At age 13, I was prescribed the antibiotic Tetracycline for my rapidly-spreading acne problem. At the moment, blisteringly-red bubbles, some filled with a sickly cesspool of oxygenated pus, were emerging from my skin like stars in the dawn sky. It was critical I treat this acne, as my emaciated 135-pound body, bottle-thick glasses, and history of bad fashion decisions already had me reeling in the economically-charged social hierarchies of the 8th grade universe. My doctor, more than fifty years past understanding the first thing of life as an ugly 8th-grader, blithely prescribed an antibiotic that he'd probably been prescribing since he became a doctor. Tetracycline, in particular, was patented by Pfizer in 1950, and since that time, was used the world over in a misunderstood attempt to control the bacteria acne vulgaris, which was, at the time, thought to be the core cause of acne in the faces of youth such as myself. Partly, I blame this failure on doctors failing to appreciate that getting acne as a youth is the emotional equivalent of getting a disease as an adult. Your young mind is devastated on all levels. The lonely fear of mockery in front of Michelle, the smoldering brunette seductress from Geography, or Tara, the playful, innocent, clarinet-playing blonde from six-period Band class, was a fear perhaps only felt by the astronauts of Apollo 13. The humiliation scars you in a way well past the acne itself, resulting in a stunted development of self-confidence which is never truly overcome, no matter how much money, pussy, or success you accumulate (unfortunately, i've accumulated none of any of these things).
The inherent problem with Tetracycline (that of utter ineffectiveness) was actually masked by an altogether different problem: i had a highly unrealistic fear of choking on the 50 mg pills I was prescribed. The fear of choking had manifested itself throughout my life, such so that at this point, I had only consumed one or two pills ever. Thus, my mind was host to a battle-royale between my two biggest mental terrors. In one corner, was the unrelenting desire to eradicate my acne, lest my self-image of looking like the elephant man remained with me for life. In the other corner, was the heaving, looming prospect of death by choking. The pills might of well been bowling balls. The first round was a draw. I initially tried to cut the pills in half, and then swallow them. This proved disastrous, as the pills became jagged upon cutting, poking holes in my throat upon the swallow. The second round was also a draw, as in the attempt to force the pill down my throat, i accidentally swallowed unintentionally. It went down easy, but I cannot take credit for the swallowing. Rounds three through fifteen hundred were won by the desire to rid myself of acne, although each night, the pill swallowing process took about eighteen terrifying minutes.
In the end, as expected, the doctor's lack of imaginative, or accurate, treatment resulted in little improvement. So it probably didn't matter whether or not I took the pills. The acne remained for another year, before the wonderous drug known as Acutane ridded me of it forever, while simultaneously ridding me of a functioning liver, lower pancreas, and left kidney.
This memory, and hence this blog, emerged a few days back, at a work party. For reasons I needn't explain now, the party included a beer bong. As the beer bong was passed around, as it was for Lee's bachelor party, the exact same flood of feelings stormed into my mind as they did at age 13. Fears of choking, coughing, lung disruptions. So I made an excuse, and parted myself from the group.
It was then I realized, I may be 32, but really, i'm 13, and always will be.