How do? I’m just back from a night out for Zoe’s birthday. Left them all stumbling to Wick, just starting to move the night up a gear, smudged mascara and ice cubes down necks and trips to the bathroom, but ancient creaking me ducked into a taxi and trundled on home.
Sat up here with the rain falling against the skylight, editing photos, playing around with Lightroom presets; now to wing this off and then to bed.
Feeling flat. Don’t want to be back at work tomorrow. It’s so good not being at work. Maybe I’ll buy a little Fujifilm camera and go travelling the world. Just fuck the fuck off from this boring Northern town. But I need to sort my skin out first. My acne is getting worse and worse, especially on my chest. The only thing that helped it in the past was Roaccutane, the big daddy of acne medications, only prescribed by dermatologists, a list of side-effects long as your arm, and regular blood tests to ensure it’s not doing serious damage to liver or kidneys.
But it works. The only thing that works when you’ve got severe acne, a God-send, a chance at freedom, at being normal - and it kept me clear for four years or so, finally got on it at 24, after creams, gels, washes, after three different courses of antibiotics which is, or was, SOP for GPs, couldn’t suggest Roaccutane unless other courses have been shown to be exhausted, so start on an antibiotic, skin gets worse for a month, then it settles, gets better, but not clear, for maybe five months, then the acne becomes resistant and the pills are useless, and you’ve burnt through a precious antibiotic, wasted half a year, and your skin is worse than ever. So I did that three times, which, motherfuck any GP who thinks that’s a good idea, seriously, you are an idiot, get to hell with that crap.
And but then I finally got referred to a dermatologist. Months waiting for that appointment. Then a what do you call it, an initial assessment, then weeks later another appointment to be prescribed the Roaccutane, then six months on that, lips cracking, scalp peeling, slathering on sunscreen to go out even in British spring… but it worked. It cleared me up completely. Still the scars, of course, I’d always have those, but not a single new spot for the last three months of the course. And none for years afterwards.
And then a few. Here and there.
And then a few more.
And then, by a few years ago, it was back at the level of continuous light acne.
And then more like moderate. And then more like severe.
Until now it’s almost as bad as in my early twenties. So I guess there’s nothing for it but a trip back to the dermatologist, and another course of Roaccutane. But, what the hell, I’ve done it once, and it wasn’t that bad. It’s supposed to be as effective the second time, if not more so.
Anyway, I’ve made a GP appointment. That’s the first step. And that’s the only thing I can do right now. Do what you can, and don’t sweat the rest.
That’s me, zen as fuck, up here in my attic bedroom at 3:07am, with my failing skin, my mechanical keyboard, a mug of cooling Earl Grey, a bed calling to me.
Until tomorrow.
Loves xx
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