Skin Picking is getting your first pimple at age 12, and
your mother tells you that you must pop it and shows you how to use her
concealer.
Skin picking takes that one instruction and twists it into
an obsessive, controlling, destructive habit.
Skin picking is popping every pimple since that first one.
Every single one.
Skin picking is dreading a middle school sleepover, because
you have to wash your face at the end of the night. You stay up later than
everyone else to wash your face, then wake up early to apply concealer before
they wake up.
Skin picking is using 7 different creams and washes every
night, and your best friend with perfect skin doesn’t even wash her face at
all. She tells you maybe you should try that.
Skin picking is not wearing sleeveless shirts throughout
middle school and high school.
Skin picking is planning weeks or months in advance for occasions
that your shoulders or back will show – swimming parties, beach vacations,
prom, your wedding. It’s working hard for weeks to get your skin clear, only to
relapse as soon as the event is over.
Skin picking is not swimming AT ALL for three summers in a
row in high school.
Skin picking is intentionally getting a bad sunburn the first
day of every beach vacation, so that the pimples will blend in.
Skin picking is spending 30 min to an hour every night squeezing
every pore on your face, shoulders, back and chest until you are a red puffy
mess.
Skin picking is obsessing over a tiny white spot that you
think is in there that must come out. You use every means possible to remove it
– squeeze, pop, scratch, poke, tweeze.
Skin picking is your mother taking you to dermatologists and
aestheticians; paying for treatments, pills, and creams, all the while you know
it won’t work as long as you’re still picking, and feeling horribly guilty.
Skin picking is going to summer camp and having your skin
clear up in one week’s time because the bathrooms are communal and there is no
opportunity to pick. Your father marvels at your skin and decides it must be
the clear spring water at the camp. He purchases and installs a purifying water
faucet on your shower head. More guilt.
Skin picking is staring at your reflection and telling
yourself that you are disgusting and hideous.
Skin picking is telling yourself that you will never be able
to quit.
Skin picking is thinking of ways to quit picking, while
picking.
Skin picking is saying, “Just this one,” and not stopping
for an hour or longer.
Skin picking is Googling “excessive skin-picking” your sophomore
year of college and realizing for the first time that you’re not alone and that
this is a real thing.
Skin picking is going to your college Psych professor and
sharing that you may have a mental illness.
Skin picking is going to your college counselor for the
first time and finding out more about yourself than you could ever imagine. She
guides you through many struggles and helps come up with several ideas to help
you quick picking. They work for a while.
Skin picking is covering every mirror in your college dorm
room with paper, towels, anything to prevent you from staring endlessly at your
skin.
Skin picking is wearing makeup every day from the age of 15.
You become a professional at covering up. You spend a fortune on makeup and
feel like you single-handedly keep the makeup industry afloat.
Skin picking is not going anywhere without makeup. Not to
check the mail. Not the park. Not the gym. Not WalMart. Nowhere.
Skin picking is not feeling human without makeup. You tell
yourself you look like a crack head without it.
Skin picking is promising yourself that you will never become
a wife, and still be picking.
Skin picking is picking the day you get back from your
honeymoon.
Skin picking is sneaking to bed from the bathroom late at night,
so your husband won’t see your red puffy face you’ve just destroyed.
Skin picking is only wanting to be intimate in the dark
because of the shame of your skin.
Skin picking is promising yourself that you will never
become a mother, and still be picking.
Skin picking is picking in the hospital bathroom after
giving birth.
Skin picking is picking in the bathroom mirror while your baby
is in the bathtub watching you. You reason with yourself that he doesn’t understand
yet. You’ll quit before he’s big enough to realize.
Skin picking is picking when he’s bigger. While he’s
watching.
Skin picking is watching your toddler get a bug bite on his
face and habitually scratch at it for a year, and feeling horrifying guilt that
you have destroyed him.
Skin picking is constantly scanning with your fingers at the
back of your neck, on your shoulders, to see if there’s anything that should be
scratched, removed, or popped.
Skin picking is saying enough is enough and going to a
therapist and psychiatrist.
Skin picking is determining that this is not the end.
Skin picking is a part of my story, but it is not who I am.
My name is Tarah.
Artist.
Teacher.
Home chef.
Gardener.
Stylist.
Missionary.
Traveler.
Daughter.
Sister.
Mother.
Wife.
Child of God.
Me.
