Seventeen.
My life revolved around avoiding food and the obsessive pursuit of clear skin.
The low-backed unitard [I bought for my dance classes] only came out of the drawer on days when my aggressive “bacne” had called a temporary truce.
Benzoyl Peroxide was my loyal friend, but an enemy to my wardrobe, bleaching the edges of my favorite clothes.
I just knew my life would be 1000 times better if only my skin would clear up.
Most days I would have happily worn a hijab.
Hormones create a special kind of torture for young and old alike.
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PS — Pssst! Know someone who might benefit from seeing this today? Pass it on!
