Let’s confront this.
Do you crave this feeling, this slew of butterflies in your stomach, this army of ants marching up and down your spine? Do you like it when there’s a little pain, when you can’t breathe a little? Cause I think you do. Ever since you were young you were always a little obsessive, compulsively picking at your nails, and at the cracked dry skin around the edges of your fingers, worrying at them until they’re smoothed down to ragged, bleeding flesh. I remember that you were fascinated with what you were doing, never letting up even though it hurt already, even when blood started coming out in little smears, mindlessly concerned with just peeling at the smallest bits of skin that were sticking out. And you never thought enough to use tools either, you just had to get them out with just your fingernails. You never bit down on them, as some people do, so it wasn’t that particular complex, whatever it is that nail-biters have. You just picked at them until they bled, and you never notice until after you were done, until after you were out of the spell that held you as you were concentrating so intensely on hurting yourself, that you were already skinned and raw, the pain making your fingertips throb and pulsate with every beat of your heart. Do you remember how your eyes glaze over as you do it, because you never look don’t you, you never look down at your hands as you do it, you did it mainly by touch and feel, just worrying at them and scratching and rubbing away at them until the skin peels out. Do you remember how your breathing becomes shallow and without rhythm, and sometimes you would just suddenly take a deep gulping breath of air, probably because your body was lacking oxygen already, and your mom would scold you, and you wouldn’t understand what she was so mad about, when she was probably just scared, because when you take in a big mouthful of air like that, it looks like you were having a panic attack. Do you remember the thoughts you used to have while you were doing it? I bet you don’t. Because it was just a meaningless void in there while you’re in one of your ‘sessions’ isn’t it, a toneless buzz of thoughts and disconnected, incoherent ideas that race around and around in your head. Oh you were fascinated with your thoughts, I grant you that, and sometimes there are some interesting stories that come out. But mainly they were pointless, and afterwards, you’re left with a painful, bloody mess. And do you learn from it? I don’t think so, because it was the same, you were the same, day after day, week after week, your hands always painful and scratched and throbbing and raw and wounded for years and years.
And you know what, until now I still catch you doing it sometimes. You’re fingers don’t get bloody anymore, not quite as often as before anyway, but you still do it, in your own way, sometimes.
Anxiety. It was anxiety, and probably other complexes that were undiagnosed because that simply wasn’t done back then. You probably had a touch of autism or ADHD or *something* cause now we know that people just don’t *do* that, the actions that you described above. They’re not shameful, just the way that you were/are.
You do it still even now you know, the picking at your nails when there’s a cuticle out, a rough edge that scratches against any smooth surface.
And your skin is so dry that there’s almost always something.
And what’s worse is that you know things now, you are more mature, more aware, and yet you continue to do it.