I pick my skin until I bleed

My post about dermatillomania (compulsive skin picking) went up at Band Back Together yesterday. It's one I've already posted here, but it was a response to something I read over on Band Back Together that inspired me to write it, mostly because a) I didn't realize it had a name, b) I didn't know that there were others out there who pick their skin like I do, and c) I kinda thought there was something wrong with me for not being able to control myself and just stop.

I was chatting with the lovely @Medlinniel on Twitter - she suffers from trichotillomania, which is... we'll say dermatillomania's sister - about my post and how we need to talk about it more to bring awareness to these issues so others know they're not alone.

I then started reading the kind and supportive comments on Band Back Together and, well... Reading phrases like "self-harm" (which is something I literally just realized this weekend: I've just been denying that that's what I do to myself *shame face*), "obsessive compulsive disorder," and being linked to "mental illness" led to another round of picking. Carly shared that her sister used to do the same thing, but took steps to curtail her behaviour, like removing the magnifying mirror she used to examine her face and finding hobbies to keep her hands busy.

So, here I am opening myself up again to share and talk about this more.

I'm ashamed to admit that I feel like I can't do those things. You see, I pick when I'm anxious or upset, but I also just PICK for no discernible reason whatsoever. I mean, sure, there probably is some underlying issue that's bothering me, but what I mean is that it's not a matter of taking away my mirror or busying my hands. My biggest "fault," if you will, is what I call blind picking: picking without the aid of a mirror, which generally results in me taking it too far and taking off enough skin to leave a divot in my skin. I mean, even as I pick and it hurts - as I draw blood, for crying out loud - there's a voice in my head going "Dude, knock it off already. You KNOW it's going to hurt and you KNOW it's going to bleed. STOP IT!" And yet...

As I read the comments, my left hand flew unconsciously to my face, my fingers roving across my skin, seeking, seeking, ever seeking. I can't even say "unconsciously": while my hand seemed to travel to my face of its own accord, I was *aware* of where it was and what it was doing. I picked at a scab (damage from a previous day) near my hairline until I felt it give; when I drew my hand away, my fingernails were bloody. I desperately grabbed for a tissue and pressed it to my face to staunch the blood. At that point a coworker came in, and I frantically, furtively balled up the tissue in my hand so he wouldn't see what I was doing (if anyone at work has noticed my picking, no one has said anything).

Have I mentioned that, at Chebbar's exasperated insistence, I chopped all my fingernails off a couple of weeks ago? We're talking cut-three-times-to-get-them-close-enough-to-the-quick. I'm ashamed to admit that this did not keep me from trying to pick: I just dug my fingers that much harder into my flesh. Now they're NICE and long. And sharp. And need to be cut back down. It feels like some kind of fucked up daredevil challenge to leave them long, yet there they are, at the end of my hands, mocking me because they know what they'll be doing soon.

It's a vicious cycle, too. So much of this relates to perfectionism for me that it borders on ridiculous: I pick because my skin isn't perfect, but then I have scabs and scars that are ugly and imperfect, and then I beat myself up for not being able to control myself (it's also very heavily enmeshed in the control aspect for me, too - I *hate* feeling out of control, especially where my own thoughts and actions are concerned: it makes me feel like a complete and utter failure), and then I pick again because I'm upset. Just writing this has led to me feeling tense and panicky: I actually ended up taking an Ativan and doing some deep breathing to try to calm myself down. Pretty pathetic, right?

Talking about it this way makes me sound like I am crazy. At the very least, it sounds like I could do with some therapy. Unfortunately, that's just not in the (credit) cards at the moment. I think maybe if I can practice mindful awareness, I might be able to practice a little self-compassion when I'm feeling stressed out or upset and hopefully redirect my angst somewhere other than the ends of my fingers. *heavy sigh*

ETA: Desperate times, desperate measures, and all that...

(And yes, my bare nubbin finger tips do hurt.)