Even now, eleven years later, I can still remember the first time a boy pointed out a pimple on my face. We were standing in the lunch line and he mentioned it. That’s it. He just pointed it out and turned back around after I made a face at him, eyes burning with tears. To him it was a simple observation, but to me it was the soul-crushing realization that other people could see my flaws that I tried to keep far away from the daylight. That moment started a years-long battle against my skin, and even my own identity.
At first, it seemed I might just get a few pimples like some of my friends. Pimples that you’d notice, but that would go away within a few days. I reasoned
