My name is Jennie. I'm 21 and I pick my feet, and have done for the past 7 years. I have picked my feet for so long that I can't remember a time when I didn't pick my feet.
My dad died in 2003, which is obviously when I started. I didn't cry once when my dad died, I only cried a couple of years later. I just couldn't cry. I guess I just didn't have a healthy way of channelling my anger and sadness.
Something inside me isn't completely satisfied unless my feet are red raw, sore and bleeding from the amount of picking I put it through.
I remember a couple of years back I managed to stop. I was so happy. But I just went straight back to my old ways a couple of weeks later.
After 7 years, I just can't see a way out. It's progressing slowly as well, I'm finding myself picking my skin on my fingers, and lately my arms.
I hate that I pick. It interferes with everything. My life is being controlled my picking.