I used to sit in the paved driveway of my home on Capehart Circle in Atlanta and rub the back of my hand on the concrete until the skin shredded away. Some years later I did the same thing on my carpeted bedroom floor. In middle school, I used a mechanical pencil to carve into the underside of my forearm. At some point I formed a habit of picking at the center of my upper lip until the sensitive skin ripped and I peeled it away. It would bleed. I did it thoughtlessly. My mom nagged me about it. I eventually moved to biting and picking and peeling at the dead skin around my fingernails, along with anywhere else on my body that was peeling for any natural cause. Sunburn, scabs, very minor abrasions, zits, the list goes on and on. All of this was done mindlessly and methodically, calm.
Sometime after the self-inflicted rug burn, I had a fight with my mother. She drove away and I raked my nails over the top of my right thigh until blood caked under my nails. At an inch wide and 2 and a-half inches long, during the middle of summer, and well below my shorts line, it was a difficult injury to hide. As a wannabe adult, 18 and in a relationship, fighting against sex and infatuation addictions, I "hit bottom" as they call it in 12 step programs. I took a razor blade, which because of my job there were plenty, to my left upper arm. I cut and I cut. Not as an attempted suicide, but because inside I felt insane and I needed to release it. That's what it feels like too: better. Better, that is, until after. Once you or someone else convinces you to stop, the calm is gone replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread and fear at what you have done. I had felt this emotion when I scratched my leg, and cut my arm, and at some other in between mini-episodes, usually scratching my forearms. I never felt it after the mindless pickings and scratchings that had always been there though, and that is what I am here to discover further.
Nowadays I have less emotional bursts of self-destruction, partially because my life is more functional and stable now, and partially because my councilor told me he would no longer see me if I did it again. He offered me a little personal responsibility. My friend made me call him, right after, and confess on the answering machine my cutting so I couldn't ignore it. That was the hardest message I've ever left. The next day he said "It's never come up, but now that it has, if you persist in behaving this way, I will no longer see you. Not because you're bad, but because you have tools, I have given you tools, and this happens as a result of not using them." I have felt the same inclinations, and heavy guilt accompanying them, but never acted on them since. However, I have come to see my other mindless obsessions to be a sub-conscious representation.
On a daily basis I chew my lip. I bite and peel the skin when it's chapped or, more often scabbed, until it bleeds. I then either pick at a different area, continue picking, or wait until it's stopped and continue later. I always have discolored and bumpy looking spots on my lips. There are other things too. If I get sunburned, as will undoubtedly happen in Hawaii, I pick at the peeling skin. If you've ever had sunburn bad enough to peel you know that it takes a certain amount of time before it's all ready to come off, some parts starting before others. I found out what happens when you pick sunburn that isn't ready to go yet. The skin underneath is still very injured and new. I essentially had discolored and sore patches across my shoulders. I shave my legs and arms and pubic hair, almost an obsession in itself. If I get bumps, in-grown hairs, or irritated spots I pick at them. Again, often until it bleeds and my fingernails or tweezers are too sticky to be of any use. But it grates on my mind know that they are there; peeling skin, red bumps, scabs, anything. And I literally have to sit on my hands to keep me from doing it. It doesn't seem to phase me that it hurts and the guilt never accompanies it, which may be the only thing that could stop me from doing it.
It was while I destroyed a particularly disgusting and painful in-grown hair at my bikini line that I realized this isn't healthy, and my mind kept asking "why are you doing this? Why are you doing this?" Though I didn't quit, I did decide to analyze it further, write about it, all honestly however gross and embarrassing it may be, to hold myself accountable. Related, though not nearly as extreme, I think it bears mentioning that it isn't just my own bumps and bits I pick at. It seems it all must come from a need for the uniform. If I am "petting" or rubbing Seth's back I will pick at his bumps. He promptly makes me quit, and I would never do this to a friend or someone I might be in contact with whom I am not as well acquainted, but I would want to. I would want to. It's almost creepy, like a perverse genetic throwback to grooming apes. Oh I didn't mention my scalp? Yes, I run my hands through my hair and feel for bumps. Seth's dandruff makes me crazy.
At the end of the night I sit in front of my altar, staring directly at the 5 Buddhist Precepts: Refrain from use of all intoxicants, Refrain from misuse of sexual energy, Tell the truth, Do not take what is not yours, and Do no harm to yourself or others. Literally every day I break that last one. I think twice before killing spiders or roaches, but I cannot go a day without destroying a tiny, unnoticeable piece of myself. When one just sees me chewing my lip, they may think it a nervous habit, but when it is all on paper, all in one long timeline of "nervous habits" and worse, does it still look so innocent?
