Pricking thoughts
Such is the entry title as this is a product of my most recent visit to the dermclinic.
For a little over a month, I’ve been consistently bothered by the little pests that are not-yet-but-soon-to-be-be zits on my face. I’ve been going regularly to the derma since late last year as, though i was never entirely pimply, my skin was never entirely clear either. I missed several sessions the past weeks, which resulted in me being beset with constant worry about my face eventually breaking out. I knew for a fact that if I tarried further, this dreadful thing is bound to happen!
Well, I digress. My skin condition is not really the purpose of this blog entry.
The other night, for my own peace of mind, I went finally went to the dermclinic for the much-needed facial. This also translates to subjecting my face to several minutes of kneading, mashing and pricking. It really is amusing how women–and even men, straight or otherwise– voluntarily go through painful treatments just to be (or at least feel) beautiful. Even if it hurts, you still see the customers coming in for more doses of throbbing ache.
As the specialist went on with her usual torture routine, my mind was filled with thoughts for a new blog entry. Weird how inspiration to write could come at the oddest times. Or perhaps it was a subconcious way for me to take my mind off the painful assault caused by the derma lady’s skillful (yet merciless!) hands.
One thing I was reminded of then, and what I have always known about myself, is that I have incredible tolerance for pain; both the physical and emotional kind. Not that I am numb to hurt. Believe me, I’m not. However, more often than not, I can manage to go on as if nothing’s wrong despite feeling massive anguish caused by whatever.
As I already mentioned above, the lady ridding my face of pimplets was merciless. Her hands probed and groped, pinched, nipped, and squeezed–I could only bite my lip and grimace as tears fell with each painful contact. Unlike other derma girls, she didn’t even wipe off my tears. Unbothered by them, she went on. But she got the job done. And fast. And I liked her for that, and quickly decided that I’ll look for her again the next time I come back.
15 minutes of continuous physical agony, but it liberated me from more days of fretting over when the expected breakout will happen. Now, I’m still nursing small wounds and some stinging sensation here and there caused by the latest torture session . But at least I am now pimplet-worry-free!
I am no masochist, but I prefer my pain served in one heap, delivered in one blow. I couldn’t care less if the hurt is extreme. I’ll find relief in the knowledge that, clearly, it’s over and done with. There’s nothing I detest more than small worries that would constantly pester me and stay for an unbelievably long time. Like those pimplets that caused me annoyance, however slight, each time I washed my face. Like small worries. Like itsy-bitsy irriations that wouldn’t go away. As what I always say, "Kesa pitik-pitikin mo ako ng ilang buwan, sapakin mo na lang ako ng isang beses." That’s a metaphor, of course.
Nonetheless, I told the derma lady that she couldn’t lay a hand on my nose, the skin above my upper lip, and my chin. I don’t have visible problems in those areas, and I really do not care if I grow one or two pimples there. Pricking those sensitive spots would cause me way too much hurt that is for no great cause anyway.
Some pain are just not worth enduring.
