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teach79 , 21 Oct 2010

the bottom line about why I pick

Picking, squeezing, scraping; desperate futile attempts to remove the darkness; unwanted ugly that resides beneath; that which doesn’t belong, what holds me back. Breaking skin now, under layers of flesh raw and pink drawing blood, punishing war crimes never reconciled The face in the mirror is the victim, the despised but it’s not me, the mutilated, abused reflection. Seemingly a stranger. In control for once, I, the abuser, the punisher now permitted to rage, permanent blows to the delicate science of veins and cells and glands ruptured. take that and that and that. Feeling satisfied, I can breath again. then in awe I step back in disgrace reality comes into the light of those actually wounded in this twisted fight. Irritated, swollen, bleeding, exposed, feeling victimized and violated once again at my own doing. Doing my best to then conceal the new wounds, the old wounds, the pain, the newly forming scars allowing me to face the world so I can think I am fooling them all from seeing what I already know.
5 Answers
October 22, 2010
this is amazing... you have described exactly how I feel every time I spend an hour in the bathroom in front of the mirror. you have motivated me to try and use poetry as a tool to help myself. thank you.
October 30, 2010
In the mirror I see someone else. She's bitter, self-multilating and full of shame. But it's not me. She only comes out when she's snaps into a trance. A sweet soliloquy of dancing fingers, hypnotized by the ice feeling of the tip of her nose touching the mirror. The hours go by, and like a seek and destroy mission, she takes the battlefield. Hit after hit, minute after minute, she breaks them down until she looks back and sees nothing but a minefield of broken veins, blood and white and pink mounds of pain. Startled, she staggers back and stares, knowing that only a short while ago, there had been a smooth surface who asked for nothing but peace- a break- an ounce of self-respect. They threw up the flag and she shot it down, one by one, in a burning, hurtful crack that sears straight through. And than after staring at her for a few seconds, seeing the blood trickle from her forehead and tears that begin to stream down her face from shame and searing pain, I come back. I stare in the mirror and see me again, only this time I'm hideous. I can barely see who I was minutes ago. I see sadness and crushed hope. Embarrassment and bad skin. I don't have a name or a face- I have nothing but skin. It's all I can see. And it's destroying me.
November 01, 2010

In reply to by betterlife7

Unbelieveable...... I have spent over 45 min trying to put to words exactly what you just described. I was just sending a message of request to find an "on-line counselor" but unfortunately, there is no one available right now, but they trhey are accepting requests and incoming emails. I cant seem to bring myself to describe the intense emotions that go on as I proceed with "one more squeeze or pluck". "NOW I got it out!" Only to find a newly formed swollen pore, which appears white and rubbery...almost like a wart under the skin. I am convinced my right arm tendonitis is due to the strong tug of war I have using my very special tweezers. Many times, I think of the amount of freakin germs at the tip of the tweezers, but proceed with yet, a different angle......How about getting a hold of what you want to remove for "this proceedure" and actually use TWO hands on the one pair of tweezers, because the tweezer tips just cant seem to get a strong enough grip with just one hand. OMG!! How bout when you get hold of the stringy veiny nerve vessels that almost feel like an electric shock throughout your body when you pull them out. This will usually "wake me from the trance for a bit", but once I pull the soothing wet cloth away, I notice another newly raised area, so I shake out my arms try again. I'm going crazy searching for an answer to the disgusting matter I find beneath, and within my skin. I actually lay in bed at night and visualize pus, oils, moles, whiteheads..and pretty much whatever feels "foreign" on my skin . Thank you for sharing your words...It helped me open up a bit. Peace
October 31, 2010
Thank you for your intense descriptions, I appreciate what you are saying, and so glad that you posted. This is the first time I've cried about picking and felt any empathy for myself in the struggle to stop. i don't know what's going on with me, and I've always felt stupid.
November 01, 2010
Hello... I am speechless & brought to uncontrollable tears by your words. You have described what I feel but cannot put into words. I have recently (only been 2 weeks now) gotten the courage to address this shameful habit I've been living with for many, many, many years (I am a 42 yr. old married mother of 3). I know the rage behind it isn't directed at myself really, but at an unresolved & painful past. This is so effing hard...and I'm frightened out of my mind. But, I am also hopeful... thank you.

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