Will I Ever Stop Obsessing Over My Skin?

As I stared in the mirror at the bathroom sink, I tried to be thankful for what I had. A loving partner. A roof above my head. A family who were so unflinchingly supportive they would have thrown me a party if I told them I wanted to quit my job and become a circus clown. Despite all that, I didn’t like what I saw. I hated the face looking back at me. I disliked his watery blue eyes. His sloped nose. In particular, I hated the bulbous red head of a spot sitting smack-bang in the middle of his forehead.

It was almost as if it was mocking me. Goading me. Thumbing its metaphorical nose and wiggling its metaphorical fingers at me for thinking that a combination of moisturizer, azelaic acid, and heinously expensive sunscreen could ever prevent it from existing. I heaved out a loud sigh. My girlfriend was sitting in bed behind me, a paperback spatchcocked on her lap, frustrated. “Stop,” she says. And I wish I could.

The skin is the heaviest organ in the human body. It’s also, coincidentally, the one which weighs heaviest on my mind. This is all quite embarrassing to admit but I’ve been uncomfortable about my skin, and the way it looks, since I was about twelve years old. That’s seventeen years of waking up and sighing at my reflection in the morning. I’d like to say I’m above such superficial thought patterns by now but the state of my skin still rules my mood; it can determine whether I’m going to have a good day or a bad day. It’s a roulette, and I never seem to win.

If you’re thinking about recommending a specific skincare routine or diet that will help: don’t bother, I’ve tried it. I’ve gone to some pretty extreme lengths over the years to try and attain perfect skin. I’ve gone vegan. I’ve gone dairy-free. I’ve cut out carbs. I’ve eaten only carbs. I’ve tried steaming my face in the dishwasher. I’ve scoured r/SkincareAddiction for the ultimate regimen and the most foolproof products. I’ve won bidding wars for extra-strong Stridex pads on eBay and coughed up the excruciating fees to get them shipped to the UK. If you scroll through my phone today, you’ll be able to see thousands of selfies that I’ve taken to document the state of my skin.

I’ve been prescribed Accutane on two separate occasions – first, as an insecure teenager and then later in my equally-insecure mid-twenties. Both times, it did a decent job of clearing up my skin. But its impact didn’t last forever, and it wasn’t without some serious mental, physical, and financial side-effects. For those of you who haven’t been on it – and haven’t had your lips dried by the drug so as to resemble bloody desert mud cracks – Accutane (which is simply a brand name for isotretinoin) was originally marketed as a chemotherapy drug. It’s potent stuff. You need blood tests before you can take it, and constant monitoring once you’re on it. It’s seen as a last resort for many but, even then, it’s not a magic bullet.

Logically, I know that acne is often caused by hormonal changes – whether that’s puberty, menopause, or something as mundane as stress. The Catch-22, of course, is that the more stressed out about your skin you are, the worse it’s likely to get.

I was on holiday in Athens the other week and the development of my own personal Mount Olympus turned a romantic evening of wine, souvlaki, and Monopoly Deal into a night where I felt self-conscious that every person (and stray cat) was staring at me. Ridiculous? Yeah, I know! But I’m not alone in being a bit ridiculous about my skin.

Multiple studies and surveys have shown that teenagers are obsessing about the way their skin looks more than ever and, vitally, that more teenage boys are seeking help for acne and skin concerns. A lot of them are getting obsessed with skincare from an extremely young age. What was once seen as something which was only for girls and women to worry about has seeped into the wider male consciousness. Which is fair, I suppose. Because we might as well all be in the same fucked-up boat together.

It certainly doesn’t help that the people on our screens always look perfect. Watch television or go out to the cinema and you’ll rarely, if ever, see anyone with spots, zits, acne, or texture on their skin. Even TikTok and Instagram are full of FaceTuned influencers and uncannily flawless beauty filters. None of that is an accurate reflection of reality.

According to a study published in the British Journal of Dermatology, acne rates in UK adolescents and young adults are now among the highest in the world. What’s changed? Nothing. It’s not as if there’s something in the water and it’s certainly not because smartphones and 4G towers have been colluding to give us spots. One of the primary reasons for this rise in the number of diagnosed cases of acne is that more teens are actively seeking the help of healthcare professionals for their skin. We’re seeing a growing pattern of thinking that acne isn’t natural and something that needs to be ‘fixed’. There’s a sense of desperation there.

Even the phrase ‘bad skin’ suggests that there is such a thing as ‘good skin’; skin that is somehow more worthy and morally righteous. Whic is bullshit. Obviously. I know that’s bullshit, you know that’s bullshit. Yet, both of us are probably going to get worked up if we wake up tomorrow with a constellation of pimples on our T-zone. Fuckin’ A.

The solution isn’t therefore to bring down that number of cases but, rather, to focus on supporting those teens who are looking for help. That might be through more readily available information, and access to affordable and quality skincare products, or it might simply be through offering a robust support system to let them know it’s not the end of the world. In reality, acne is a natural part of puberty. Of life. But I know as much as anyone that knowing that doesn’t necessarily make it easier to deal with.

It’s a cliché as old as time but there’s something to be said about learning to be comfortable in your own skin. About being kind to yourself. About listening to someone who loves you.

So, now, as I stare in the mirror at the bathroom sink, I try to be thankful for what I have. I only let out a small sigh. “Stop,” she says. And I try. I really do.