As publicly oversharing our deepest, darkest secrets is our birthright, even our duty, as Americans, I’ve decided to fess up to my secret obsession. I’m sure some will judge me harshly, but here goes.
I was about thirteen or so, the time in life when the hormones are really ramping up and spurring unsettling changes in your body, when I first tried it. Natural curiosity played a part, of course, but having two older sisters likely played an even bigger part. I’d been exposed to things other kids might not have been. It was just a matter of time before I imitated what I’d seen. At first, I thought my activity was a well-kept secret, but the more I did it, the more obvious it became to everyone. I would come out from behind my locked bedroom door and the evidence was written all over my face.
“Were you picking at those two pimples again?” my mother would fairly shriek, grabbing my chin and pulling my face within an inch of hers to inspect the damage.
Drat, busted!
“You had better stop picking at your face or you are going to make it worse and end up with scars,” she’d scold. Then she’d always finish with this dramatic, albeit empty, threat, “If I see red marks on your face again, I’m going to glue boxing mitts on your hands until you finish puberty!
Of course, my mother never glued any mitts to my hands, so I continued picking and popping my way through adolescence whenever my face presented an opportunity, which was never often enough to please me. Yes, some would say I was among the lucky teens who largely escaped true acne, but for someone jonesing for a good pop, it was frustrating. Fortunately (for me), my high school boyfriend was not only considerate enough to break out more frequently than I, but also generous enough to let me pick at him to my twisted heart’s content. Those were some good times.
But long dark decades of clear adult skin followed, and my addiction had nowhere to go but into remission. I even deluded myself into believing I’d been “cured” of my obsession—until 2018, that is, when cable TV introduced me to Sandra Lee, M.D., yes, Dr. Pimple Popper herself. I couldn’t believe my good fortune to live in a time when such fascinating—some would say bizarre and disgusting—niche programming was available with the touch of the remote.
The opening credits of the first episode were enough to reawaken the sleeping giant of my addiction, and for a time, watching the weekly show was enough to satisfy my need. But as often happens with addiction, no matter how much you get of the forbidden fruit, you always crave more. So, I began binge watching (on repeat) the entire Youtube catalogue of Dr. Pimple Popper videos. That turned out to be the slippery slope where I lost my footing, the gateway into the “dark web” of skin care videos. I’m talking about videos that originate from skin “spas” the globe over, featuring technicians poking, prodding, picking, and popping some of the most severe cases in the annals of acne.
I realize these videos are nothing short of abject pimple porn, and shameful though it may be, I am hooked; I can’t stop watching the proverbial trainwrecks. (The humanitarian in me does like to see people get the help they need, and I am delighted when their skin improves. But, the hedonist in me revels in the rush of pleasure I get when all that dermal debris explodes to the surface, followed by the rush of relief I experience when it’s all cleared away. Such satisfaction, akin to an ecstatic soul cleansing for me. Armchair shrinks, make of that what you will.)
Now I may sound all brave and unapologetic telling my story here in a public forum, but the truth is I first tried to hide my habit just as when I was thirteen. If my husband asked me what I was watching on my phone, I lied. If he came too close, I immediately switched to a dog video or closed the app. One day I wasn’t quite fast enough, and he caught me. When he saw the screen, the same husband who lets me pop the occasional pimple on his chin without issue, was horrified, repulsed, and slightly worried about my sanity.
I didn’t care. I had crossed the Rubicon and there was no turning back for me. And quite frankly, I didn’t want to turn back. I had found my tribe, proudly joining the thousands of other “derm” video voyeurs who can’t get enough.
Love me or hate me; this is who I am. I stand before you today, an unreformed and unrepentant pimple popper. I am free!