So. I need to make a whole post about lots of things but I've decided that dermatillomania is one of them. Cw for blood and lots of skin-picking stuff below.
Story time. I remember in eighth grade, my religion teacher pulled me out into the halls to talk to me, and my first thought was, "Oh shit, another one," because the previous religion teacher had put me through hell and back for being queer (which was information I had not even shared with her). I braced to have an awkward conversation about my love life and gender identity for the second time in two years. Instead, she pointed at my arm.
"What's that?" She asked. I glanced down at my arms, covered in scabs, red and radiating heat from where I'd been picking for hours. "Your skin, I mean. Why is it... like that?"
Oh. Right. She was new. She didn't know.
"Genetic skin condition." I replied. "It's not really that bad on its own, but I pick at it whenever I'm nervous or upset or sad or bored or... just kind of whenever." She opened her mouth and I interrupted before she could say it. "I've tried to stop, and I've tried wearing long sleeves, and I've tried medicine, and I keep my nails short, but it doesn't help, so... yeah. Don't worry about it. It's not contagious or anything, it's genetic."
Her face scrunched into a frown, but she didn't say anything else and told me to return to my English class. I did.
Later that day, I had to go to Science class. The worst of them, at least in terms of places I picked at my arms. The teacher was nice enough, but I fucking hated science as a class. So, while everyone else was taking notes, I ran my hand along my arms. They were warm. Wet in some places, from the blood that had pooled around some bumps. But most of all, they were so... bumpy. So easy to just... pinch. Squeeze. Scratch.
I walked out of Science class that day with my left arm covered in bloody spots. Shit. My mom was gonna kill me.
No.
Don't think about her.
Don't do it, or else you'll get nervous, and when you get nervous you-
Too late. The fingers that had been rhythmically tapping my desk in Pre-Algebra were now tracing my jawline, searching for...
Ah. There.
Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch. Move my fingers up a bit to my cheek. Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch. Move. Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch. Move. Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch. Move, pinch, squeeze, scratch, move, pinch, squeeze, sc-
"[deadname], your face is bleeding!" I jerked my hands away from my face and stared down at my fingers, their tips stained crimson. So it was.
"Ah. Yeah. D'you have a kleenex?" I replied to the alarmed blond beside me.
"Uh... yeah." He passed one over with a frown. He knew about my skin-picking, so I'm not sure why he was so surprised. Maybe it was the blood. I licked my fingers, wetting them so that the blood would come off. It didn't.
The bell rang.
I swung my backpack onto my back and felt the fabric rub against my raw and open skin.
Well that fucking hurts, but I did it to myself, so I ignored it. I could've just stopped picking, as my mother so often reminded me. I should've just stopped.
I mean, it's not like I had some mental condition I didn't know about that was fueling this, right?
When my mom picked me up from after hours that day, both of my arms were red, both from blood and inflammation. Scabs littered every place in my skin that I could reach. The first thing she did was pull up my sleeve and her frown turned into a scowl.
"Really, [deadname]? Seriously? After all I told you about how that's horrible for your skin? Do you want to be so ugly no boy will want to date you?"
That did sound pleasant, actually, but I didn't need to tell her that. Besides, that wasn't why I was doing it. To be honest, there wasn't really a why. I didn't even realize I was doing it, usually, until I had. I zoned out as she ranted about how I'd never be able to wear a swimsuit, I would have permanent scars, and as I did, my left hand trailed up my arm, grazing the warm, itchy, painful bumps.
Pinch. Squeeze. Scratch.
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