At the end of my most recent dermatology appointment, Korkowicz’s assistant handed me a small cup for a urine sample and a blue bag in which to put it. I would have to go through this process once a month for the following six months to confirm that I wasn’t pregnant and could continue taking Isotretinoin.

I sat on the toilet and positioned the cup in the bowl, shaking slightly and fighting tears. I had taken two buses to get here, and I was dehydrated, and I was worried that the medication would make me horribly unattractive to the opposite sex. I imagined explaining to potential partners that I would be gorgeous, I promised, if only they could survive the winter with a hag.

When I returned from the bathroom, the assistant handed me a clipboard with a series of acknowledgement forms and a pen to sign. I read them through: I would use two forms of birth control at all times or abstain from sex while taking this drug; if I became pregnant and saw that pregnancy to term, my child could have severe birth defects; I would not drink excess alcohol so as to avoid liver damage while taking this drug; I could become severely depressed and/or suicidal while taking this drug.

Check, I wrote. Check, check, check.

After I signed the forms, I scheduled a follow-up appointment and took the elevator down to the first floor. I walked into the bracing sunlight, letting it hit my cheeks, letting it age me. I thought about the skin I would have come spring.

We’re told we need to ‘fix’ our acne. What if we said no?