I recently started rereading the manga Ten Count by Takarai Rihito (tw for noncon). I first found it years ago, and was instantly in love. Back then, there were only two chapters, and they dealt with a main character suffering from mysophobia and beginning exposure therapy. In those two chapters, it was a compelling and, from my point of view, highly realistic portrayal of mental illness, as well as the denial, acceptance, and shame that comes with it (viewing the problem as 'normal' in terms of the individual's life as a way to justify not finding a cure, all the while feeling they are not 'normal' and despairing at what they cannot do). I related strongly with so many of these themes. But, since it had no more chapters, I soon forgot about it.
Now, years later and reading it once more, I am relating strongly to the main character once again: not just the traits listed above, but most of all with the gloves. The trials of a glove wearer--glove cleanliness, finding and stocking replacements, coordinating outfits with gloves so as to get the least amount of stares as possible, the struggle of taking them off when socially appropriate, dealing with the heat, stains, and rips... I have never been able to related with that before. It was always just me. I never would have imagined being able to see this represented in media.
Me and my hands have never gotten along. Since the end of seventh grade, I have constantly have a problem with scratching and picking at my skin, which I only recently recognized as dermatillomania. For the rest of junior high, I struggled immensely to control my scratching, though I often felt it was out of my control, as if a monster was possessing my body. I'd often be in trance-like states for hours on end, sometimes tearing and cutting into my skin for over five hours a day. While inside my mind I plead for it to stop, somehow my muscles refused to listen to me. I felt helpless, scared, and lacking control. At the time, I blamed it on my depression, thinking that I was attempting to punish myself, or make myself cry (at that time, I was unable to cry unless under the duress of physical harm or interacting with my step father. since I was deeply depressed and often wanted to cry, my inability made me feel even more broken and lacking control).
During junior high, I tried to stop my hands in many ways. I avoided all mirrors and reflective surfaces for four months, which worked well until I eventually broke and relapse (and even then, I fell into smaller trances even without mirrors). I then drew Xs on my hands and fingers, hoping I would see the marks and remember to stop hurting myself. In the end, I drew more and more Xs as I found more blind spots, until eventually my entire hands were covered; it did not help. I ignored them, and even when I didn't, I often wasn't in control of my compulsions.
Then for about two or so years, I wore ribbons on my fingers. They never came off, be it sleeping, bathing, school or home. It came to the point that I could not properly function without wearing them. Unfortunately, while they were meant to remind me not to scratch, I ignored these much like the Xs, and only served to give me another mental dependency out of my control. My shame grew with every questioning look at my fingers, every comment, every casual 'why do you wear those?'. The acquisition, at least, became something of a fidget or comfort object, easy to stroke or spin while feeling anxious.
While dating Rachel, she helped me slowly wean off of my ribbons. It was a wonderful achievement. But I relapsed sometime after breaking up with her, my scratching problems that had once been taking up near half-hours or less blossoming back to 4 hours. I began wearing gloves. I wore them for close to two years.
During that period, I got even more comments than the ribbons. After all, the gloves were far, far more noticeable. But they kept me from scratching even while in an unconscious trance-state, though I often found myself taking them off when my compulsions became too powerful.
Gloves were far more of a commitment. I had three pairs of marching band gloves originally, soon getting four as another season started, but these gloves weren't meant for everyday, nonstop use. I quickly found them tearing, and had to spend copious amounts of time sewing them back up. I soon began asking marching band members for their unneeded gloves once the season ended, all the while dodging questions about why I always wore them in the first place. It was incredibly difficult to do, and filled me with an incredible shame as I was reminded of just how peculiar and dependent I had become.
Wearing them in the winter wasn't too suspicious, but when spring hit "being cold" and "having poor circulation" didn't cut it anymore (not that it ever truly made sense, being inside the well heated school). When it was sweltering hot and summer, the gloves seemed even more out of place, even when I tried to coordinate my outfits. My gloves were always soaked with sweat, especially during marching band, and it was terribly unpleasant.
They all began to wear down eventually, and I bought stronger, thicker gloves. I could not wear them at school, since they didn't allow for the mobility necessary for writing small notes, but at home and while sleeping, they were my saving grace. However, their tightness had my joints always aching, which fed my hungry self harm urges that appeared near the end of my senior year.
I was afraid to touch people. I had to take off my gloves before shaking someone's hand, creating an awkward pause of tugging them off and pulling them back on that always left questions from whoever I was meeting. I took them off in front of my parents and their friends, fearing their inquisitions or their disappointment in me. I felt like I embarrassed everyone associated me. I couldn't meet people's eyes, wondered how they stared whenever I went out, felt pain explode in my chest whenever I thought of not being able to hold hands with my loved one. It was exhausting. It was awful. I suffered every day.
I do not have any pictures of me wearing the ribbons or Xs, as far as I know. At that time, I was filled with overwhelming shame, and probably hid from any photo opportunities. And then during the period I wore gloves, I found very few pictures. The few I do have serve as painful but important reminders of that time.
Somehow, I managed to mostly wean myself off the gloves, most likely because my mental health improved dramatically after dating Beck. I still have to wear them when I sleep. I also wear a ring where I used to have my main finger ribbon, and use it as a comfort item, unable to feel normal while not wearing it. And the gloves, too, I always feel significantly more at ease and comfortable while wearing them. And while most days I can forget I ever went through it, sometimes I look at my bare hands are become so incredibly frightened, so filled with fear and a sense of wrongness. I will never leave it behind completely.
And reading Ten Count, I am reminded of these days with great clarity. On one hand, it feels like more than I can handle, bringing back all sorts of painful, overwhelming memories. But on the other hand, being able to relate to so isolating a topic, and find a connection when I once felt broken and unnatural... It's comforting. It's nice. And even as the later chapters of this series are not nearly as good as the first few (ew noncon), I am still treasuring this small piece of representation.
Life is good.
Now, years later and reading it once more, I am relating strongly to the main character once again: not just the traits listed above, but most of all with the gloves. The trials of a glove wearer--glove cleanliness, finding and stocking replacements, coordinating outfits with gloves so as to get the least amount of stares as possible, the struggle of taking them off when socially appropriate, dealing with the heat, stains, and rips... I have never been able to related with that before. It was always just me. I never would have imagined being able to see this represented in media.
Me and my hands have never gotten along. Since the end of seventh grade, I have constantly have a problem with scratching and picking at my skin, which I only recently recognized as dermatillomania. For the rest of junior high, I struggled immensely to control my scratching, though I often felt it was out of my control, as if a monster was possessing my body. I'd often be in trance-like states for hours on end, sometimes tearing and cutting into my skin for over five hours a day. While inside my mind I plead for it to stop, somehow my muscles refused to listen to me. I felt helpless, scared, and lacking control. At the time, I blamed it on my depression, thinking that I was attempting to punish myself, or make myself cry (at that time, I was unable to cry unless under the duress of physical harm or interacting with my step father. since I was deeply depressed and often wanted to cry, my inability made me feel even more broken and lacking control).
During junior high, I tried to stop my hands in many ways. I avoided all mirrors and reflective surfaces for four months, which worked well until I eventually broke and relapse (and even then, I fell into smaller trances even without mirrors). I then drew Xs on my hands and fingers, hoping I would see the marks and remember to stop hurting myself. In the end, I drew more and more Xs as I found more blind spots, until eventually my entire hands were covered; it did not help. I ignored them, and even when I didn't, I often wasn't in control of my compulsions.
Then for about two or so years, I wore ribbons on my fingers. They never came off, be it sleeping, bathing, school or home. It came to the point that I could not properly function without wearing them. Unfortunately, while they were meant to remind me not to scratch, I ignored these much like the Xs, and only served to give me another mental dependency out of my control. My shame grew with every questioning look at my fingers, every comment, every casual 'why do you wear those?'. The acquisition, at least, became something of a fidget or comfort object, easy to stroke or spin while feeling anxious.
While dating Rachel, she helped me slowly wean off of my ribbons. It was a wonderful achievement. But I relapsed sometime after breaking up with her, my scratching problems that had once been taking up near half-hours or less blossoming back to 4 hours. I began wearing gloves. I wore them for close to two years.
During that period, I got even more comments than the ribbons. After all, the gloves were far, far more noticeable. But they kept me from scratching even while in an unconscious trance-state, though I often found myself taking them off when my compulsions became too powerful.
Gloves were far more of a commitment. I had three pairs of marching band gloves originally, soon getting four as another season started, but these gloves weren't meant for everyday, nonstop use. I quickly found them tearing, and had to spend copious amounts of time sewing them back up. I soon began asking marching band members for their unneeded gloves once the season ended, all the while dodging questions about why I always wore them in the first place. It was incredibly difficult to do, and filled me with an incredible shame as I was reminded of just how peculiar and dependent I had become.
Wearing them in the winter wasn't too suspicious, but when spring hit "being cold" and "having poor circulation" didn't cut it anymore (not that it ever truly made sense, being inside the well heated school). When it was sweltering hot and summer, the gloves seemed even more out of place, even when I tried to coordinate my outfits. My gloves were always soaked with sweat, especially during marching band, and it was terribly unpleasant.
They all began to wear down eventually, and I bought stronger, thicker gloves. I could not wear them at school, since they didn't allow for the mobility necessary for writing small notes, but at home and while sleeping, they were my saving grace. However, their tightness had my joints always aching, which fed my hungry self harm urges that appeared near the end of my senior year.
 |
| The only pair of original gloves I have left. |
I was afraid to touch people. I had to take off my gloves before shaking someone's hand, creating an awkward pause of tugging them off and pulling them back on that always left questions from whoever I was meeting. I took them off in front of my parents and their friends, fearing their inquisitions or their disappointment in me. I felt like I embarrassed everyone associated me. I couldn't meet people's eyes, wondered how they stared whenever I went out, felt pain explode in my chest whenever I thought of not being able to hold hands with my loved one. It was exhausting. It was awful. I suffered every day.
I do not have any pictures of me wearing the ribbons or Xs, as far as I know. At that time, I was filled with overwhelming shame, and probably hid from any photo opportunities. And then during the period I wore gloves, I found very few pictures. The few I do have serve as painful but important reminders of that time.
Somehow, I managed to mostly wean myself off the gloves, most likely because my mental health improved dramatically after dating Beck. I still have to wear them when I sleep. I also wear a ring where I used to have my main finger ribbon, and use it as a comfort item, unable to feel normal while not wearing it. And the gloves, too, I always feel significantly more at ease and comfortable while wearing them. And while most days I can forget I ever went through it, sometimes I look at my bare hands are become so incredibly frightened, so filled with fear and a sense of wrongness. I will never leave it behind completely.
And reading Ten Count, I am reminded of these days with great clarity. On one hand, it feels like more than I can handle, bringing back all sorts of painful, overwhelming memories. But on the other hand, being able to relate to so isolating a topic, and find a connection when I once felt broken and unnatural... It's comforting. It's nice. And even as the later chapters of this series are not nearly as good as the first few (ew noncon), I am still treasuring this small piece of representation.
Life is good.
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