Me

My battle with my skin has been a constant in my life since I was a wee lass of eight. Anyone who's had chronic acne can tell you that it sucks. There's nothing like waking up to a giant puss volcano erupting on your nose to make you feel like staying in bed all day.

Naturally, when I was old enough to venture into the world of foundations, powders, and eyeshadows, I rushed right for the concealer. I still remember my first day of high school, standing self-consciously in front of the mirror and slathering my face in whatever CoverGirl foundation was the latest at the time. I wanted desperately to make friends with the girl in the mirror, but she was so difficult to accept because she looked like this:

Actual photo from 9th grade. It's worth noting that I was wearing platform flip-flops, a kimono shirt, and jean capris. Bless my heart.

When I firmly believed she should look like this:

Yes, T-Swift's Love Story was at the height of its popularity when I was a freshman in high school.

I was even more desperately trying to make actual real friends and get attention from actual real boys (oh foolish girl) and it seemed to me that covering my pubescent skin with thick, ill-pigmented sludge (and getting a push-up bra) was the way to do it. Little did I know, the sludge may have actually been making my skin worse.

But I persisted. My first foray into the world of womanhood was characterized by globs of CoverGirl concealer, chunky maxi pads, and crippling insecurity.

As I grew older, I experimented with all kinds of drug store foundations, cycling through Revlon, Maybelline, Alamay, and even the late-blooming Neutragena line. I lined my brown eyes with thick layers of black pencil, sometimes only lining the bottom, and brushing on clumpy, crumbly mascara, all the while praying to the beauty gods that I would someday wake up to a face more like a model's and less like my own. I tried different fashion trends-- Uggs with jeans, sweats with tight t's, converse sneakers. I wore bad perfume, complained about being "fat", and developed a habit of saying "like" far too often.

Homecoming 2008

And my hair-- goodness gracious, my hair. I wore it long, long, long until the summer after 10th grade when I chopped it to my shoulders and layered it like crazy. My boyfriend at the time told me he didn't care about my hair or make-up. He told me he loved me for me, and I tried to believe him when I finally sheared my long hair for a short pixie cut the day before my junior prom. A few months later, when my parents announced their divorce, I shaved my head completely. I was in the midst of what I would later believe was a mild mental breakdown, a la 2007-Britney Spears.

Pics or it didn't happen? It happened. 

Gradually, through all my radical changes, I started to accept the girl in the mirror. She wasn't perfect. She had acne. She had too-small ears. Her eyebrows never cooperated. But she was all I was going to get.

By the time I started college, I was fed up with being fed up with myself. My makeup routine was set in stone by this point and I executed it religiously every single day with precision. I struggled to find friends because I struggled to feel good enough to be someone's friend. But a dear friend of mine finally convinced me to be her model for her photography project. I relented reluctantly because I almost never liked pictures of myself.

I waited to see the pictures anxiously. When they finally appeared on facebook, I considered not even looking at them, afraid that they would confirm that I should never ever be photographed. I finally got up the never to look."I look... pretty," I quietly admitted to myself, alone in my dorm room. Because, sure, the photos were a little edited, and yes, my friend was an expert at framing me in amazing light, but darnit if I didn't look good. It was the first time I'd ever considered that I wasn't some kind of terrible freak of nature who needed to be covered in make up constantly to maintain the image of averageness. It was a turning point. It gave me the push I needed to realize that the bigger problem with how I looked was my own perception, not my reflection.

One of the pictures. Yeah, girl. Work it.

It's been about a year since the fateful photo shoot and I think I've made enormous strides on the path to self-acceptance, and, ultimately, self love.

And yes, I still fight with my skin, but it's gotten better. And yes, I still wear makeup. And yes, I still have days when I feel insecure or unattractive or bloated, but I work through them. I can afford nicer makeup now, the kind that's smooth and looks more natural. I enjoy my makeup rituals, painting my face more like an artist embellishing their artwork and less like a 13-year-old trying to mask her entire existence in gray foundation. I still change my hair, but less frequently and radically, and it's gotten longer as I've gotten healthier.

But the girl in the mirror, I love her more these days. Her eyes are sharp and clear and her lips are pink and soft from 19 and a half years of laughing, kissing, yelling, and being gnawed on when she's stressed. I see much more in her than a lack or surplus of certain features. I see strength and courage and heart. I see a survivor and a friend and an artist. I see her for her.

And she's me. I'm me. And that's a good thing.