TW: self-harm, suicidal ideation, ED.
She wants to be fearless. She wants to be a good friend. She wants to seize opportunities. She wants to be happy.
But she isn’t.
She hurts herself. She uses sharp objects— anything—to pierce her skin. She has to get something out. She enjoys the feeling, the sound, the smell. Blood drips down her face into the sink. Crimson tissues litter the counter. “There’ll be a lot to clean up later,” she thinks. It’s a familiar routine. She’s always talking to herself; she tells herself to put down the cuticle clippers but she’s not finished yet, she can’t stop, the job isn’t done. She ignores the voice of the woman she wants to be and keeps digging, searching. “It’ll be better after this,” she thinks. Her skin is already wounded from the day before, what’s a few more gouges? “It looks bad right now but surely this pin prick will make it better.” She scans her face, fingertips feeling every little bump, indentation, hair. She can feel the pressure of something buried deep. A malevolent force takes control. She has to get it out.
She uses manicure tools to dig her own grave.
*
“This bathroom is a crime scene and she has to get rid of the evidence.”
Hours melt away but in her trance, time stands still. Nothing else matters—she’s hyper-focused. She cuts off old scars, finally reaching a deeply embedded hair still wrapped in its follicle. It’s an immense relief. She feels light. She feels accomplished. She feels hopeless. Her hands are tingling and covered in layers of blood. It’s surprisingly tough to wash off dry blood. The air is metallic. This bathroom is a crime scene and she has to get rid of the evidence. She uses bleach to wipe spatter off the mirror, the tap, the wall, not caring enough to wear gloves. Her hands are so dry. She’ll find a missed droplet days later. A UV light would be useful.
“It’s done, I got it out, everything will be different now. This is the last time.” That’s the narrative she sticks to each time. She looks at herself with lifeless eyes, assessing the carnage. Rubbing alcohol stings but the rest of her is numb. Shit, it won’t stop bleeding. She bandages up her face like a burn victim (she’s probably spent hundreds on bandages). “Does this need stitches, should I go to the hospital? I wish they could put me in a coma until I heal.” She feels a chill. It’s really bad this time.
*
“Maybe it’s just a phase.”
She would pick her scabs, but every kid does that, right? She has a vivid memory of doing homework, bored, stumped by a math problem. She starts pulling at her eyelashes, watching them flutter onto her notebook. It’s soothing. Kids at school ask why she doesn’t have eyelashes. She’s embarrassed. She starts plucking her hairline, enjoying the feeling of roots emerging. She starts pulling out her cat’s whiskers and keeping them. She loves her cat more than anything and would never hurt her, so why is she doing this? She was born cursed.
One day, the hair-pulling stops, but she can’t remember why or how. She has lashes again (though not as full as before). Her mom notices three blackheads on her nose and squeezes them. No, it didn’t stop. It was replaced.
By 13, she’s aware of every microscopic imperfection on her face. The skin-picking begins. During an acting class, her teacher asks “What’s wrong with your skin today?” She becomes aware of her weird, abnormal behaviour and shame consumes her. “Just stop,” people say. Addiction doesn’t work like that. “Don’t worry about looks, it’s what’s underneath that counts.” It’s what’s underneath that kills.
Her skin isn’t really bad; some cystic acne that isn’t even obvious. But she can’t see herself clearly—20/20 vision is reserved for pores. God, she’s so ugly. Her crushes never like her. She needs a nose job. She should be thinner. She tries to purge a bagel but can’t bring herself to do it. Her skin has to be smooth, it has to be clean, red blotches are better than dirt below the surface. It’s not about aesthetics—it’s a compulsion.
In high school, she has friends but feels like an outsider. Her parents are constantly fighting so she skips class to be home alone, in the quiet. She doesn’t graduate on time and has to redo a semester. She lives with undiagnosed depression. Maybe it’s just a phase. She attempts college but drops out after a few months. She’s beginning to isolate.
*
“She hates herself more than she loves others.”
After a lackluster high school experience, she starts going out, meeting new people, drinking (a lot), enjoying some delayed teenage rebellion—but the state of her skin is always on her mind. Her skin makes the rules.
“Wanna hang out this weekend?” She assesses her face to see if it’ll have healed by then. “Sure!” The weekend approaches and self-pressure to have perfect skin overcomes her. She starts picking to relieve the stress. She tells her friends that she can’t hang out and makes up an excuse—she can’t admit it’s because her face is covered in scabs. They’d say it doesn’t matter, that they just want to see her, but this debilitating disorder has such a hold on her that it’ll be all she thinks about—she won’t be present. She hates herself more than she loves others. What’s the opposite of narcissism? She worries her friends think she’s selfish, uncaring, lazy. She skips events and important appointments. Social invites dwindle and eventually stop. She loses touch.
She grows up and learns to be more confident, but the self-harm doesn’t end—it evolves. It gets worse. “Skin-picking” is too delicate a term for what she does to herself. At this point, it’s unconscious. Automatic. The habit, the routine is so engrained that her hands move on their own, constantly searching for a target. She traces every millimetre of herself. She has to find something. She discovers the bumps around nipples can be extracted. She picks inside her ears, her nose. Now she has scars all over her face and body. She needs a disguise. She can’t wear a v-neck, she has to cover her shoulders, she wears a bra during sex. She’s uncomfortable but can’t let anyone see the damage. She cakes on expensive foundation and inches away if someone stands too close.
Nice weather makes her feel guilty. She should be outside—she wants to be outside! But demons hold her back. She doesn’t wear sunscreen, hoping a mild burn will scorch off sores, that a tan will filter her scars. She likes the darkness of winter, the numbing feeling of frost on her face, the protective armour of cold-weather accessories.
She thrived during the pandemic when isolation was the norm. With a mask, she could hide in plain sight. Disappearing in a crowd of strangers is better than letting acquaintances near. She’s uncomfortable in bright rooms. She shuns her reflection. She moves through the shadows like a vampire, feasting on her own blood, draining her soul. She’s also, like, really pale.
Her closet is full of unworn clothing. She doesn’t want to get makeup on a white blouse. She thinks a colorful top will accentuate her blemished face. Her designer jacket collects dust. She tells herself that she can’t dress nice until her skin looks nice. But still, she thinks new stuff will help her stop picking. “New stuff for a new me!” She buys another pair of shoes. Her wardrobe is an exhibit of what could be.
*
“She’s a Pick-It Girl.”
She failed eleventh grade biology for refusing to dissect a fetal pig but now knows what subcutaneous tissue looks like. One of her earlobes is swollen because she tried to cut a keloid out from a piercing. Her scar treatment sessions keep dermatology clinics in business. She could use a massage but doesn’t want to be touched. She wants a haircut but the stylist would see her up close. She cuts her own bangs to hide behind.
Showering is a safe retreat; she feels refreshed and it motivates her to get things done. She’ll plan her day, get dressed, do her hair and makeup—but that spot on her cheek is way too prominent. She can’t cover it. An acne sticker doesn’t work on open wounds, it falls off because of fresh plasma. Her body feels heavy, her heart sinks. She can’t leave her apartment. She wipes away the makeup and takes another shower. She feels bad for using so much water. She’ll try again tomorrow.
Her fridge is empty. She definitely can’t go to the grocery store so she orders overpriced takeout. A pile of recycling accumulates by the front door because she’s afraid of running into a neighbour on the way to the garbage chute. She distracts herself with obsessive cleaning and organizing. If she can’t be perfect, she’ll make everything around her “just right”. She centers a painting. She moves the loveseat two inches to the left. She washes and rewashes sheets. She sanitizes the bathroom, trying to erase her mistakes.
She has to go to work but her face is riddled with new wounds from a relapse. She had been doing well but it takes only a few seconds to ruin progress. Should she call in sick again? She considers quitting but she’s running out of money. She declines an audition. They probably wouldn’t cast her anyway. She’s too busy writing and producing and directing and starring in her own horror saga.
When she’s able to roughly put herself together, she’ll go for a walk. She takes side streets to minimize interactions. Her eyes adjust to the afternoon sun. She hasn’t been outside in three days. She forgot her sunglasses so she cocoons in her hoodie.
The inner dialogue never stops; “They’re looking at me, they see my skin, they think I’m gross, they wonder what happened—why is her face full of holes, is she contagious? I’m scaring them.” She scares herself. She dabs her face lightly to make sure it’s not bleeding, careful not to disturb the makeup. “I hope I don’t run into someone I know. They can’t see me like this.” She could wear a bandage but that’ll attract more attention. Ugh, it’s the Streisand effect. She walks with her head down. On bad days, she avoids eye contact. She’d rather be thought of as cold and distant than get caught, get seen for who she is—someone with repulsive skin, someone to pity, a monster. Her disorder has become her identity. She’s a Pick-It Girl.
She sees kids playing soccer on a nearby field. She wishes she could be a kid with “perfect” skin. If she could just go back in time and start over, she wouldn’t pick—she knows better now. But it’s a vicious cycle. She finds old photos of when she thought her skin was “bad” and is heartbroken by how much worse it’s become.
Her face tingles; physical and visual reminders of the damage she’s caused fuel her picking. Evidence of a crime she wants to be locked up for. “I need to be institutionalized.” Her dream vacation is a resort-style rehab facility on an estate in Mallorca where they take your phone and make you ride horses.
Skin-picking scratches an itch, literally and figuratively. Stress, anxiety, hunger, excitement, anticipation, anger, tiredness, chaos, idle hands, loud noises, a cluttered space—anything can be a trigger. She even uses it as a reward; “Just this one spot, I deserve it.”
She’s tried everything to curb temptation; covered mirrors, taped her fingers, wore press-on nails, threw away tools, joined a therapy group, medicated. She’s taking a drug made for dementia that’s being tested as a potential Body-Focused Repetitive Behaviour (BFRB) treatment. It suppresses her appetite and she likes that because she finds comfort in binge-eating. But there’s no Magic Pill for co-morbidities; the urge to pick is more powerful than Big Pharma. She feels weak. She’s a failure.
She looks at her cat, thinking how this beautiful, innocent creature has no idea how pathetic she is. If she didn’t have a pet to take care, she might not have a reason to live. She wonders if her cat would eat her face.
*
“There’s no rock bottom… only darkness.”
She doesn’t want to be alive because she isn’t living. She doesn’t really want to kill herself… just to start over, you know? Hit reset. Have a new beginning. Be someone else—a woman she respects. But that woman is trapped.
She cries on birthdays. She’s 35 and doesn’t feel like her life has started. She’s in limbo. All of this has been a placeholder for the life she’s meant to have; temporary, a menial job while searching for something better. “This isn’t me, this isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing, I don’t belong here.” But she doesn’t feel like she belongs anywhere; not at the grocery store, not in her apartment, not in this city, not in this world.
She’s detached. She keeps people out. She stays quiet, she doesn’t date, she doesn’t want to be seen, she suffers in silence. She won’t let herself pursue her dreams because she “can’t with skin like this!” She’s not ready. She’s not good enough. Maybe one day but not now. She holds out hope that it’ll get better. Some days, even weeks, are better and she’s optimistic. Then she remembers that one scar on her lip that just won’t fade. So she fades. It’s too late. There’s no rock bottom… only darkness.
When she tries to climb, see the light, take a step forward, she stops herself. She tells herself no before anyone else can break her. Sure, she takes pride in some things but a storm cloud is always looming. She feels like a waste of space, underserving of anything good that comes her way. She rejects compliments. She’s an imposter.
She’s in so much pain. She wonders what it’s like to be truly happy, truly at peace. Will she ever find that? She’s not the woman she wants to be, this isn’t her real life, it can’t be. She’s living inside her head, watching a cracked shell of a person skulk through life, hidden, daring only to fantasize about the life she wants to live.
It’s getting exhausting. Her iron levels are low and her hair is falling out and her back aches from straining over the sink and she wants to try that new restaurant and go swimming and maybe find love and not be alone anymore. She wants to be normal. She wants to be seen. She wants to breathe.
She has to dig out.
She tears the roots. She climbs up. She takes a step forward.
She’s ready to break in her new shoes.
Melania Fedyna 