So lately I've had a few bad face days. Well, more than a few. Try every day for the past 6 months.
It's not the first time I've struggled with a long stream of continual bad face days. This first started my junior year of high school. That was the worst. I come across pictures from that year from time to time and have to look away real quick-like, afraid that the acne-monster may sense me looking at those pictures and decide to come and hit me with his zit-stick again.
Yeah, that was not a great time for me.
I've thought about this a lot. I've thought about how sad and unfair it is that even after I've been so very accepting and tolerant of being cursed with a hideously small hind-quarter, my face has become just as unmanageable. I mean, it's not like I haven't tried! Two whole rounds of Acutane! And you know they give you hell before you can get some of that stuff. Then the hellishness of getting the scrip is followed up by 3 months of even worse acne as your body rejects having it's pores choked and dried up like so many microscopic prunes. That's 6 months per round x 2 rounds = 1 year of dry, patchy skin, nose bleeds, achy bones, and 2 forms of birth control.
It's not fun stuff. But it works. Until it doesn't.
So here I am again, feeling sorry for myself and angry at Life for dealing me this Joker-- the kind of Joker that you get dealt and the dealer then tells you that Jokers don't count so you now only have 4 playable cards in your deck. And it may not sound like such a big deal to you. (If it doesn't that's probably because you haven't dealt with it before.) But to me, it really is. Call it vanity, call it pathetic-- whatever. Maybe it is. But acne at 22 is tough. I can scrub my face with the best cleanser 3 times and top it off with expensive, light-weight-but-not-too-light-weight moisturizer and still feel dirty. I can spend a half-hour with my concealer, foundation and powder and still look blotchy all over. I can get my hair did and my nails did and put on my spiffiest outfit and still just see Pizza Face blinking back at me in frustration. And Pizza Face just keeps blinking and blinking at the mirror until hot tears streak down and melt all that moisturizer and makeup away. And Pizza Face wonders Why can't I just be given something more manageable? Isn't it enough that I have unruly hair and funny toes and skin that scars when you look at it wrong and chubby fingers and a half-sized torso and big cheeks and a tiny bum?!
It's about at this point in my mind-rantings where I start laughing at myself. And the laughing turns to crying. And the crying works it's way down to the floor. And there I am. Kneeling and crying in all my weepy, blotchy, snotty glory. And there is nothing left to say or do but offer up all of that heartache and insecurity in prayer. And then there comes the gratitude-- for all of my functioning body parts, for the fact that it is PMS and not chemo pills that makes my bones hurt, for a husband that tells me daily that I am the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, for a mother and sister who say they don't remember my acne ever being bad (and for knowing it's because love is blind), for all of the days that pass where I don't get a phone call saying a loved one has left this earth, for a job that puts food on the table, for friends that love me because they know there is something lovely and eternal underneath my skin. For all of these things I am grateful.
Then comes the sorrow. For all of the selfish thoughts.
Then comes the peace.
I don't know why I've been given so much. Sometimes I catch glimpses of what I'm supposed to be and what I can really do, but I'm going about it like a three-toed sloth conquers a giant tree-- very slowly. So why I am continually given things I know I don't deserve
is beyond me.
But today maybe I can try and show a little gratitude. Maybe I can turn this Bad Face Day into a Good Person Day. And maybe tomorrow morning when I'm blinking at the mirror I can see a little bit deeper than my own face.
