Let's Make Some Noise!!

"Scars remind us of where we’ve been, they don’t have to dictate where we’re going." -Criminal Minds, Agent Rossi

I borrowed that quote from an amazing FB page: https://www.facebook.com/CSP.Angie. It is a page created by a very brave woman- Nova Scotian author Angela Hartlin. She's written a book 'Forever Marked: A Dermatillomania Story'. 

I am sure you are sitting there thinking, what the hell is that? Is that even a real thing? I could bore you with medical mumbo jumbo and statistics and whatnot, but that would make for a ridiculously boring read, and that is not what I'm going for here. In plain terms it is a struggle. For me (and many like me) it is a constant battle for control over insane amounts of anxiety. Basically, I am super happy it is getting colder out and I will no long be miserable hot because I feel like I can't wear tank tops and pretty dresses because of the scabs and scars on my arms from picking my skin.

Ewwww... right? I know. I look at myself sometimes and think wow.... did I do this to myself? Yep, I sure did. When the world is off kilter and I feel less than stellar about myself I do it. I pick. I pick at every bump, lump, spot, knot, blemish... whatever. On my face is one thing, usually make-up can hide the damage and that is good. But my arms, and even my legs bear the brunt of my anxiety in a very physical way. I started this when I was very young, but in recent years it has gotten much worse. I'm an adult now, and one would think I would leave this sort of thing behind with acne and puberty and junk. But no. I'm still at it. Currently I am sporting any numbers of scabs on my arms. Someone recently said to me- the mosquitoes must love you, and I agreed because it was easier than explaining what I do to myself when no one is watching.

There are over 12 million other people in this country fighting this type of illness, and yes, it is an illness. One my doctor thought the meds I am taking would help. They don't do much really... the meds that is. Doctors don't either for that matter. It wasn't until recently that it was actually recognized as a mental illness. And yet here I sit.

It is a release, a means of controlling something when everything else seems completely out of control. It's a high, it's a low and it's something that a lot of folks just don't understand and no one wants to talk about it. When I'm having what I call a 'bad day' and my feelings are low and I feel bad.. I pick... a lot. I already have several scars, and there will be more, no doubt. I am trying like hell to get a grip on it, but now the cooler weather is coming, and that means long sleeves and camouflage, which means an excuse to pick... because no one will see.

So here is written another post lacking my usual wit and sarcasm because this is serious shit, and I'm hoping by writing about it and ending my own silence that it will help me. You all who read my posts have been genuine and kind and non-judgmental, and basically you're totally awesome, and I appreciate that... and hopefully I can get back to some wit and humor soon... cuz this shit blow giant snot bubbles....

Until then... the wine cup is empty... and my bed is calling to me..... Cheers!