Experiences: Picking & Pulling

Picking & Pulling

I want to tell you about my self harm. I want to make you understand and I want to make me understand too. I want to get to a point where I can be wound free – where my body only shows the scars of where I’ve been and not where I am right now. I can’t remember the last time I was completely wound-free. I was once, maybe when I was about 13. It’s hard to say.

At this point in time my harming is in the form of picking at my skin. I’ve managed to beat the cutting for now, although when things get bad the urge is (almost) unbearable. I also pull out my hairs. These two less known forms of self harm are more difficult for me than the more dramatic ones. I feel much more ashamed of my scars from this – the blotchy red patches on my legs – than I do of any others. Perhaps I accept my other scars because I have more of an understanding of why I’ve got them. Plus, as far as self injury goes, cutting and burning are more accepted in the world (and to me). Most people have at least heard of it, or read some well meaning article in a magazine. Picking and pulling are still taboo, which is weird ‘cause most of us have done it to some extent. Most people just don’t take it to the degree that I do. I still feel very alone with it though – and a bit of a ‘freak’.

The hair pulling started with me trying to get something bad out of myself. I’d feel the hairs on my head and, when one felt ‘wrong’ (had a different texture to the rest) I’d pull it out. I didn’t agonise for hours, or even seconds, over whether to or not – I just did it. It was somewhere below conscious thought. I just knew I had to get it out of me. Afterwards I’d examine the hair and, if there was something on the end of it, I felt satisfaction that I’d got it. I knew that I was one bit closer to getting the ‘alien’ out of me. Now I know that the pale, almost transparent things on these hairs were just part of its anatomy – but back then I just knew it was wrong. I sometimes thought of asking someone, telling them what it was that was inside me and asking if they had one too. As much as I wanted to know I was going to be alright, I felt sure that it was something I had to keep to myself. Maybe things would have worked out differently if I had told my secret – I’ll never know.

Now I’m (almost) positive that the ‘alien’ was part of my psychosis and not something that existed outside of my reality. It should follow that my hairs are now safely attached to my head and all is well with the world. Things as they are (possibly due to me not living in a fairytale dimension) this isn’t the case. I don’t pull out my hairs from my head – just the rest of my body (mainly my legs, actually). There’s still something about getting it out of me, although I’m not sure what ‘it’ is. Something bad, maybe. Something tainted? The process operates below my conscious thought so I can’t say for sure. It just happens. I’ve an inkling that It’s a residue of the effect of my sexual abuse and rape. Woah – I wasn’t sure that I’d dare type those words. I’m not sure how, but I think it’s related to my feeling that it’s my fault (basically that I am bad, evil etc). Perhaps, though, the two things are unrelated – if I can’t hear my own thoughts when it’s happening it’s really difficult to reason why.

The picking? I don’t even know how that one started, just that it began in earnest early last year. I’ve always hidden it and felt loaded with shame whenever the wounds catch my eye. When it was at its worse I couldn’t bare to look at my legs at all – I had to stop having baths for that reason. I’d just feel repulsed by my own skin, which is weird because if I saw it on someone else I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Again, picking wasn’t something I thought about – I’d just find myself doing it. I’d draw blood and, sometimes, feel the need to keep at it till I was disturbed or my mind caught up with itself and realised what was happening. I know I’m not explaining it very well – but I’m trying and that’s important right now.

Like I said earlier – I’m almost wound free right now. It has been a bit of a struggle, like fighting an unseen enemy that tends to strike before you’ve realised they’re near. I’ve tried putting a barrier between me and my skin to give myself a chance to realise what I’m doing before I’ve done the damage. This is in the form of dressings for my wounds, which I’m trying to take care of, and wearing long trousers. The latter is less successful (as my ankles are testament to) but it’s a start. I find the most difficult times are when I’m idly watching tv or just spending time thinking so I try to keep my hands busy with other things. The computer’s a godsend as are books, magazines, bottles of pop and such things. Spending time with other people also helps as I won’t harm infront of anyone (it’s just one of my rules). Ofcourse I don’t want to attach myself to people 24/7, I’m way to independent for that, but I’m learning to be with others when it gets really bad. That’s tough for me too, asking for help, but at least it doesn’t leave bright red scars. Even talking on the phone, using the internet or going out for a walk can help.

I’ve not beat it yet, and it’s proving to be a very long struggle, I’m (almost) confident that I will. For the moment, though, I just want to get to the point that the only marks on my body aren’t current. Once I’ve managed that I’ll work on the rest.

I want to learn to love my scars too – but I guess that’s the next step.