Thoughts and Fears of a Generally Anxious Dermatillomaniac

I wish I could make sense of mental illness. Of General Anxiety Disorder, of recurring Major Depressive Disorder, of Dermatillomania, of Dysphoric Emotional Dysregulation Disorder, of all the things that make up the inner anxious working of my mind.

I wish I could understand why Zoloft seems to work, but Lexapro makes my intrusive thoughts and suicidal urges so much more prominent. I wish I could understand how Abilify is supposed to “regulate my emotions” – and how it actually seems to.

I wish I could stop picking. I wish I wasn’t afraid to touch my scalp for fear that I might not stop until it bleeds or is brushed. I wish I didn’t have layers of new, old, and scabbed skin around my cuticles. I wish I didn’t randomly find blood on my nails or have sore fingers when washing my hands or have numbness in my fingertips. I wish I could keep longer nails for more than a couple of weeks – if that – before biting and pulling them off again.

I wish I didn’t feel so alone or weird for the messages that my mind sends me. I wish others could understand that as much as I try to change things, this is my normal. And it is the normal of so many others, but we are all so scared to talk about it.

I can’t speak on behalf of everyone, but I know me. My illnesses tell me that I will never be loved – even when I know that I am. Thoughts intrude and tell me: “No one will ever want to hold your hand because of the scabs on your fingers. No one will ever want to be seen with you when you wear short sleeves because they will be embarrassed by the scars on your arms, and you should be too. No one will want to kiss you if you pick your lips apart. No one will want to deal with your anxious, obsessive thoughts or want to reassure you so many times per day.” They tell me that no one will ever see me as beautiful or charming or intelligent, but as a pitiful creature who is always hurting, hopeless and in need of help. So, as much as I’ve always tried to see the best in people, I’ve come to fear the worst – even when they don’t give me reason to. My mind tells me to trust no one – not even myself. And that is really. freaking. hard.

I want to say that it gets easier. Maybe it does.

I find myself at a point in my life where I can be an advocate, but that doesn’t mean I’ve perfected the practice. I pick my fingers or scalp at least once a day for anywhere from 30 minutes to 13 hours. Within the last couple of months, I’ve relapsed more than once and had urges to self-harm more times than I can remember. Within the last six months, I’ve had countless anxiety attacks and depressive episodes that kept me in bed, out of class and fighting for my life while trying to have friends and a college career. I’ve fought with medications and urges and vulnerability. And I somehow have the words today to spill into a document and, in a way, process how far I’ve come.

But I will repeat this phrase over and over again so long as I live: HEALING IS NOT LINEAR. There are times when I feel like I’ve made it out alive, then the illness invades my mind once again, and I’m trapped. Or at least I feel like I am. Thankfully, the further I’ve come, the better I can recognize my poor coping skills and make better choices – choices to reach out, to ask for help and hope, to take deep breaths and find a pressure object, to draw or journal or paint, to watch a TV show or movie and just be with myself.

I wonder that maybe that’s where it all starts – learning to be with yourself. I’m not great at loving my body, but I can be thankful for what it does. I’m not great at meditating and taking deep breaths, but I enjoy the peace that comes with feeling my breath and body realign. I’m not great at keeping it all together while hiding my emotions behind a mask; my face will tell you everything. When I want to be upset about that fact, I remember how much easier that makes it to be vulnerable, and I am thankful.

I’m still here. There are days when my next step should be to create a safety plan. There are others when I feel like I’m on top of a mountain and have no idea how I got there, though I’m thankful that I am.

Every day, whether I feel high or low, I am choosing to win this fight for my life. To beat the anxiety, the depression, the skin-picking, the mood swings. And every day, through tears or a smile or simply a content heart-space, I will thank God that He is fighting for me too.