A Surprisingly Sane Blog

I would make a really craptacular Muslim or Mormon or person of any other belief system that requires or recommends that their women wear extremely modest clothing and/or cover up completely.

Actually, I should rephrase that… up until now, I would have been fine in one of those religions or cultures because my skin has been so hideous for the past two decades that I have never had the opportunity to wear non-nun clothing without feeling self-conscious and embarrassed that my back, chest, and shoulder acne would completely gross out any on-looker.

And the reason I’d make a really awful covered-up person? Because I’m finally at the point where I could go on a halter-top, spaghetti-strap, backless, frontless, shit-I-should-just-skip-the-top shopping spree, and Holy Crap, I’ve never been so excited to be able to shop before!

World, thanks to Accutane, my skin looks and feels FREAKING AMAZING! I still have a little under two months to go, but the difference is incredible. For probably the first time ever, I can actually leave my house without some form of concealer on my face, and I’m getting brave enough to consider wearing tops that show off a little skin on my back for social dance settings (and not just as part of a costume, where I’m far enough from the audience for them to see just how imperfect my pale skin has always been).

Seriously, LOOK AT THE SKIN ON MY FACE IN THIS PICTURE (since, you know, the lovely Haleakala Volcano isn’t interesting at all)… sure, I’m wearing sunglasses and the rest of me is covered, but I’m not wearing any makeup AT ALL, and my skin is actually smooth and clear in bright sunshine. I could cry.

I am still mystified by what a big effing deal Accutane supposedly is. Like every drug, it has its side effects, but mine have been so minor that it has certainly been worth every 30mg pill I’ve downed with a bottle of rum alongside my nightly bowl of lithium thus far.

I can’t wait to post the before and after shots… but alas, you have to wait. Volcanic eruptions take time to clear up, and my skin needs a little more time before I’m willing to bare it all.

Current Mood: Cool

For a change, for real!

I haven’t had any trouble with Accutane whatsoever. None of the side effects that are written all over the 10-page list of warnings. My skin is a little more fragile than usual, which isn’t much of a change for me. I still have acne, but it’s clearing up significantly. My night vision sucks, but it always has.

But something that I realized lately? Get this: I can go for more than 12 hours without my hair looking greasy. No joke. I am one of those people who, since I was twelve, has had to scrub the crap out of my hair with the “for oily hair shampoo” every single morning because by night, my head looked like a greaseball teenage I-haven’t-washed-my-hair-in-5-days effect. Yup, that was me. The oil production hasn’t slowed down, even though I’m pushing thirty. Hair stylists say one shouldn’t wash their hair every day, but I have always had to. Even a hat can’t mask what my poor skin has been capable of.

Recently, I have discovered that not only is my hair not greasy by the end of the day any longer, but it’s also still clean-looking the next day. That means that I have been able to get away with not washing my hair if I have an early-morning doctor appointment, or evening if I wake up and the style still looks fresh and cute.

Dude. Right now, I’m seriously loving this drug. Not only is it cleaning up my skin, but I no longer look like I could grease an engine all by myself.

Awesome side effect.

Current Mood: Cool

One of my greatest frustrations in the artistic world (which could easily transfer over into the professional world of any sort, really) is watching or dealing with individuals who try to leap before they have figured out how to put one foot in front of the other. It amazes me- the number of people who think they’re really something or they’ve really got it long before they truly have any clue of what it is can be flat-out dumbfounding. And sometimes, it’s downright embarrassing. As in, I cringe and feel embarrassed for them because I see the true clueless look on their face while others are snickering in the background.

Perhaps blissful ignorance is something I should be praying for… I don’t know. I tell James and my sister on a regular basis: sometimes I wish I were incredibly dumb and beautiful and happy all the freaking time. Life would be bliss. My sister agrees, and James always laughs and tells me that my quick and ever-busy mind is one of the things that he finds most attractive about me. But anyways, back to the point.

There’s a certain amount of humility that is a necessary part to achieving just about anything in life. I’m no expert on it. I’ve learned the hard way on occasion, and I’ve taken the more humble route. Sometimes, I go too far in the “take my time, be humble, and truly get there” direction to the point where people look at me and tell me to get real… and that’s not good, either. But at least I don’t have a false impression of how amazing I am… right? right?

One of the best examples? Okay, so get this: a few weeks ago, I “liked” this thing on Facebook that said, “Having a nice camera does not make you a good photographer“. Holy crap, so freaking true. Photography? Some people have a knack for it for sure, but it takes more than just a good eye, camera, and knowledge of photoshop. “Photographers” don’t actually need photoshop to make their work look amazing, you know? They have a clear idea of cropping, lighting, angle, depth of field, colors, textures, interesting subjects, etc. I have some friends that do beautiful photography. And then I run into photos taken by “photographers” who were amateur at best and actually charged for their total crap photos. An untrained eye may or may not realize just how bad that picture is… you know, it’s a picture of their kid and ANY pic of your own kid is adorable… but seriously? Why the hell do so many people with a nice camera that does all the work for them STILL manage to have out-of-focus subjects and bad lighting make the mistake of thinking “wow, that pic I took is really something!” just because someone told them they loved that photo of their kid and holy cow! You should totally be a photographer! And then they think they *are* some amazing photographer.

I took photography classes at the university during college, and I was all into the whole photo-journalism thing. I learned how to use a completely manual old-style film Single Lens Reflex (SLR) camera and received A’s in all my classes. I played with my camera for years, trying to refine the usage of that heavy camera made the same year I was born. To this day, it still takes the most amazing photos I’ve seen. But now, I have my super nice Digital SLR, and the ease of using it has just completely biased my thoughts of ever returning to film. The DSLR is just so much easier, and I can pump out several beautiful in-focus photographs in a matter of seconds. And yes, with risk of sounding incredibly full of it, I do have an eye for photography and I practice pretty frequently.

However, I have no false impression that I am better than I am. I’m no portrait photographer, I couldn’t win a contest, and I’m not like some of my friends who are talented and skilled enough to make a living off of it. And yes, when I clicked that Facebook link, I was referring to myself just as much as I was about the masses of stories I hear and stories I see regarding how much someone paid for a shit-tacular photographer.

For some reason, today I am struggling with these thoughts. Probably because there is a major dance competition happening this weekend here in Seattle, and the fact that competition has been the catalyst for many a psychotic breakdown for me has me anxious that I might fall spiraling into the shit that is bipolar hell at its worst.

As high up as I get in the dance world, I never want to lose what makes dancing a joy to partake in, nor the spark that makes my dance inspiring to my students and others. I fear that with labels, I will forget that I am always first a student, and second a professional, and eventually, that my desire to achieve more will cease. I never want to be that girl who has given up practice, label myself a professional, and loses what is special about me. And in other words, I never want to call myself a photographer when I am not, in fact, actually one. Because a true photographer? They still see the flaws in their work and strive for higher.

It’s not a crime, I know, but the difference is important to me.

And if you don’t mind, say a prayer or do a little dance to the rain goddess for me, mmmkay? Tomorrow I dive in head-first to DJ the early bird dance of one of the biggest dance competitions of the year, and my stomach is eating itself. And not because I have to compete in the pro division for one of the comps. It’s because last year, I was at just about the lowest point I’ve ever been. It was before “bipolar disorder” rang in my ears, before Lithium keeping me sane, and right before I told James that I was divorcing him. To say I am nervous to deal with the inevitable flashbacks is a massive understatement.

I want to come out breathing on the other side of this upcoming weekend.

Current Mood: Alarmed

It dawned on me recently that I will be 30 this year. And along with that truth, I realized with utter horror- and I mean WITH UTTER FUCKING HORROR- that this also means that I have had acne for nearly two decades. That’s 20 years. That means that I have had acne for 2/3 of my life. And when I say acne, I don’t mean like a blackhead or small whitehead or ten. I mean full-blown, painful nodular acne. The kind that makes little kids and potential dates scream and run away.

[I wanted to insert a photo of nodular acne here, but decided for you viewing pleasure, I'd leave it for you to google.]

I started seeing a dermatologist when I first turned twelve, back in the seventh grade. My bangs covered the majority of the hideous clogged pores and blackheads, but they began traveling down to the rest of my face like a warrior march. The stupid Catholic school kids that I was forced to call my classmates had a joyride with the war breaking out on my face- I was humiliated, and I became sullen and withdrawn. Luckily, my parents agreed I should see a dermatologist, and then commenced my multi-decade relationship with various skin-conscious MDs.

It was a good move because with their help, my acne was somewhat under control. Except for one part of it: my back and shoulders. While my face appeared fairly clear with all the topical and oral medications, the cystic acne hiding like a hideous creature under my shirt made it impossible for me to ever wear a tank top or a bathing suit or even a shirt that didn’t come clear up to the back of my neck without shielding it with some kind of cover-up. That’d be all good if I were one of my modest religious friends, except for the fact that I’m a heathen who wants to be able to wear a tank top on the damn beach when I hang out in Hawaii. But besides that, it has always been something that I have been so ashamed of that it’s made me uncomfortable having my own supportive, loving husband (who is a cystic acne survivor himself) look at my naked body for fear that he’d scream and bolt out the window when I’ve been going through rough patches with it.

Along the way I tried a plethora of washes and creams and gels and pills in orange cases from the pharmacy. I laid down on medical tables (sans stirrups) while nurses poked my face with exacto knives and zit-poppers, then finished off the painful facial with a dry-ice “slush” as they called it. The drug “Accutane” popped up in conversation with pamphlets and recommendations for it, but it seemed so drastic that I didn’t want to got that route just yet. My doctors assured me that when I reached my twenties, I’d see a noticeable decline in my acne.

They weren’t right. My acne didn’t go away, it just changed. Instead of a gazillion clogged pores and acne along my hairline, it moved and shifted around my face, became more cystic. I tried using Proactiv… it worked for Jessica Simpson, so I might as well, right? It did work pretty well for my wedding day, but it bleached all my towels and clothes, and then I became pregnant.

Over the last few months, I have become that person wearing gobs of foundation and concealer and even avoiding social situations that I know will bring me in close proximity of other people just because of my skin. Imagine how tough it’s been for me to teach my Friday night classes and private lessons in a well-lit ballroom. Yeah. It’s been humiliating. I just want to cry every time I think about it. Who wants to learn to dance from a pizza-face? I tried going back on the Proactiv when my acne flared up to ridiculous measures, but it seemed to make it worse, believe it or not. So I ordered their maximum strength formula, and that barely helped.

And then, a few weeks ago, I realized I had made a monumental decision for myself: I am choosing to go on Accutane after all.

Accutane is a serious drug, and it can be dangerous for some people, so I have always been disinterested in actually using it. My perspective changed when I realized two things: #1) my acne has only gotten much worse with age, and it hasn’t shown any signs of improving after two decades, and #2) My chances of having a *really bad* side effects while undergoing treatment is only like 1 in 40,000. I also spoke with a couple of friends who used it and were extremely pleased with the outcome. Neither of them had any problems whatsoever, and neither have any of the other people I’ve spoken to about their first-hand experiences with it over the years.

I considered many other options, but this is the one that’s permanent and targets the specific type of acne that I have. So I found a local dermatologist, went in for a consult, she agreed Accutane would be a good choice for me, and I started the one-month iPledge process before starting on my 5-month journey to clear skin. The only requirements are that I agree to not get pregnant and that I not give blood. Considering I actively attempt to not get pregnant every time I have sex because my husband is officially sterile, and the fact that I don’t give blood anymore because I got turned away for low iron and blacking out every time I gave it, yeah, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.

And yes, I’ll post pics. But only after I’m done. I’m far too embarrassed to show photos of my hideous skin pre-treatment until I have a pretty clear-skinned photo to add next to it.

Current Mood: Cool

I’ve been trying really hard to determine whether I’m a pessimist, as it appears to be, or an optimist, but I’m having crap luck proving that my life is centered around pessimism.

I’m certainly no Ms. Mary Fucking Sunshine, even from a crackhead’s perspective. I am always prepared to hear the worst from job applications, medical test results, and whatever else comes hurling my way. If the kids are being  miserable and awful and I feel like screaming, pulling my hair own, and drowning myself in our bear-claw tub, then dammit, I’ll say it just like it is. When stupid people attach themselves to me like velcro, I’ll yank away and fully admit the reason I slipped out of their life.

But does any of this really make me pessimistic? I just don’t see it that way. Honest to God, I actually see a half-full glass the majority of the time. I don’t look at my life and think it’s shit, believe it or not. I look at all the things I’ve accomplished, my beautiful girls, my amazing house, my incredible husband, and all the bits and pieces that make up me, and I am amazed that 1) I made it to this point despite my illness, and 2) I’m proud of who I am and everything I’ve done to get me to this point. While I admit to feel liking a failure from time to time, I don’t look at myself and think **FAILURE**. In fact, I consider failures to be positives… how else am I going to know that a particular job wasn’t right for me, or that I need to study harder to pass that test, or I need to practice that routine a million and one times more than I originally thought?

I really believe that a truly pessimistic person cannot see the positives in failure, and that a failure on one’s behalf crushes their will to pursue whatever it was they were striving for.

As for myself, I don’t love trying to group myself into a definition of optimism or pessimism. I think I would certainly be seen more as a pessimist, particularly to my husband who told me recently that he downright hates how negative and pessimistic I am, but I truly just can’t concur with that thought.

Instead, I honestly feel I am much more middle of the road. Truly a realist. If I fail a test, that means I could potentially fail the class, and that sucks… but If I work my ass off, I might be able to raise my grade to something more acceptable. And on the flip side, if I ace a test, that’s great, but if I let it take control, I might fail that next test because I was too busy gloating about my A to be prepared for the next exam. Disappointment in that first scenario is a given because I want to do well. It’s that initial drive to do well and whether I let failure overcome me or drive me to succeed that proves on what side of the fence I stand.

So despite my husband’s thought that I’m all negativity at pessimism, I’m going to tally the score and prove otherwise:

Optimism: somewhat

Pessimism: somewhat

Drive to Succeed: absolutely

Continued Fight to Succeed after Failure: my specialty

Sorry, James, you’re wrong. But that’s a good thing this time. Stop seeing me as all negativity and pessimism just because I’m not afraid to say it like it is. There’s a bit of positivity in all that. We’ll just be cocky and say it’s because I’ve got a pretty good head on my shoulders… most of the time.

Current Mood: Alarmed