Warm Summer sun on my face as I listen to waves crash in the distance; hugging my Mom after I haven’t seen her for a really long time; sipping Sleepytime tea in my bed with fresh sheets; gnawing at the skin around my fingers until it’s ripped to shreds and bleeding profusely: these are all things that bring calmness and clarity into my life. Pick-pick-picking at the minor flaws I encounter on my body (to, in turn, create more) has been a favorite pastime of mine since the fifth grade. I remember because this is when I moved across the country and started at a new school where I knew no one. In Maine, my teachers couldn’t keep me quiet. I was a whirling ball of energy, constantly inventing distractions for myself and others. Highlights include: unofficial class newspaper, unsanctioned nature show, and student-led class mascot elections. (The mascot one incited so much discord among fourth graders that the teachers held an official election. Puffins won because, Maine.)
But then I was uprooted to New Jersey where I knew no one and for the first time in my life, had nothing to say. Where words used to fall out of my mouth, there was suddenly a deafening emptiness. This is where my fingernails fit in and where my addiction began. I didn’t need to say anything if I was biting my nails. I bit them down to the quick. My fingers throbbed. The combination of a Dad who didn’t believe in medicating children and a Mom who didn’t really care if I bit my nails allowed it to continue well into middle school. In an even bigger school where I knew even less people, my anxiety was expounded. This gave way to a romance that was built to last: picking at my scalp.
Here’s the thing about nail biting: eventually, you run out of nail. Anyone who has seen how small my hands are knows this is especially an issue for me. But head scratching and hair pulling is an exponential game, the more I scratch and pick the more scabs that appear for me to scratch and pick. Am I insane or is that not the most satisfying thing you’ve ever heard? The lazy, unconscious action of nail biting was replaced with the cyclical, rewarding, bountiful joy of head picking. Just think for a moment about all the follicles on your head, a countless amount, just waiting to be clawed at and examined! Thrilling.
The only downside is that it’s super gross. In middle school where suddenly I was beginning to be valued for my outward appearance, I started up a habit that made me categorically unattractive. Fearful over being lumped in with the horse girls and the girls who were convinced they were descended from wolves, I hid this delicious vice of mine. I washed my hair everyday, watching in anguish as all of my dedication went swirling down the drain. In an effort to kick the habit, I asked my mom for Head and Shoulders shampoo. It guaranteed a sparkling scalp! If my scalp was sparkling, certainly the urge to tear it to shreds would disappear! I was wrong, but not unhappy about it. Instead of curtailing the issue, Head and Shoulders became my codependent enabler. We formed a symbiotic relationship. It burned my scalp, leaving me large red welts that appeared all over my head. It was like I had quit smoking cigarettes just to fall ass backwards into a bag of cocaine. The little hopeless Romantic (please note: capital "R", a la Mary Shelley) in me delighted in this secret shame. At an age where I felt ownership over nothing, not even my own changing body, the ability to destroy myself from the outside in was one thing over which I commanded a sense of control. It was my secret and I nurtured it in private.
But as my fervor for hair picking reached this glorious new height, my life was upended by an interesting dichotomy. Puberty (which I think I entered around age 16, realistically. Late bloomer!) simultaneously built and destroyed me. The feeling of long overdue autonomy that it brought me was undercut by the havoc it was wreaking on my body. I gained a social confidence that I hadn’t felt since those days back in Maine, while at the same time unable to recognize the person I saw in the mirror. This was compounded by the discovery of boys (boys!). Sure, they had always been there - but suddenly they were emboldened to voice their opinions on girls’ physical appearance (both positively and negatively) and surprisingly, I cared. The anxiety that had once been solely my own, was now dictated by everyone around me. Boys accepted and rejected without even the hint of being asked. Friends shared their own perceived flaws, which just gave me new areas of consternation to focus on. My own ultra-conservative mother who had forbidden me from even thinking about makeup, now heartily encouraged its use. My sexual viability, practically on its arrival, became a communal concern.
My scalp was granted clemency as my face became public enemy number one. Acne came for me, like it does for most of us. I spent my nights furiously popping and picking and prodding, waking up the next morning at the crack of dawn to make sure I’d have enough time to paint over it. While attacking my scalp had been a solemn comfort, clawing at my face was a fervid barrage in my battle for beauty. I was swept away in the tide of perfection. Because that’s what I expected of myself: perfection. It was the only suitable choice; good enough was not good enough. I saw any little flaw as the crack through which other peoples’ opinions could break through and infiltrate my psyche. I was ignorant to the realization that, in upholding that belief, they already had. Perfect, perfect, perfect - I craved it. To be heralded as “perfect”, I wanted it more than anything and in turn, I thought it was what everyone else wanted from me, too.
This notion followed me well into college, the grounds on which my sense of self would be forever changed. I formed wonderful, supportive friendships. And while my freshman year, I still wore makeup to class every day, forging these intimate female relationships allowed me to soften and stifle the antagonizing thoughts that ran through my mind. Over cups of noodles and cheap, shitty drinks, these girls spoke candidly about their greasy hair and their unshaved legs and yes, their own troubles with their skin. As someone who had fought for so many years to keep these truths hidden from even my closest friends and family, such candor was radical. And amidst all of the discussion of our flaws, I realized that nothing my friends told me would diminish the love I had for them. The opposite was true, such radical honesty endeared them to me even more. It remained to be seen if I could turn this affection inward towards myself.
Cystic acne was the deciding factor. I had struggled with it with it freshmen and sophomore year of college (maybe due to my diet, probably due to drinking). I was plagued by huge, unpoppable welts that dwelled beneath the surface of my skin. I tried everything from soaps and toners to steamers and hot compresses. My solution of choice though, was simply tearing at my skin until I was left with a nasty gash in my face. If I couldn’t be perfect, then I would instead revel in being really, really horrible. People would ask about the scabs on my face: “how’d you do that?”. The answer “Oh, I don’t know” always worked. People laughed, assuming I was drunk and had injured myself somehow and sickly, I preferred this over admitting I had acne.
This came to a head my sophomore year. My cystic acne was at its worst and suddenly hiding a secret shame no longer felt as enticing as it had in the past. Where so much of my insecurity manifested originally from a lack of theoretical control, I was now able to mediate my command, and lack thereof, of my life. My acceptance of my inevitable imperfection allowed me to eschew my self-destructive habits and finally, care for myself. In a show of self-determination, I went on birth control. My mother was staunchly against this decision, but I told her it was birth control or Accutane, so she relented. My skin cleared up, my body filled out, but most importantly, my mind began (every so slowly) to relax.
This isn’t to say that I’m not still cerebral as hell, I am. (Those closest to me know that my current method for calming my anxiety is checking my pulse. When I get stressed, I press my hands up against my neck to feel how quickly my heart is beating and to remind myself that I’m still alive. It helps me, but stresses most strangers out.) It’s just that for the last few years now, I’ve been able to be that little girl in Maine again, the one bursting with thoughts and sounds and ideas - without a care in the world about what the face spewing them looks like. I have anxiety that I wrestle with every single day, I just don’t take it out on my body. Popping pimples is still a thrill, I don’t think I’ll ever shake that, but I just know it doesn’t matter how I change physically because I will love myself regardless. And hey, everybody’s scalp gets a little itchy sometimes. It’s only natural.
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