Oh.
Oh.
A few years ago, in eighth grade, I tried to describe the "bad habits" I had been partaking in for years and years. I had been far too frightened to ever try to explain it before, but I could trust her, and she tended to know more about mental health stuff than I did.
What I explain was an unbeatable urge to pick at my skin, always to the point of real harm, and that it happened unconsciously and for hours at a time. I would go into a trance state and four hours later come out to find blood under my nails and my skin covered in scratches. That when I started it was simply to fix imperfections, and then became worse and worse until I couldn't control it anymore.
She told me I was suffering from self-harm, that it was a minor form called "scratching" and that my problems didn't need to be illegitimate just because it wasn't as noticeable or serious as other forms of self harm. I later did research, and while it never quite sat right with me (one of the main criteria for self-harm is the pursuit of pain, which I severely didn't have for all those years), it fit right enough that I adopted the label and belief. Even so, I never felt any sense of solidarity, and could find no one under that label that shared any experiences with me. I felt a large sense of isolation.
The fact that I could be self harming and not be aware of it frightened me beyond belief. I became fixated on this fear, constantly thinking about it to the point that I actually developed the standard self-harm compulsions. I still didn't want to cut myself, but I craved discomfort and mild pain in various fashions, to the point that I lost the ability to interact with the world in a healthy fashion. This lasted for about a year or more, but has since passed (thank the good Lord in heaven).
Since then I've learned of alternative explanations, some of which suit me much more and make a lot more sense. This past year I've especially learned of dermatillomania, which falls under Excoriation Disorder. Only recently have I started attempting to research it extensively (it scared me far too much before), and it's just this rush of relief, this overwhelming comfort, just
oh. This is it. This is what I have. There is an incredible feeling when you can finally put a name to something you've been feeling for years. And when I read about this disorder, it uses all of the same language I've always used to describe this vague affliction. It talks about the same things. It even says that there's a large myth of it being the same as self-harm, which is incorrect for all the same reasons I always felt it was. It just. Fits. It all makes sense now.
There's a part of me that's mad. After all, I had dermatillomania when Rachel convinced me I was suffering self-harm, creating about two to three years where my mental health got worse and worse to the point of me seeing a therapist to reverse my compulsive self-harm fantasies. At the end of it all, I only fixed what terrible thoughts were caused by Rachel's false diagnosis, and after all that recovery I'm merely at the same place that I was before Rachel. That is to say, still worrisome and riddled with carious marks and anxieties.
On the other hand, I had to talk to someone and she just happened to give me what she thought was good information. It's not like she was digging a hole and pushing me into it to struggle for the past few years. She certainly didn't mean for that to happen. And after all that, I feel a lot more safe in my body than I did before....
...which isn't necessarily a good thing. If anything, it's merely desensitized me from my dermatillomania, and now I just don't see it as a problem anymore. There are treatments out there and I'm probably too apathetic to consider any of them, even though it still causes me significant stress. It effects every aspect of my day to day life, it's always in the back of my thoughts and the back of my skin... I still sleep with gloves on. I still have to wear ribbons or rings on my fingers to keep stable, I need to cover up my skin so I won't mark it, it's always long sleeves and wristbands and anything to keep me from seeing my naked flesh. It's compulsion and pain and hours of a trance I can't break, blood under my nails when I'm out with friends, bleeding face when I'm listening to lecture, constant shame. This is what I am. This is what I've been since seventh grade--this is seven years of hurt I've never addressed properly.
Getting the proper diagnosis is the first step. Whether I'll actually have the motivation to make any other steps, I'm not sure. At least I understand myself now. At least I have a community, at least I'm not alone.
Life is good.
Oh.
A few years ago, in eighth grade, I tried to describe the "bad habits" I had been partaking in for years and years. I had been far too frightened to ever try to explain it before, but I could trust her, and she tended to know more about mental health stuff than I did.
What I explain was an unbeatable urge to pick at my skin, always to the point of real harm, and that it happened unconsciously and for hours at a time. I would go into a trance state and four hours later come out to find blood under my nails and my skin covered in scratches. That when I started it was simply to fix imperfections, and then became worse and worse until I couldn't control it anymore.
She told me I was suffering from self-harm, that it was a minor form called "scratching" and that my problems didn't need to be illegitimate just because it wasn't as noticeable or serious as other forms of self harm. I later did research, and while it never quite sat right with me (one of the main criteria for self-harm is the pursuit of pain, which I severely didn't have for all those years), it fit right enough that I adopted the label and belief. Even so, I never felt any sense of solidarity, and could find no one under that label that shared any experiences with me. I felt a large sense of isolation.
The fact that I could be self harming and not be aware of it frightened me beyond belief. I became fixated on this fear, constantly thinking about it to the point that I actually developed the standard self-harm compulsions. I still didn't want to cut myself, but I craved discomfort and mild pain in various fashions, to the point that I lost the ability to interact with the world in a healthy fashion. This lasted for about a year or more, but has since passed (thank the good Lord in heaven).
Since then I've learned of alternative explanations, some of which suit me much more and make a lot more sense. This past year I've especially learned of dermatillomania, which falls under Excoriation Disorder. Only recently have I started attempting to research it extensively (it scared me far too much before), and it's just this rush of relief, this overwhelming comfort, just
oh. This is it. This is what I have. There is an incredible feeling when you can finally put a name to something you've been feeling for years. And when I read about this disorder, it uses all of the same language I've always used to describe this vague affliction. It talks about the same things. It even says that there's a large myth of it being the same as self-harm, which is incorrect for all the same reasons I always felt it was. It just. Fits. It all makes sense now.
There's a part of me that's mad. After all, I had dermatillomania when Rachel convinced me I was suffering self-harm, creating about two to three years where my mental health got worse and worse to the point of me seeing a therapist to reverse my compulsive self-harm fantasies. At the end of it all, I only fixed what terrible thoughts were caused by Rachel's false diagnosis, and after all that recovery I'm merely at the same place that I was before Rachel. That is to say, still worrisome and riddled with carious marks and anxieties.
On the other hand, I had to talk to someone and she just happened to give me what she thought was good information. It's not like she was digging a hole and pushing me into it to struggle for the past few years. She certainly didn't mean for that to happen. And after all that, I feel a lot more safe in my body than I did before....
...which isn't necessarily a good thing. If anything, it's merely desensitized me from my dermatillomania, and now I just don't see it as a problem anymore. There are treatments out there and I'm probably too apathetic to consider any of them, even though it still causes me significant stress. It effects every aspect of my day to day life, it's always in the back of my thoughts and the back of my skin... I still sleep with gloves on. I still have to wear ribbons or rings on my fingers to keep stable, I need to cover up my skin so I won't mark it, it's always long sleeves and wristbands and anything to keep me from seeing my naked flesh. It's compulsion and pain and hours of a trance I can't break, blood under my nails when I'm out with friends, bleeding face when I'm listening to lecture, constant shame. This is what I am. This is what I've been since seventh grade--this is seven years of hurt I've never addressed properly.
Getting the proper diagnosis is the first step. Whether I'll actually have the motivation to make any other steps, I'm not sure. At least I understand myself now. At least I have a community, at least I'm not alone.
Life is good.
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