Ever since the onset of puberty (a glorious biological experience, sarcasm intended), I've struggled with acne, pimple scars and discoloration: everybody's least favorite facial cocktail. It was at its worst in middle school, with pimples the size of mars developing on my nose and chin, regions of the face that aren't easy to conceal.

Acne is more emotionally draining than it is biologically. It's a part of yourself that you want to hide but can't, that's on display for the rest of the world to criticize and judge. It's painful to feel such a vulnerability in public.

And even after I got it together, began washing my face regularly and eating more healthily, my face didn't have a metamorphosis. I didn't transition from a caterpillar to a butterfly. Sure, some pimples left, but others remained. And no amount of washing can churn away scars from previous acne. As if making you insecure wasn't bad enough, pimple scars serve as remnants of said insecurity, reminding you of what it felt like.

And contrary to popular belief, not everybody who has acne is dirty, doesn't wash their face or eats poorly. I have friends whose diets consist primarily of junk foods and sodas, with spotless, flawless skin. I wash my face three times a day with moderately priced, quality cleansers, soaps or simply water. I eat the right servings of fruits and vegetables, and I limit my consumption of dairy. Yet acne reigns supreme.

Some things are beyond my control and within the realm of genetics. My face is the way it is on its own accord and not through any fault of my own. Sugar exasperates the problem at hand, sure, but it doesn't make acne appear out of the blue.

Acne is, for lack of a better-fitting word, annoying. It's annoying to have your imperfections on display, ripe for the world's judgement.

Yes, acne sucks, but as time goes by, it heals all wounds. And hopefully, pimple scars too.