Not a Great Start

I graduated from high school with a shattered esteem.

I lost the very thing that gave me identity—an academic honor. It was the only thing that defined me since I was young. I was known for that.

So, I was very determined to prove to everyone that I wasn’t a loser.

My personal struggle also coincided with a family tragedy.

One night, my mom couldn’t sleep because my youngest brother, Macky, was crying, vomiting, and defecating with blood. My mom and dad rushed the little infant, barely a month-old, to a hospital.

Macky was discharged, but his condition scarcely improved. He was not the same baby I saw after my mom delivered him at home.

Aware that my brother’s medical condition had been depleting my parents’ finances, I conceded to my mom’s suggestion to pursue teacher education in a local college.

Though I was still insisting that I could apply for scholarship, my mom reasoned out that even if I passed the scholarship exam, she wasn’t sure if she and dad could help with the other expenses.

He died on the 14th of April, 2008—2 ½ months old.

It didn’t make sense to lose him. I read articles from the internet and was so glad to tell my mom there was hope for him—lactose intolerant infants should recover once they reached their first year.

I did not cry at his funeral. I just didn’t know why. But I was aware of the effect of that loss: I desired to have firm control over things coming my way.  

I would dictate the outcomes. I vowed to myself that I would author my success, and I would surely attain it.

So when my college classmates would often compliment me, not just for how I performed in my academics but also for how I looked, I became addicted to their praises.

Many expressed how they loved my clear complexion. My facial features and my physique were rather plain, but my clear skin and fashion sense gave me a chance to be noticed. My blemish-free skin was my best physical asset.

Then, it occurred to me. Perhaps, being a smart, attractive campus girl was a better identity—a reinvention of myself. This would give me more worth. I would be known both for academic performance and physical appearance.

I needed hymns of admiration. I would receive and devour them. They were for me.

But, just one month into college, I started breaking out. A classmate who had smooth, clear skin laughed at me in front of others.  He pointed out the two big red bumps on my right cheek.

I could not find any words to defend myself. I knew that from that day on I felt scared and scathed. I didn’t feel pretty.

I was not in control of the situation. I was losing the image and identity I desperately needed for myself. 

Searching for Answers

We were a lower middle-class family in the Philippines, so a dermatologist visit was not an option. My parents reassured me it would just go away.

However, breaking out week after week did not convince me it would go away on its own. I read magazines and googled a lot to know what caused the persistent breakouts.

Articles would say it was the dirty pillowcase, phone, hands, and hair. I also tried suggested home remedies.

None of those did anything to stop me from breaking out. My oily skin was also making my breakouts look even worse.

I tried to conceal my blemishes, but I was told they could worsen with makeup.

I was so confused and clueless; I didn’t know what could help my skin. I wanted my clear skin back badly.

I tried everything within my reach to treat my skin. And others saw my skin as a project to be fixed.

One time, a classmate suggested I use perming hair solution to shrink the red bump just above my upper lip. Her suggestion disturbed me, but I forced myself to give her a thank-you smile.

But no matter how much I hated her unsolicited, well-meaning advice, I took the blame.

She wouldn’t have said that if she hadn’t seen that big zit on my face.

Yet the unspoken words were harder to bear. Their gazes gasped and spoke, “What happened to your face? It wasn’t like that before.”

Most of my face stayed clear. But the breakouts on my chin, nose, and mouth area were often noticeable, red, and pus-filled. The stark contrast just highlighted the visibility of my acne.

The Dark Verses

Looking at myself in front of the mirror became increasingly distressing. I couldn’t help but turn off the lights.

I couldn’t bring myself to face my reflection in full light. I couldn’t accept the way my skin had become.

I found myself in emotional turmoil. I turned to poetry as a creative catharsis, hoping to gain freedom and release. I saw myself diving deeper into depression.

The Dark Verses

Let me not
be bathed in light
to miss the sight of flaws
I have for darkness can conceal
what light can reveal and
imperfections may draw
me away from
you

Darkness became an unexpected friend. It could hide the unsightly blemishes on my face.

Under the sun or the artificial lights, I felt vulnerable. My breakouts were laid bare for everyone to notice and mock.

Yes, the darkness proved itself to conceal what I was most scared of seeing.

Asking God to Heal My Acne

I was desperate. I haggled with God: If it’s not possible not to break out, I asked Him to just let it stay on my back. I had back and chest acne since high school, and I didn’t care at all because it was easier to hide.

I thought my prayers were finally heard. My skin looked clear after my breakouts subsided. But after a few weeks, they reared their ugly heads again.

That’s when I realized I shouldn’t have  bothered myself praying to God. Answers to prayers had always been unpredictable and unreliable.            

I never knew when the next flare-up would occur, or how long it would last. This filled me with constant anxiety.

I was disgusted with my skin, with my existence. The identity I longed for seemed, once more, just beyond my grasp.

I thought, this time, I could win against the odds, yet acne disrupted my calculations.

It was the summer break in 2009 when I had very dark and sinister thoughts—Why not just die, Lara? Slash and stab yourself. Make sure blood gushes out from you.

After contemplating suicide in my half-lit room, I reached for my Nokia flip-phone. I scanned FM channels to listen to music.

“…fiery lake of burning sulfur is their destiny. And this is what the Bible calls the second death,” a voice of an unknown preacher aired on a random channel.

Some sort of spiritual reality awakened me. I truly believed what I just heard. Then, I recalled that my religion class had taught me that suicide is a sin.

I wanted to end my life because I thought it would take my pain away. If it would only bring me hellish agony, suicide wouldn’t be the best option to escape my meaningless existence.

Afraid to kill myself yet without the strength to live, I begged, “If killing myself would send me to hell, then God, please just kill me! At least, my worthless life will end, and I don’t have to go to hell!”

I tried to merely exist because the other option terrified me.

An Anxious Existence

Although I hated looking at my reflection, I often found myself fixated on my skin for long hours.

It was a relentless tug-of-war between self-loathing and self-soothing.

Taking pictures also gave me so much anxiety. It hurt to see that both my image in the picture and my reflection in the mirror only confirmed what I dreaded to see.

My inner life was hurting and so was my social life. I still wanted to fight for my life.

But my coping mechanisms, though were not risky or injurious, were so unhealthy. The quality of my everyday existence had only regressed more and more.

Spending time alone shouldn’t be a depleting but enriching moment for me. But what was happening to me wasn’t the classic introvert’s itch for solitary bliss. This was a forced withdrawal and a self-imposed cut-off from social life.

I wished I was like those other college students. They were enjoying their lives and the people around them.

I couldn’t ask my then boyfriend for the relief I needed because I didn’t have a pretty face to ask for it. I knew he would give it anyway, but I couldn’t reach for it—I was too paralyzed and too defeated.

Wasn’t it just last month that I was so optimistic that my new skincare routine would help me? Nothing happened! What a ruthless acne!

There were days that I wouldn’t talk to him even when we were together.  The mental battle left me so fatigued that chatting with him was so hard to do.

My emotional tank was running low; I couldn’t connect with him. All I wanted to happen was for the day to end and crawl back to my bed.

He sent me a text message: “Why do you love sleeping? You have the eternity to sleep anyway.” I deleted the message after reading it.

If there were just other ways that could help me in taming my distressing thoughts, I would have considered his argument. But sleeping offered what I needed—a break from obsessing my acne.

What was I supposed to do? I could only hide. And I could only sleep more.

Of course, I did try to shift my mindset that I was just totally OK and normal despite my acne. That my appearance didn’t reflect my innate worth.

I tried to feel and act confidently.  I smiled, yet even that had to be faked. But outcomes couldn’t be faked—my numerous attempts always backfired.

I wanted to cage my anxious thoughts, but they were ravenous wolves, merciless intruders. They would attack even in the middle of my professor’s lecture.

They seized me by the neck, dragging me to mental exhaustion and depression. They surrounded me with howls of despair, and that’s what I could only hear and believe.

That happened every single day. I would desperately look forward to each day’s end so that sleep could mute my mental demons.

A Frail Decision to Live

There was a dear friend, Grace. Indeed, she was kindness personified.

We were making our way towards the two benches shaded by a tree when my gaze instinctively lifted to the sky. Its somber overcast caught my attention. Was the sky reflecting the heaviness within me?

No doubt, that was the time to confess.

“Grace, I want to die,” I told her almost stoically.

“No, Lara!” There was distress in her voice and her face’s cheerfulness became burdened with sadness.

She composed herself and spoke again in her most reassuring voice.

“God takes care of the birds. They don’t plant or harvest, but God feeds them. If God cares about the birds, then He cares for you so much more.”

I begged God to kill me, yet Grace explained that my well-being is God’s interest.

I realized God would contradict Himself if He answered my plea. So, I decided, I would try to live even if I didn’t know if my life was worth something. 

Do You Care, God?  

I asked my then boyfriend why I felt God was so distant. He speculated God must be busy.

“There are many things He has to attend to. You know how the world is now,” he said.

If indeed God was busy attending to the weightier concerns of the universe, my life wasn’t categorically tragic enough that He’d rescue me. I still had it easy compared to others.

But I hoped God would save me to see if He was truly kind and loving as Grace assured me. Yet, I feared God would look down on me and say, “It’s just acne. Get a grip.”

I asked God to kill me, that a car should run over me or something. But it never happened. So, if my life was worth something, then God should better show me.

I couldn’t see any other meaning in my life beyond the identity I desired for myself.

It would guarantee me the best shot to confidently interact with the world and chart my course to a successful life as a young woman. It would also secure attention and affection from the people around me.

Acne ruined my chance and my vision.

But little did I know this was the start of my acne and faith journey.

If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. Start by reaching out to friends, family, a pastor, or other trusted individuals who can provide emotional support and guidance. It is crucial to talk to someone you trust about your feelings and struggles. For immediate help in the U.S., 24/7, call 988 or go to 988lifeline.org. Outside of the U.S., visit suicidestop.com for suicide hotlines in your country.