My Experience With Dermatillomania
Posted: June 3rd, 2016, 6:54 am
I was listening to episode 277 with Hillary A. and she and Paul briefly spoke about the experience of Trichotillomania.
At one point Paul asked her "Does it feel good?"
No. No it doesn't feel good.
"Does it feel bad?" He asks.
No. No it doesn't feel bad.
And she is right. It is hard to describe because it doesn't feel good and it doesn't feel bad. It doesn't feel.
I came to this board expecting to find other people describing their experience with Trichotillomania or Dermatillomania, and was initially surprised to see that there are none posted here. I have struggled with dermatillomania for most of my life, and I have personally known many others who have struggled with trichotillomania. Which means there are others out there too.
Then I thought about how I have discussed it with my therapists when it has come up. Usually it is in the initial interview listed along with a slew of other compulsive behaviors.
"Oh, and I pick at my skin."
"How Frequently do you do that?"
The same question asked about counting, showering, etc.
"Usually right before or after a shower. Often when I go to the bathroom."
"Do you use any tools?" They ask.
"No." I say. Its a lie. I have used a metal comb with nice sharp teeth too it, tweezers, and on two occasions needles. Not to mention my own teeth when it comes to my hands.
My non-committal answers will push the topic further down the list of topics needing to be discussed. I won't bring it up again. I guess that is the same reason there are no posts about it on this board. Because while we wear our skin and hair on constant display, it always seems to avoid direct conversation. So I am going to write down as honest and as true an answer as I can about it. It gets a bit graphic.
When I go into the bathroom it is as if I were a clock piece stuck in a groove that pulls me along towards the mirror. Maybe I stop to turn on the shower first, maybe I don't. I take off my shift and just look at myself in the mirror for a long moment. My eyes travel across my body searching for imperfections. There are plenty. Moles, zits, scars created from picking at my body. My nails are a tortured mess: the nails short box like strips, the cuticles reaching up in protest of constantly being jammed back down, the nail beds tattered and red.
On my right arm I bear a small scar I have had since I was a kid. I remember it because it is from the first time I remember picking. I got the chicken pox real bad, and I just couldn't stop scratching. I scratched and scratched and scratched. I remember that spot, a large blister. I remember dreaming that there were worms living inside of it, and that if I peeled it open I could pull the worm out. It ruptured and pus filtered out and I scrubbed it clean and it was a relief.
When I look up into the mirror of the bathroom and begin to pick it is like slipping into a trance. As I pick bits of skin fall away into the sink, and drops of blood drip down my cheeks and chin, staining my beard before falling in spattered circles. Sometimes I mumble a little to myself "Oh that is good." "Errrr" "No, that is bad." "Oh, mmm".
Does it feel good? Does it feel bad? No. But you don't feel anything either.
It is a bit like that scene from "The Shinning", when the kid is looking into the bathroom mirror. At first he is drawn into it, the mirror opening up to him as he is called into it.There is an elevator, its doors open and out rushes blood. Blood filling the lobby, a sound like blood in your ears, his body stiffens and you see him for a moment frozen in horror. Yet, when he wakes up he doesn't remember any of it. It is as if everything in that mirror never happened, and only the experience of the trance lingers.
I live in a world of fear most days. My brain constantly sending me messages about me being unlovable, those that I care for dying, losing my job, my apartment, not being successful. All of it bombarding me constantly.
But when I pick I don't feel any of it. I don't think. I suppose those thoughts are still there, driving the words that escape my lips, but I'm not conscious of them. It is this complete absence of thought that drives me to continue doing it. It is also the reason I am not likely to bring it up. I am distressed by my fears throughout the day, and yes at times I see the damage picking as done and that can distress me. But the act of picking itself? That is nothing. Blissful nothing.
Clip From the Shining- https://youtu.be/5jO_fhpNuKo
At one point Paul asked her "Does it feel good?"
No. No it doesn't feel good.
"Does it feel bad?" He asks.
No. No it doesn't feel bad.
And she is right. It is hard to describe because it doesn't feel good and it doesn't feel bad. It doesn't feel.
I came to this board expecting to find other people describing their experience with Trichotillomania or Dermatillomania, and was initially surprised to see that there are none posted here. I have struggled with dermatillomania for most of my life, and I have personally known many others who have struggled with trichotillomania. Which means there are others out there too.
Then I thought about how I have discussed it with my therapists when it has come up. Usually it is in the initial interview listed along with a slew of other compulsive behaviors.
"Oh, and I pick at my skin."
"How Frequently do you do that?"
The same question asked about counting, showering, etc.
"Usually right before or after a shower. Often when I go to the bathroom."
"Do you use any tools?" They ask.
"No." I say. Its a lie. I have used a metal comb with nice sharp teeth too it, tweezers, and on two occasions needles. Not to mention my own teeth when it comes to my hands.
My non-committal answers will push the topic further down the list of topics needing to be discussed. I won't bring it up again. I guess that is the same reason there are no posts about it on this board. Because while we wear our skin and hair on constant display, it always seems to avoid direct conversation. So I am going to write down as honest and as true an answer as I can about it. It gets a bit graphic.
When I go into the bathroom it is as if I were a clock piece stuck in a groove that pulls me along towards the mirror. Maybe I stop to turn on the shower first, maybe I don't. I take off my shift and just look at myself in the mirror for a long moment. My eyes travel across my body searching for imperfections. There are plenty. Moles, zits, scars created from picking at my body. My nails are a tortured mess: the nails short box like strips, the cuticles reaching up in protest of constantly being jammed back down, the nail beds tattered and red.
On my right arm I bear a small scar I have had since I was a kid. I remember it because it is from the first time I remember picking. I got the chicken pox real bad, and I just couldn't stop scratching. I scratched and scratched and scratched. I remember that spot, a large blister. I remember dreaming that there were worms living inside of it, and that if I peeled it open I could pull the worm out. It ruptured and pus filtered out and I scrubbed it clean and it was a relief.
When I look up into the mirror of the bathroom and begin to pick it is like slipping into a trance. As I pick bits of skin fall away into the sink, and drops of blood drip down my cheeks and chin, staining my beard before falling in spattered circles. Sometimes I mumble a little to myself "Oh that is good." "Errrr" "No, that is bad." "Oh, mmm".
Does it feel good? Does it feel bad? No. But you don't feel anything either.
It is a bit like that scene from "The Shinning", when the kid is looking into the bathroom mirror. At first he is drawn into it, the mirror opening up to him as he is called into it.There is an elevator, its doors open and out rushes blood. Blood filling the lobby, a sound like blood in your ears, his body stiffens and you see him for a moment frozen in horror. Yet, when he wakes up he doesn't remember any of it. It is as if everything in that mirror never happened, and only the experience of the trance lingers.
I live in a world of fear most days. My brain constantly sending me messages about me being unlovable, those that I care for dying, losing my job, my apartment, not being successful. All of it bombarding me constantly.
But when I pick I don't feel any of it. I don't think. I suppose those thoughts are still there, driving the words that escape my lips, but I'm not conscious of them. It is this complete absence of thought that drives me to continue doing it. It is also the reason I am not likely to bring it up. I am distressed by my fears throughout the day, and yes at times I see the damage picking as done and that can distress me. But the act of picking itself? That is nothing. Blissful nothing.
Clip From the Shining- https://youtu.be/5jO_fhpNuKo