My acne started when I was about 10.

I don’t remember ever having a clear face, although old photos of infant me provide the hard-core evidence that once upon a time, my skin was the stuff of dreams. Now, pimples, blackheads, and the occasional cyst infiltrate my pores on a daily basis. 

Having acne was tough growing up. It was weird, because often, once I’d left my house, I briefly forgot what the state of my skin looked like. Without being confronted by what I viewed at the time to be my hideous reflection, I was just like any other kid. Inevitably, I was soon reminded that the acne on my face was most definitely present, decorating my forehead and cheeks in all its greasy glory. 

I remember a friend pointing out my leaky pimple in the school playground just before registration. As a result of my rookie error, I’d given away the squeezing antics that had taken place that morning.