Recently, I’ve found that people don’t need to have OCD to be burdened with obsessive compulsivity. The very statement in and of itself seems to be a contradiction, but mental disorders lack order in general, and refuse to abide by any rules. They are very tricky like that. Little buggers.

It was never the lack of understanding, nor a lack of insight into my own mind that caused my eventual relinquishment of mental stability. Instead, age wore down on me, a bit too early and too soon. Life experience morphed the inconsistencies in my personality into ways to address my state of being. I somehow transformed from “an anxious child” to someone with panic attacks, Anxiety. My tendency to “be a bit too hard on myself at times” mutated into Depression, an older sister to Desperation. However, how these disorders, these demons, came into being is not worth mentioning. What I must stress is how I’m dealing with them. To say it’s exhausting is an understatement, really.

I take medication, I attend therapy, and learn as much as I can- all in order so to coexist and conceal my demons. And for the most part, it works. Though my demons are never quite gone, I’m content with keeping them in cages, carefully crafted by slips of prescriptions.

There’s fine print to all of this, though. My medication makes it so I’m a freak, a spaz.The dosages I need take are so high that I’ll have uncontrollable spasms. By taking charge of my demons, stuffing them in cages, every tendency gets suppressed, aggravated. The cages shake, and my body does too. I have twitches and tics that I can never control. Usually, my spasms are relatively minor- my head convulses to the side, my spine jolts and arches. Other times, my entire body jolts, my arms jump back, my legs buckle. The spasms feel like reminders- just because I lock my demons up it doesn’t mean they are gone. I’ll always have disorder be a part of me, in some way or another. I can suppress my demons all I want, but they will just come back in different forms, ones I can't control. A lion in a cage is still a damn lion.

I used to have a serious problem with self harm. I’ll admit this, openly and honestly, because I’m recovering, getting help, and getting better. For me, self harm was an outlet for Depression, way of expressing emotional pain. There was relief and instant satisfaction in this, and self harm gave me a sort of natural high. Every slice felt like an exhale, a sigh of relief when I was frantic. It numbed me. I was hooked, convinced I needed this outlet in the same way an alcoholic is convinced they need to drink. No longer was this tendency formed from Depression, but Desperation. But I was sick of seeing scrapes and scratches, scabs and wounds.

Funny thing is, I’ve never been very good at self discipline, but I was able to get to the point where most of my scars had faded due to my sheer willpower. I had a determination to be free of flesh wounds. Band aids are very, very expensive, you see.

It was not easy, learning to recover. Depression had me in a constant frantic state, where suicidal tendencies rose higher each second. An open wound, a small line of blood was a life saver. Self harm felt like a flotation device in a harsh sea of self hatred and despair. (And yes, I realize how awfully cliche that sounds. I mean, really? Being dragged down and drowning in despair? How teen-emo can I even get. But I digress, it really did feel that way.)

The irony of this motive is that it was eventually nullified by another tendency of mine, a child of Anxiety. Derma, (short for dermatillomania) is a double edged sword that has been my shadow throughout my life. It used to possess my fragile fingers, tearing my skin around bug bites I earned on the playgroud. I assumed I had grown out of that particular demon. (I was wrong.) Now, distant from razor blades, my hands have found a way to bring blood back to the surface. I might not have cuts, but I still get wounds, in a new way, where I can’t find satisfaction. Dry skin on my face is peeled, pores pushed and forced. The jitters live just under my skin, and I can feel it. Bubbles of frustration exist in hair follicles and the skin. I have to scratch, pick, pop, tear at my skin. Derma is not something related to taking control, for it is but the daughter of frantic action. Derma is not grabbing a life saving flotation device in the sea. Derma is gripping and grasping for something that isn’t there- control. Real control, and hope.

Adolescence has me grappling for a sense of hope, as I learn what its like to be decrepit- somehow, growing up has broken me, and my dreams. I’m angry, frustrated in the realization that all my hopes for the future are not as straightforward as I thought. In learning more about the world, I’ve realized I know very,very little. Earth, society, existence, reality. All of it is very big and very scary and very overwhelming and too much. I’ve stopped seeing the world as my oyster, and realized that Earth is just a very funny rock that I can’t quite pry open. I’m not even sure if there will be a pearl inside.

(I feel completely powerless.)
I end up picking my skin, pulling my hair, obsessing over all of these tendencies that are done compulsively. Derma gives me the power jover the pressure and release right there on my own face.

Like the rest of my demons, I’ve tried everything to hide this, to control this. Snapping rubber bands, picking at velcro, more medication, willpower. It’s not that simple. But everyone around me is convinced that stopping this is easy. Too easy. That I need to. Just. Stop. Just don’t pick! It’s easier said than done. This particular demon feels like larva pushing up at the surface, crawling around on top, inside. The more I try to resist, the more frantic I become.

Dermatillomania is medically defined as the inability to control or resist the impulse to pick at ones own skin, even if its to the point to harm oneself. But definitions miss some things, like the feelings that surround behaviors. For me, there’s an increasing tension before picking, a sense of dissociation. I gain a complete sense of mind, when my consciousness can just shut off. I’m no longer powerless. I’ll push my skin up, pull hair out, tear oil apart, peel skin back. I’m filled with a sense of desperation, exhaustion, and I cannot stop. It’s compulsive. I’m obsessing.

Washing my face takes a half hour with a cleanser that is softer than water. I have to be careful not to scrub any scabs off. I always, somehow, find myself in a manic mess, cleaning deeper, pushing out dirt and makeup, peeling my pores apart.

When I step away from the mirror, or catch myself an hour later, or the next morning

I’m covered in wounds, red angry skin, oozing and irritated.

I stress out more. I want to pick, feeling helpless, ugly. It starts again.

I slather my skin in antibiotic ointment like some girls cover themselves in acne medication and perfumed lotions. My medicine cabinet is filled with the wrappings of specialty band-aids, and concealer. I try to cover this up with makeup, cosmetics. I cant see my skin without feeling the need to peel and pick. (School bathroom mirrors are the enemy, as are any fluorescent lit mirrors)

Tonight my nose is red and my skin is oozing, my forehead is peeling. I want to cry, and sob. I feel hideous. My demons just won’t leave, and this one uses my whole body, every inch of my skin as a cage, and it won’t be contained.
This essay, memoir, whatever- it has no conclusion, no resolution. I haven't found one yet, really.