Howl

This year has been a good one as far as my skin's been concerned. Until the last fortnight, when it went completely, utterly crazy. I thought it was stress, I thought it was hormones, I thought it was horrible. So, on Friday, when I had a pre-booked appointment to see my GP, I mentioned it to her. She agreed that it was horrible. She prescribed me some new antibiotics, and a course of the contraceptive pill. I'm taking the antibiotics, and carrying out a bit of a cost/benefit analysis on the contraceptive pill. Generally, it makes me a total mentalist, so I'm a bit wary. I'm currently hoping the antibiotics will be enough to restore balance, and stop me scaring small children.

I mentioned the lurking lumps to my mother, who sympathised. And today, on the phone, she asked me how my appointment had been. I told her, and she sympathised some more. Then she went on to tell me how P's daughter (all conversational roads lead to P, no matter where they start) has terrible skin. She told me that every time she talks to her, all she can think is how awful her skin is, and what a shame it is.

I know I'm too sensitive, I know I should be grateful for my mother's sympathy, and I know she was trying to conjure up a "common bond" between P's daughter (I refuse to think in terms of step-siblings at this stage) and myself. But really, in conversations about skin complaints, the only acceptable thing to say is that no-one else really notices. I've gone from feeling ugly and self-conscious, but thinking I'm more aware of it than anyone else, to feeling ugly and self-conscious, and thinking everyone else is actually thinking how hideous I am.

I know, I know, I know. My blog, my rules though, and I just had to unload that one somewhere.

Howl - Florence and the Machine