So I have this problem. And you probably have it too. It’s called casual self-diagnosis…
Anxiety? Constantly needing to feel in control? Hypochondria? Perpetual sweating? Bad circulation? I don’t mean to trivialize the reality and often severity of any of these conditions. However, I can probably name a dozen other illnesses and ailments that I’m sure we’ve all offhandedly convinced ourselves that we have. So what’s my self-diagnosed affliction? I’ve coined it: Skin Dysmorphia.
I should probably specify that it’s actually just Facial Skin Dysmorphia. To be frank, there is hardly anything that exacerbates my anxiety (also self-diagnosed) more than seeing a fat red pimple on my face. Or a whitehead. Honestly, what ARE those? No, I don’t want to walk to class when a triad of zits has somehow emerged on my left temple in the five short hours I was asleep. No, I don’t really want to interact with the cute barista at Blue State when my hairline is flaking because I’m from California and this November air is way too dry. How am I supposed to be taken seriously in the world when my skin is still like that of a pubescent teenage boy? I thought adults weren’t supposed to have pimples?! Really think about it for a hot second. Have you noticed a professor or a friend’s parent with zits? A grandparent? An employer? I honestly don’t think I ever have. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE? Do our bodies just decide: “Today is the day [said individual] is actually becoming a real-world, real-life adult. Let’s clear up that skin!”?
I wouldn’t be surprised if it was true. Something supernatural is definitely going on here. What other possible explanation could there be?! Okay, so maybe I’m a little outlandish and a little hyperbolic (also self-diagnosed). I just want my skin to be *~flawless~* — is that so much to ask??
Yes, in fact it is. So, what’s the solution to my hypersensitivity about the bags under my eyes or the recurring bump on my right nostril? How can we handle our hypochondria?
Make light of yourself. Let your friends in on your moments of insanity. All of mine love to tease me when I forget my “Undercover Pot” concealer at home or emerge from my room with a slightly noticeable pimple. Let your insecurities and your craziness become just a quirky part of who you are. Sure, maybe one day I’ll feel facial skin dysmorphia free. But for now? I’ll still hold onto my cover up like I once did my pacifier and simultaneously try to come to terms with the fact that sometimes, we just get zits.
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