called Project Four-Wheel Drive (I know! So clever, I can’t help but to be clever… but let me explain, it’s because I’m trying to navigate self-confidence through whatever terrain my skin projects). Rough ride? Yes. Every time I see a family member, or video call family back home, the first thing they mention are my pimples: “Hala! Bakit ang dami ‘mong tigyawat? Kawawa ka naman… Mukha ‘kang kamatis!” (eng: “Oh no! Why do you have so many pimples? You look like a tomato!”), and other variations include: “I read somewhere that acne could be caused by a lot of sugar…” No shit, babe, I think I probably read that too, since I’ve hated my skin for almost a decade. Last one: “I don’t understand why you have so many pimples, Gabbie… Our family doesn’t have that much!” Thank you, I know, that’s why I hate my face so much! An outlier, I didn’t ask to be… and all this social media propaganda about acne-positivity: “texture is normal!”, “YOU. ARE. BEAUTIFUL. ACNE. IS. BEAUTIFUL.”, or even “accept the skin you’re in!”, just makes me go, okay, chill out, you don’t have to scream. It sucks because, even if this positivity campaign is online, it doesn’t outweigh the amount of companies trying to sell you perfect skin, by telling you how you can change your own. Even in any type of media, they hero celebrities that have absolutely no texture on their face. The worst is, when I’m on social media, and I see all of these beautiful girls on my feed who have such amazing skin. They're glowing. The power of women, and I am sitting on my couch hoping to be one of those glowing girls too. I always just say, “I’ll have my moment, but I'll take a selfie when I’m like… when I have better skin… Since I went to Queenstown and had all that dairy, my face just exploded… but then, I’m sure these bad bitches can have pastries or dairy or gluten and their faces won’t explode. God. What do I have to do to be pretty? Fuck my skin. Fuck this life. God I hate my skin.” and that cycle repeats. 

But, what does that even mean? How can I not be pretty? I’m fucking gorgeous! I know this is true, because there are some days when I wake up, and regardless of my fight with acne, I just feel like I look ethereal.. As if I won the fight! Like I’m glowing, and I’m happy. But then the self-sabotaging-itch starts to tick and I scratch. I scratch really badly. Really deeply. Then I am, once again, hating my skin texture. I try to tell myself that I have other redeeming qualities like my wit or my t*ts, but that doesn’t really help me accept my acne. It just detours me from it. So since Project Four-Wheel Drive took off, I’ve been trying really hard not to buy another sebum-regulating product. I can’t afford to spend anymore money, merely on my insecurities. I won’t feed into that capitalist agenda! Or so I tell myself… likewise, trying to see my skincare routine as self-care and not medication. The difference is that I’m trying to celebrate my skin being alive, and ever-so-active; how my body is so interconnected, that the moment a hormone changes, you can see it on the outside. Rather than trying to suppress it and planting a seed of hate inside me. I know it sounds a bit delusional to be like acne is a celebration! and all that, but I’m just trying this thing. Trying to change perspective and be better, since the pouting-about-it method hasn’t really changed anything. 

I have also been dairy-free, gluten-free, and sugar-free since then; at least I’ve tried it in an organic and everything-in-moderation sense, but the moment I get only seven hours of sleep — instead of my much-needed ten hours — because of work or anxiety, my skin flares up. I have also tried to just not be anxious, sounds so dumb but has been helpful. I don’t suppress my anxiety, I let all my sadness, anger, and anxiety just come out. I designate points in my week to cry. To regulate. I try to journal… but honestly, this whole project seems like it’s just trying to rid myself of the cycle of anxiety and its relationship with my skin… or self-love… I don’t know, it’s all so jumbled at this point. Lots of dissecting, maybe. Whatever, that’s another blog post… But! I have been deep cleaning my own brain from its views of beauty, and slowly taking away the synonym of perfect skin and being pretty. I know I am beautiful, and not in the way where “everyone is beautiful, everyone has their own gifts” yada yada yada. No. I genuinely have to believe that I can encapsulate physical beauty — whether or not my skin is acting up, and turning this sentence from a “whether or not” to a “because of”; like ‘my skin is beautiful because of my texture, because it’s real”, which makes it sound like I am high and trying to be profound but I’ve been at this self-hating game for too long. I’m desperate for another way out, so forgive me for trying. 

It’s a long, windy road, but I know my mind and heart are stronger than my insecurities (ew, cheesy); I know this is true, because every time I’m about to get up after having the most gut-wrenching feeling, I still manage to come out and do it, and do it greatly. An example is, I grew up hating my body, and it took me a really long time to view it as a vessel and not a commodity, but here we are, exercising as a form of triumph and not torture. Thus, I’m sure I can do that with my skin. It’ll take a lot of work, evidently, but we will get there. I’ve got a lot more years on me, and if it takes another decade of self-hate, I’m sure by then, I’ll have it down pat and ready to go. Hopefully, the next blog post I have about my skin is about how much I love it (a bit of a stretch, but we can dream big).