I can’t bear to look in a mirror, yet I can’t drag myself away.
I inspect myself closely. Scrutinise myself.
Is it any better? Is it any worse?
Every time I look, it’s changed.
Every. Single. Time.
There’s blood on my pillowcase.
And blood on my hands.
Blood on my face.
And flakes of skin.
Skin falling onto my keyboard.
Skin falling onto the lenses of my glasses.
I look masculine.
There was once a reasonable-looking woman under there.
She is gone.
Will she be back?
My face has lost its shape.
It’s distorted and swollen.
My chin runs straight into my neck.
It feels like sandpaper, not skin.
I can’t bear to touch it, yet I can’t resist touching it.
It aches and it’s sore.
It throbs and it burns.
It’s so dry.
I moisturise it.
But moisturiser hurts.
Washing and cleansing hurts.
I look like Freddie Krueger.
That is not a good look.
I hate it.
Will I ever look like me again?
Will I ever feel like me again?
Last year I did some work with Sk:n Clinics on adult acne. They made two women up with prosthetic acne. It was horrific. I had never looked like that bad before. Yeah, you guessed it. I now look way, way worse than that.