My Mental Illness
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Every night, I tell myself I'm not going to do it. And every night, I feel it take over: the irresistible urge, the search for imaginary and real blemishes on my body, an outward release of swirling anxiety.
Every night, I lose an hour or more of my life. I do it when I'm bored, when I'm anxious, and many times for what feels like no reason at all.
Coming to terms with mental illness is complicated, and over time I have learned to accept that this is my "thing." In my mind, everyone has their "thing," the one thing they hide from the world. Mine just happens to be picking at my own body until I'm ashamed of myself.
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