This is a response to the word prompt posted by WordPress. It popped on my feed and even though I had something to write already, I thought this would be fun.
During that wonderful (awful) period a few weeks ago when I spiraled into an anxious depression, I had a zit. I was very fortunate in high school to not be one of those kids whose face is covered in them. I always got a big one on my nose around my period and that was it. My mom had this Lancôme product sitting around so whenever this zit appeared I’d put some of the gel on it and that was it. I never picked at these things. I picked at just about everything else – my ears, my head, my nails – but I never messed with the pimples or zits because I always heard I shouldn’t. In my panicked state, I forgot this awesome life-decision and picked at one. And then picked at it more. I was basically digging into my chin, trying to get out a “sac” because I figured a zit is just a very tiny cyst and if you don’t get a cyst-sac out when trying to get rid of one, they’re very likely to come back. I have no idea if zits have sacs or if they’re even remotely similar to cysts but I want to make sure you understand just how deep I went. I used my nails, I got out some sewing pins in an attempt to “open” the zit and expel puss. I use quotations because it was very open already.
After a week of neosporin, lotion, and other things that didn’t work, I still look like I tripped and skinned my face. I had managed to not only dig deep but scratch off the skin around the zit. So forever on now I have this reminder of what my anxiety can do to me. I’m hoping to see a dermatologist and have the scar radiated off with a laser. They can do that, right?