Evolution

August 7 2015

Annie texted me today. She's the first person to try and get ahold of me in the past week or so. I'm not sure how long it's been at this point. She didn't want to talk, she just sent me old pictures. They were from our eighth grade graduation. It seems like so long ago, it's kind of crazy. It kind of hurt that she sent them to me. It's been so long since we've talked. During the school year, she decided she'd throw me out of our social circle via ignorance.

Last year I lost everything. I don't think I'll ever trust people like I used to again. I had friends, and I lost them. I had Andy, and I lost him. My best friend moved. So now I sit here all alone every day, hoping someone will reach out to me because I don't want to be a burden. Even writing this is giving me anxiety because I worry what people would think. I often wonder if it is a good idea to be so open, but then I remind myself that I really don't have anything to lose anymore, so why does it matter? No one knows me online, and no one cares who I am. I don't have anyone out to get me. I'm alone.

It hurts to remind myself that I am so alone. I used to have people I could turn to, but now I feel like I'm a burden so I don't reach out anymore. I don't talk much anymore, and my bad habits get the best of me. I actually haven't been too bad with my picking lately, because this writing takes up a bit of time. And also because one of my scabs got infected so I have been making it a big deal not to pick it.

Picking has always been a huge problem for me. I've been picking as long as I can remember, and it never mattered what I was doing. I could be doing a worksheet for homework, or reading, or walking, or talking to someone. I've always done it subconsciously.

When I was really little, I did it to my dolls and stickers. When fourth grade came around, I picked my scalp. I had started getting dandruff and I thought you were supposed to pick it. But before I knew it, it became an addiction. It lasted all the way until fifth grade when my mom noticed and told me I had to stop because I had made huge scabs.

In sixth grade I began picking my hangnails on my thumbs. But when I got the hangnails, I continued to pick the skin. I still have scars along the sides of my thumbs from all of the years I tore the skin off. I was so ashamed of the scabs for years, I always hid my hands from everyone and kept them at my sides.

Ever since then, I have been picking my face. I was always so ashamed of showing my face, and the scabs were so bad but I wouldn't wear makeup because I always felt that if I avoided it I was, in a way, avoiding growing up. Sometimes I feel like I belong in Peter Pan.

For the past few days my scabs have faded pretty nicely, but only because I've tried so hard not to pick. So far this is my streak. I don't think I've ever gone this long without picking. The one time I did was ninth grade. I know it wasn't any better, but instead I used a razor blade. No one knew until I told Annie when I was done, and she turned me in to the school counselor.

When my father found out, he yelled at me, saying that, "self mutilation is no joke." The real joke is that I've done it my whole life without ever even knowing it. I never knew my picking was a problem until two or three months ago. I figured out it's an actual disorder- dermatillomania. But I still don't know how to make it better.

Lately I've been contemplating wether or not to self harm again. The past week I've been wanting to so badly, but I promised myself I wouldn't before going to the temple. I have only been there once, but I want to be clean and worthy when I go. My CTR ring helps me do that. It reminds me what I stand for, and it helps me stay strong when I forget what I have to stand for. It helps me see through the temptation.

I hate that I still dream about him every night. I always dream that he came back and told me he still loves me. But my heart is re-broken every morning when I wake up and see that he isn't there. When I remember that he still hasn't tried to call me. I hate that some sick part of me still needs him. That a part of me still loves him. I wonder if he still loves me so often, but I guess I shouldn't care. It shouldn't matter to me, after all, he doesn't miss me.