Gloves

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.

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.

Damn, it is literally me

 http://www.skinpickingsupport.com/about/

This site. It's just

that's me. That's everything that happens. That's my everyday life.

And there's a section on Barriers, a common treatment tactic, and I've literally done almost all of these

 It's scary how accurate this is. It's scary how my entire life has been posted on this friggin dermatillomania site and has existed separately from me all this time. There are actual other people that feel like this, that do these things. I'm not a freak of nature. I'm not "broken". I'm not alone.

Oh. Oh gosh. I was always so afraid. I'd hide my gloves and think "I'm not normal", and that scared me. I was okay with the depression and with most of the self harm fantasies, I knew I wasn't alone, but these compulsions, these practices, these cravings were never things I shared with anyone.

Now Ido. I'm not broken.


Life is good.

Dermatillomania

 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.

Friend Break Up

So Martina and I were planning on living together next year and I told a friend, and she said "Oh I want to live with you guys too!!"
Which is weird because you don't just invite yourself into someone's housing plans?? And even though we've been friends for six years I barely know her (though she often told me that we were great friends???). And through all six of those years she had refused to meet me outside of school, how do we live together if she refuses to let me see her outside any other environment? If she has a problem going out that's fine, I'm just confused. The one time I brought up her reluctance to meet, she got incredibly mad. I just don't understand.
So we're trying to plan this apartment over break, and I've been telling her for weeks "all three of us need to meet and figure out this apartment stuff". We were already behind. And she ignored me and ignored me, and then as break went longer I said "can you meet" and she said she was busy. Every week. Which is not even refusing, it's making excuses. And then I asked if she could at least video chat while Martina and I meet so we could all talk, and she stopped answering my texts.

That makes me angry. You can't invite yourself to live with people and then refuse to contribute to the conversation. SO by the end of break I looked at that, and our relationship in the last, and decided we don't communicate well enough to live together. If I'm frustrated just planning the apartment, no way could I live with her and not get angry.

And I didn't want to hurt our friendship. She finally contacted me yesterday, and asked if the apartment was done. I said no, because we hadn't met up. And then she asks if I'm angry at her for not showing up and I decide to be honest with her. And I told her our friendship would be better if we didn't live together.

But she got mad at me, which I'm guessing would have happened no matter when I refused to let her live with us. And I was angry too but I only spoke of how I wanted to maintain our friendship, and how I wasn't angry with her even if I didn't appreciate her actions. And she says I'm judging her, and how she's never judged me through all of our friendship, and how I'm the bad guy. And she says our friendship is over.

I know it isn't nearly that black and white. I know many people consider me a good friend. I know that we have never communicated well, she's never fully trusted me, and that I should maybe be a bit thankful we'll start to fade from each other's lives. But I'm still upset she got mad. I don't like losing friends. And I don't like feeling like it's my fault.

She wasn't even a good friend, but now I can't help thinking that maybe I wasn't one either.

I'll try to not be too upset. Thinking back, when Rachel said that she was upset we weren't together anymore, even when she was semi-guilting me, she never insinuated that it was my fault. I didn't feel bad about that. We have a nice, functioning friendship. But that isn't the way it worked with this one. It probably wasn't a good friendship to begin with.

I still can't even decide whether we were ever more than acquaintances.

I dunno. I'll get past my bum and glum.

Life is good.

2014 Summary

I mainly organize my thinking into school years, so trying to understand what happened through 2014 is...strange, in my way of thinking. But I'm kind of curious, so I want to try writing it out.

The winter of 2014 was atrocious. It was the peak of my self harming, when my obsession with burning began, and that of course sucked. It was terrifyingly hard, especially since four of my friends have January birthdays and each celebration included me hiding from lighters or, in one shameful case, having to beg my friend to hide a lighter from me. This went along with a whole host of other yucky self harm fantasies that seemed to plague me where ever I went, and was probably the worst I had ever had it since my major depression in junior high.

By February I think I had finally given in and told my mom that it was becoming serious. I was no longer interacting with the world in a healthy way, and while I hated worrying my mother, I had promised her during junior high that if my depression ever got out of my control that I would tell her and see a therapist. And so I told her and we started looking up psychologists, though I didn't get an appointment until April.

The rest of winter was agonizing. It was a constant haze of self harm thoughts, cigarette cravings and bite wounds, all the while failing out of AP Calc (which was causing me terrible stress, I had never failed anything, not to mention something that affected my college GPA) and dodging questions about my gloves. This was all combined with what I thought to be unrequited pinings and friend anxiety, and I was just. Having a grand old time. Ehhh.

Spring came, I was in therapy, and shortly after my first appointment I accidentally confessed my feelings to Beck at stupid o'clock in the morning over Facebook, like a stupid goof. But then they actually reciprocated, which was AWESOME, and I rapidly started improving. Having the love of your life return your feelings has a crazy way of changing your mindset, oddly enough. The self harm fantasies slowly but surely began to reign themselves in, and after about four months of therapy I said I was mentally stable enough to stop the sessions. With it, though, came the realization that I had been emotionally abused by my stepfather for years without giving it a name, and at my last session with my therapist I asked him how I could cope with this. His only advice was to never bring it up, and to move on, all the while striving to get as far away from his house as possible. These words continue to bother me, but I have found no better counsel.

Senior year of high school ended, just in time for me to realize that I absolutely hated my school and everyone in it. And to think, for the past four or maybe even seven years I had assumed I loved my school! But I didn't. It was a terribly environment with a lot of terrible people, and I was glad to be out. I graduated one grade-point below academic achievement, but they gave it to me anyway because reasons. My major plans had changed in the last few months, altering my life-long plans from elementary ed to special education. I had lost a friend who had been close to me since seventh grade, and lost trust in another. But with the end of the school year came summer, and summer meant moving out of my step father's house and spending the next few months almost exclusively with my father. This thought, and this thought along might have been what helped me dredge the last thick trenches of senior year.

Over the summer, I immediately began regretting all of the scholarships I did not sign up for as the FAFSA screwed over my family time and time again. I had many fabulous trips, most of which I can't remember because traveling never interests me. The only thing that sticks out is that I finally visited my now-partner, Beck, for the first time. It was wonderful, but unfortunately short (I believe a mere 30 minutes). We officially started dating after that, and I have never been happier. Then there was the Alaska trip to celebrate my Nana's retirement, which made me realize that I absolute abhors the idea of cruise ships.

Suddenly I was catapulting straight into my first year of college, which was surreal. I was placed in the Hmong House, a living learning community inside my dorm building, and into my room I carried with me many punk clothes I would soon tire of, an array of knee-high socks, hopes and dreams and aspirations, and fears of inevitable relapse once the stress kicked in. I was scared of my lack of support system, as every single one of my close friends had chosen a different graduation path, separating us among six different locations. Luckily, I soon found solace in Martina, the lovely people of my hall, and the Queer Cultural Center.

College has been jam-packed with new experiences so far, and my first semester has been full of adventure. I figured out my sexual identity, going from a bisexual to a biromantic grey asexual. I started entering the slam poetry scene and now perform during slams, almost making it to nationals in the qualifying round. I ruined my sleep schedule a bit and found out about many mental health locations on campus, just before realizing I didn't want to go back to dependency. I helped Martina through a bad breakup, learned what it truly meant to run through the winter air for a 3 AM friend. All the while I slowly but surely became a navigator of the metro lines, which solidified my once crumbling friendship and helped me reconnect with my ex girlfriend, who remains a valuable friend and ally through many hard times. I finally decided I didn't want to start smoking, and thrilled in the independence that came with buying tea for myself on bad mental health days. And then somewhere along the line I became obsessed with sports anime(?????????).

During Thanksgiving break Beck flew to Minnesota and stayed at the house for three days, which were blissful even with the constant dog attacks. I think of those days often, and they fill me to the brim with happiness. It was the start of what will be a series of visitations.

By finals I was having panic attacks over dad's threat to take me out of college if I got any Cs by semester end. Which I hadn't gotten a C in years (not including Calculus), the thought of having to live with my stepfather again after finally realizing my escape had me teetering on the edge. This combined with the suicide scare of my new friend and the stress of excommunicating myself from my on-campus church drove me to the brink, but I managed to keep myself together enough to make it through.

Finally came winter break, where a torturous Trakas visit at one point had me covertly running away to Kate's house to hide from their bigotry. I had never felt more independent and radical. I managed to terribly upset my mother and earn the respect of Nikki and John, and afterwards the Trakas family were careful not to talk politics around me.

And now comes the new year, where my only thoughts are some rebooted stories I want to write and a future spring break Beck visit on the horizon. I pray I will grow stronger and wiser by next year's end.

Life is good.

Anarchy, College

I have been so scared all week.

Dad sent me angry messages sometime last week about my grades, saying that if I got a C in any of my classes this semester I would be taken out of college to join the workforce. I wasn't planning on getting any Cs, but suddenly the fear was everywhere, and I could not stop thinking about it. I was terrified and the anxiety was high.

Then this Monday I found that my friend from dA, Anarchy, had terminated her account with thoughts of finally committing to her suicide plans. It was an old message from the weekend. I had no idea whether she was alive. We had only known eachother for a month or two, but we had become friends. I thought she was like me, filled with suicidal thoughts but lacking the courage to go through with them. Apparently I was wrong.

She was only 14. 14 years old! I couldn't stop thinking about it. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't concentrate. Studying for finals was impossible, I was listless, the number 14 rolling through my head, unable to think of anything else. I bore an immense grief in my chest but had no idea whether I was meant to mourn or not. I had no way of contacting her to see whether she had actually attempted or not. For all I knew she was in a hospital, or uninjured in bed, or dead. At 14 years old. Suicide.

Today was my last final. I got a decent score, and afterwards went to check in with the professor. IT turns out many assignments I thought were optional were actually mandatory--I was currently at a C and I had hours worth of quizzes and short essay assignments to do by midnight if I hoped to stay in college. Last night my neighbors were partying until 1 AM so I have barely had any sleep, and I was planning on napping after the final. But now I will be cramming homework until midnight. And doing that again tomorrow. And trying to secretly cram over winter break without my parents finding out. And hope I can raise my grade to a B.

So here I am, getting ready to cram, an in a last resort of my sanity I check dA, just like I have done periodically every day since Anarchy's suicide threat, to see whether she was back. But this time, she was.

Anarchy's alive. She had thought about committing, but did not do it. She is alive. She is not dead. I can breathe again.

I am crying from relief and I am just so glad. I am so glad she's alive. And while that is a weight off my chest, I wonder whether it will help me focus on this work--if anything, I want to go into the streets and celebrate, or at least rest my eyes in a finally peaceful dream. Yet I do not have even that luxury. Still, I am glad. I am giving myself this one short reprieve to write and rest, before I dive into this homework hell.

I am so overcome with emotion I am not sure how I will manage to concentrate, but I'm just. So hopeful. So thankful.

Life is good.

The Visit

 Beck stayed at my house for three days. It was wonderful. It was absolutely wonderful.

I got to hold their hand a lot, it was wonderful. Their hair is very soft. I wish I had gotten to cuddle them more. I now miss the blessings of high school when I could just hold someone for an hour straight. That was great. I want to be able to do that with Beck. None of the kisses lasted long enough. They were all very sweet. Everything about Beck is very soft. I promised mom I wouldn't sleep next to Beck but she never checked the last night, I should have done it anyway. I miss them. I miss them a lot. Being next to them was a special kind of warm and it'll be hard to not have it anymore.

Five hours before we had to wake up for the airport, I couldn't sleep. I kept looking up above me at Beck's bunk and thinking that they would have to leave soon. I looked up and whispered, asking if they were awake. They were. I climbed up and we just touched foreheads and laid next to each other, and said "I'll miss you",  "I'm glad you came", and "I love you." I don't think I said anything but those three phrases that night, and I am happy with the three I chose.

Then I went back to bed.

I miss them. I miss them a lot. I keep remembering what it felt like to hold them. I keep remembering their smile and the way they held their hands. I keep remembering their laugh, and the way they'd duck down in embarrassment after kissing me. It was adorable. They are adorable. Way too adorable.

We left for the airport at 5:25 AM.  It was dark; I took them to the middle of the hill and showed them how Minneapolis sparkled in the distance, a flurry of lights. They kissed me and grabbed my hand. In the car all I wanted was to hold them tight tight tight but the seatbelt wouldn't let me. I kissed them before they went inside and mom laughed at me. I was not the least bit embarrassed.

I miss them. I miss them so so so so so so much. It will take a while for me to get used to just texts and video calls again. The real thing is so much better. I can't wait until I get to see them again.

I am so tired and all I want to do is dream of them beside me.

Life is good.