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Breaking the Cycle: I Pick You

Confessions of a Skin Picker

“What is that, a bug bite on your neck?” my boss, 2008.

“Um… yeah.” (No, it wasn’t.)

“Stop biting and picking the skin next to your thumbs,” my manicurist, every single time.

OK…

I’m coming clean.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had the terrible habit of picking, popping, and obsessing over the slightest bump or uneven patch of skin. I can’t stop. Sometimes, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. Even when I think I’m relaxed, my hands are busy. In fact, I’m doing it now—between keystrokes.

The Rituals of Picking

Mornings start with me peering into my 10x light-up magnifying mirror, scanning for anything that can be “fixed.” If it needs a tool? Even better.

At night, I do another inspection during my beauty routine, often undoing any progress my skin made during the day.

And in between, driving, on Zoom calls, chatting with someone, my fingers find the latest spot to focus on. Lately, it’s been my neck and behind my ears, along the hairline. No one else can see it, but I can feel it. A few tiny bumps that I rub and scratch over and over.

Anxiety With a Side of Scabs

I’m fairly sure this is part of my dissociation ritual.

I’ve gotten better at hiding the evidence…no more months-long marks in the middle of my face, but I haven’t figured out how to quiet the urge.

My husband notices and mentions it; I get irritated.
I notice my son doing it; he gets irritated.

That’s when it hits me.

Breaking the Cycle

This is a behavior I recognized in myself early on… and I let it stay. I even found comfort in it. But there’s no comfort in watching my son mirror it.

It breaks my heart, sitting here rubbing my neck, knowing I could have done more to stop this before passing it on.

Anxiety has many faces. This one just happens to leave marks.

And disbih… I have to break the cycle—one way or another.

xoMS