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I've been suffering from dermatillomania for about six years now. I used to mainly pick at my face, and I longed for acne so I could pick more. Then I began picking at my arms, and at hairs on my knee. Fast forward to today. Last night I spent about an hour picking at myself in the bathroom. Some nights I spend over two hours. I started by picking my chest and back, because I can easily cover those parts with clothes. Any little pore with any little plug - I'll pick it. Blackheads and zits are especially perfect, and my back has plenty of those. I wasn't going to pick my face, but I wanted to. Instead, I picked my arms, and decided to just wear long sleeves for a few days. Finally, I caved, and picked my face. Then my chest again, then my face again, etc. Long story short, I'm not looking so hot today. I don't have any huge scabs, thank goodness, but my forehead is covered in unbecoming red dots. My chest looks even worse, but at least I can cover it. My face is my shame.
I brought this up to my mother today. I told her the symptoms of dermatillomania, and how I've self-diagnosed, and what treatment I would recommend for myself. I suggested therapy. She responded the way she always does, that Jesus can heal me and set me free. Have I tried praying about it? She then rubbed salt in the wound by commenting that it was partially my choice.
I'm so fricken done with dermatillomania. Everyone acts like it's my choice, and I suppose it is, in a way. But I feel addicted and helpless. I hate not picking my skin, because if I go one night without picking, everyone notices. My mother will then say that I proved I'm in control, so why don't I just not pick every night? That stresses me out, so I pick more. I pick when I'm happy, sad, anxious, tired, hungry, and full.
I pick my skin, and for some reason, Jesus won't heal me.