Valerie's Guide To Postponing a Breakup

Rhymes With Feeble Lemon

The next day, when I wake up, it takes a good twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling and mumbling to mentally prepare myself for facing the world. Well, not exactly the world. Just a small, inconvenient part of the world that no one would miss if it were to, say, evaporate. But I don't have the luxury of being able to make that happen. Because binge reading the Percy Jackson series as a kid doesn't exactly make you a God. 

I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. Yesterday, it was extremely hard to stay sad around Leo—especially when he kept trying to smear Nutella on my face.

My morning routine seems to flash past, and by the time I'm at the front door, struggling to pull on my lilac Doc Martens, I know it's time to text Leo before my anxiety sets fire to all the other positive thoughts I've got left.

I pull out my phone, typing a hasty 'Good Morning' message, followed by a sunflower emoji—my all-time favourite, reserved for only my favourite people. Which currently consists of Leo alone.

Morning Val.

His reply comes in seconds, like always.

Guess who I'm going to see today? I type followed by a frown face, consisting of a semicolon and a capital C.

He sends back the 'face screaming in fear' emoji, and I stifle a laugh, bending down to tie my shoelace while balancing my phone on my knee and waiting for Leo's next message to come in.

Don't tell me it's the Feeble Lemon!

More emojis.

The 'Feeble Lemon' is Leo's way of making me feel better about that certain inconvenience I talked about earlier. It started when I called her an evil woman, so then Leo decided to rhyme 'evil woman' with 'feeble lemon'. I tried telling him it's stupid and that a four-year-old could make a better rhyme, but he wouldn't hear it. And, to be honest, it does make me feel slightly better. But yes, unfortunately for me, it is the Feeble Lemon, also known as my dermatologist, Dr. Hargrove.

I have to go see her once every fortnight. If there's someone on the planet who experiences hell just as frequently, maybe I can swap with them. But then again, I wouldn't wish that judgemental, self-esteem-crushing woman on my worst enemy.

Not even that girl from the cafe yesterday.

Memories from yesterday bubble up like hot acid when my brain pushes the thoughts I'd banished to the back of my mind forward.

Don't think about her, Val. She's the least of your problems right now.

Pulling tightly on the double knot of my laces to make sure it's firm, I pick up my tote bag, which contains my water bottle. If I don't bring it, Hargrove will accuse me of not drinking enough water.

I check my phone again.

You'll be fine, Val, Leo texts. If you can deal with a child in an adult body (such as myself), you can deal with that woman.

I grin, typing a message with my left thumb as I open the front door, letting the fresh air infiltrate my system and calm my nerves.

Celebratory movie at your place afterwards?

The Uber I ordered pulls up in front of my house, and as I walk towards it, the soles of my boots scraping through the gravel on the driveway, Leo texts back one word that seems to make my day.

Always.

___

I walk into the dermatologist's office, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling the air. It's sickening, really. But my stomach is already churning with worry, so it doesn't make much of a difference. I know seeing my dermatologist shouldn't be as big of a deal as I'm making it out to be. But these appointments don't feel like conversations. It just feels like Hargrove attacking me, and the minutes always seem tantalisingly slow, as if the clock is in affiliation with her too.

The receptionist greets me with a polite smile, and I sit in the waiting area, glancing around at the other patients. Some I've seen before—I can't help but notice the way some of them seem to radiate confidence, their skin clear and glowing, and constantly improving as time goes by, while I still feel like a walking advertisement for acne. When my name is finally called, I take a deep breath and follow the nurse down the long, white corridor. Ironically, and most inconsiderately, the walls are decorated with posters of people with flawless skin.

How lovely of them.

I step into the room, and there she is—Dr. Hargrove. Her sharp features and icy demeanour haven't changed since I last saw her. She barely looks at me as she flips through my file, her perfect brow furrowing slightly.

I brace myself for her judgement.

"Let's see what we're working with today," she says, finally meeting my eyes. There's a flicker of something—disappointment?—before she motions for me to sit down. I can't help but feel like some sort of specimen under her glare, as if my skin is a puzzle she's determined to solve, but not without a little disdain.

"Nothing's working," I try to tell her as she peers at me. "I swear, I've been doing what you're telling me, and it's Not. Been. Working."

It takes all of my strength not to roll my eyes at her clinical, detached response. "You need to stick to the regimen I prescribed last time," she replies. "Consistency is key."

I nod, resigning far quicker than I would've liked too. Arguing with Hargrove is a bad idea. You know, like wrestling a crocodile is a bad idea too.

"Your skin is reacting to the products," she states, still peering closely at my face. "Have you been using the treatment properly?"

"Yes, but I think my skin might be getting worse," I admit, trailing off when Hargrove sighs, her patience wearing thin. "You need to give it time. Acne doesn't clear overnight." She scribbles something on my chart, her pen scratching against the paper.

I wring my hands in my lap, waiting for her to finish writing.

"Have you been under stress?" she asks, glancing up momentarily.

Everything's fine with Leo.

Except for the fact that every day you question whether you're even worthy of his affections.

"Stress can exacerbate breakouts," she continues, her tone slightly softer, but I can still sense the judgement beneath it. "I think you should really try to manage it better, Valerie. Perhaps consider yoga or meditation."

For a brief moment, I sense a hint of understanding.

But then it disappears as quickly as it came.

"Let's talk about your diet," she continues, her voice regaining its clinical edge. "Are you eating a lot of dairy or sugar? Those can contribute to acne."

I shake my head. "I try to eat healthy, but I do like to..." I hesitate, wondering how to tell her that I don't eat healthy at all. "I like to treat myself with some snacks." 

"Cut back on those," she instructs. "And drink more water. Hydration is crucial for your skin."

I take my water bottle out of my tote bag and take a long sip before raising an eyebrow at her. She narrows her eyes into a glare.

After what feels like an eternity, she finally steps back and crosses her arms. "Since all else has failed, I'll prescribe a new medication for you. It should help. But remember, results take time."

"Thanks," I say shortly, forcing a tight-lipped smile. I don't stick around any longer.

As I walk out, I can't help but think that maybe one day I'll find a dermatologist who understands that acne is just one part of me, one piece of the puzzle—not the entirety of my existence. I know that woman isn't supposed to be my therapist or anything, but it's like she's a machine, and her dial is stuck on one setting: stone cold and seemingly heartless. 

Alright, alright, maybe I'm exaggerating. For now, I'll take her advice and hope for the best, even if the experience leaves me feeling more like a problem than a patient.