Wow, I got a comment from Maysun, my first ever! Thanks Maysun ^__^ It sure did perk me up to read that. It was good advice too – I can’t believe now that I didn’t even think about the mirrors in the changing rooms. Maybe if I had been better prepared mentally, I wouldn’t have slipped up.
I tried something on Tuesday that I think worked rather well. I was going out to dinner with all my work friends and was doing hair, putting on make-up etc, and of course I needed the mirror to do that. I thought about using a small hand-mirror in a dimly-lit room, but then decided to adopt another tactic instead. I closed the door of the bathroom cabinet (I have been keeping it open so the mirror in the door isn’t showing), I looked at my reflection, and I deliberately made myself look for things I liked about what I saw.
I like my eyes. They are a greeny-brown – my mother calls them hazel – and they are really pretty and unusual. I like my mouth; it’s pale pink and quite little, almost a button-mouth. My chin is small and pointy, giving my face a heart-shaped effect. A cute little pixie-chin. My freckles are just noticeable under my eyes and along my hairline.
I spent about fifteen or twenty seconds just logging all of this mentally, all these things I liked about my face. And then I started doing my hair and my make-up. Every time I found myself drawn towards an imperfection, I would pull myself back to finding things I liked.
I didn’t pick. I was in front of that mirror for about ten to fifteen minutes, and I did not pick.
I did the same yesterday morning and this morning when doing my hair for work, and both times went well. I practised saying to myself, out loud, “You are beautiful.” Telling myself aloud all the things I liked about my face. I felt a little stupid. But it seemed to work.
I mostly still keep the mirrors out of sight, because I still have a lot of impulses to look for the wrong reasons. But I’m hoping this can be some kind of ‘repairing my relationship with mirrors’ therapy that will help me to cope when I go back home on Sunday, to the bathroom mirror that I can’t do anything about.
On the other hand, I am a little worried that this is just some half-baked scheme that I am using as an excuse to look at my reflection when I really didn’t ought to let myself do it at all. But – life is a learning curve, ne? If it leads me back to picking, I’ll know it was the wrong thing to do, and then I won’t do it again.
So. Feeling positive!
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Monday, February 04, 2008
Easy Good, Easy Bad
Okay. Bungalow review time.
I have actually been pleasantly surprised at how easy I have found it to be good over the last eight days. When I came here for a fortnight last February, I was desperately trying to quit picking, but had not been working at it for long and was still finding it extremely difficult – also I had not yet found dtM on Wikipedia or the lovely SPOM board; those discoveries came in March. So, in short, this time last year I sucked mighty ass at not picking during my fortnight at the bungalow. In fourteen days I don’t believe I hit more than four stickers.
As I recall, I think I did cover the mirrors back then, but gave in to the compulsion to ‘check how my skin was doing’ all too frequently, which led to the compulsion to pick. This time it’s been different. I put the mirrors away, and left them alone. I get urges to look at my reflection, sure, but it’s not like it was a year ago. I just say ‘no’ inside my head, and go and do something else.
On Saturday, I went on a mega clothes shopping spree. I’ve needed to for a while; I had gotten desperately short of smart clothes for work. I went into the first shop, psyching myself up for a long day of shopping ahead – I don’t particularly love shopping to be honest, it’s so time-consuming trying everything on and it starts to annoy me after an hour or so. But anyway, I grabbed a load of things I liked the look of, headed for the fitting rooms, locked the cubicle door behind me…
And was confronted by my reflection for the first time in a week. Oh god. How had this failed to occur to me? I was going to be spending a very large part of the day locked in private little spaces with mirrors all over the god damn walls.
I took a deep breath, and tried everything on very fast. I was sharply aware of a spot on my cheek that I had managed to mostly ignore for the last couple of days. It was screaming at me in my head, and the mirror felt like gravity.
I looked. I looked very closely, but I did not touch. I was good.
Next shop. Another mirror. I looked again. I touched it, briefly. I closed my fingertips around it, and then snatched them away. I would do this. I would beat this. I would not give in.
Next shop. Looking. Touching. And then it was happening and I knew I should stop but somehow I didn’t, and then it was all over and a raised red blotch was all that was left.
Damn it all to hell.
I couldn’t believe it. I had been doing SO well! And then a mirror had happened, and my resolve had utterly fallen apart. I knew that covering the mirrors would be a help. But it wasn’t until then that I realised how easy it was to do well when there were no mirrors, and how easy it was to fall down when a mirror was put in front of me.
All the good that I am doing here in the bungalow is going to count for nothing when I get back home, if I cannot find a way to fight the mirrors. Because I cannot get away from them there. And I will fall down again and again and again, when I could be doing so well, if only those fucking mirrors weren’t there!
How the hell do I work around this? How?
I have actually been pleasantly surprised at how easy I have found it to be good over the last eight days. When I came here for a fortnight last February, I was desperately trying to quit picking, but had not been working at it for long and was still finding it extremely difficult – also I had not yet found dtM on Wikipedia or the lovely SPOM board; those discoveries came in March. So, in short, this time last year I sucked mighty ass at not picking during my fortnight at the bungalow. In fourteen days I don’t believe I hit more than four stickers.
As I recall, I think I did cover the mirrors back then, but gave in to the compulsion to ‘check how my skin was doing’ all too frequently, which led to the compulsion to pick. This time it’s been different. I put the mirrors away, and left them alone. I get urges to look at my reflection, sure, but it’s not like it was a year ago. I just say ‘no’ inside my head, and go and do something else.
On Saturday, I went on a mega clothes shopping spree. I’ve needed to for a while; I had gotten desperately short of smart clothes for work. I went into the first shop, psyching myself up for a long day of shopping ahead – I don’t particularly love shopping to be honest, it’s so time-consuming trying everything on and it starts to annoy me after an hour or so. But anyway, I grabbed a load of things I liked the look of, headed for the fitting rooms, locked the cubicle door behind me…
And was confronted by my reflection for the first time in a week. Oh god. How had this failed to occur to me? I was going to be spending a very large part of the day locked in private little spaces with mirrors all over the god damn walls.
I took a deep breath, and tried everything on very fast. I was sharply aware of a spot on my cheek that I had managed to mostly ignore for the last couple of days. It was screaming at me in my head, and the mirror felt like gravity.
I looked. I looked very closely, but I did not touch. I was good.
Next shop. Another mirror. I looked again. I touched it, briefly. I closed my fingertips around it, and then snatched them away. I would do this. I would beat this. I would not give in.
Next shop. Looking. Touching. And then it was happening and I knew I should stop but somehow I didn’t, and then it was all over and a raised red blotch was all that was left.
Damn it all to hell.
I couldn’t believe it. I had been doing SO well! And then a mirror had happened, and my resolve had utterly fallen apart. I knew that covering the mirrors would be a help. But it wasn’t until then that I realised how easy it was to do well when there were no mirrors, and how easy it was to fall down when a mirror was put in front of me.
All the good that I am doing here in the bungalow is going to count for nothing when I get back home, if I cannot find a way to fight the mirrors. Because I cannot get away from them there. And I will fall down again and again and again, when I could be doing so well, if only those fucking mirrors weren’t there!
How the hell do I work around this? How?
Friday, February 01, 2008
Picky Dreams
I had a dream about picking last night.
***** : WARNING : GRAPHIC : MAY TRIGGER : *****
Strangely, it was a spot on my arm. I’m not really an arms/legs/body picker, owing to how I mostly only get spots on my face and back – and my back is awkward to get to, and not as ‘satisfying’ because I can’t see it. However. I digress. The dream.
I caught sight of this spot, on my right forearm, and it was a cystic monster – huge and red and tight and sore, with the head just starting to peak under the top layer of skin. Somehow in my dream I hadn’t noticed it before. It was beautifully ripe, and it wasn’t on my face, so I decided it didn’t really count if I picked it. I caught it gently, and pinched. It burst beautifully. An initial semi-solid flurry, and then a slower squeezing out of all the runny yellow gunk.
That yellow gunk just didn’t stop coming. At first I was pleased at there being so much, because it extended the moment of popping. Then I was midly alarmed, but couldn’t let go of the pinching. I had to get it all out – there being so much of it only made that need greater.
It finally stopped coming. It looked like a small mountain on my arm; I couldn’t see the spot beneath it anymore. Carefully, I wiped the gunk away with my hand, and there beneath it lay the wound, already healed into a large scab. I guess it was about the size of a large flattened grape.
I picked it off.
I don’t know quite how to describe what I saw beneath that scab. It kind of looked like one of those pits beneath a cattle-grid which is designed to let small animals escape – a forty-five-degree slope on one side, meeting a vertical drop on the other. Like a capital N with the left-hand line missing.
The wound wasn’t bloody, or weepy, or even moist. It looked as though someone had ripped a deep chunk from my forearm a long time ago, and my arm had been left to heal that way. The vertical-drop wall of the wound was pink and wrinkly like scar tissue, but the part which sloped down to meet it was smooth and pure, with hairs and freckles growing on it all the way down to the bone. In my dream, I was shocked and frightened. I was too scared to touch it. I just stared.
Right at the deepest part of the wound, where I could see a sliver of the bone of my forearm, it seemed as though the wound didn’t quite stop. The walls pressed together, but they weren’t sealed together, rather like some Freudian pseudo-vagina on my arm. As I stared at this monstrosity in horror, it seemed I was somehow, impossibly, able to look all the way down this wound, travelling all the way down my arm through flesh and bone, and spreading out in the palm of my hand like a disease, all straggly-edged. And inside my palm I could see, as if looking at an x-ray, the bones of my hand and fingers. Parts of the bone were missing and others were breaking off; I was quite simply rotting away inside my skin.
The last thing I remember before waking up in a cold sweat, is my dream-brain understanding that I had done this to myself.
***** : WARNING : GRAPHIC : MAY TRIGGER : *****
Strangely, it was a spot on my arm. I’m not really an arms/legs/body picker, owing to how I mostly only get spots on my face and back – and my back is awkward to get to, and not as ‘satisfying’ because I can’t see it. However. I digress. The dream.
I caught sight of this spot, on my right forearm, and it was a cystic monster – huge and red and tight and sore, with the head just starting to peak under the top layer of skin. Somehow in my dream I hadn’t noticed it before. It was beautifully ripe, and it wasn’t on my face, so I decided it didn’t really count if I picked it. I caught it gently, and pinched. It burst beautifully. An initial semi-solid flurry, and then a slower squeezing out of all the runny yellow gunk.
That yellow gunk just didn’t stop coming. At first I was pleased at there being so much, because it extended the moment of popping. Then I was midly alarmed, but couldn’t let go of the pinching. I had to get it all out – there being so much of it only made that need greater.
It finally stopped coming. It looked like a small mountain on my arm; I couldn’t see the spot beneath it anymore. Carefully, I wiped the gunk away with my hand, and there beneath it lay the wound, already healed into a large scab. I guess it was about the size of a large flattened grape.
I picked it off.
I don’t know quite how to describe what I saw beneath that scab. It kind of looked like one of those pits beneath a cattle-grid which is designed to let small animals escape – a forty-five-degree slope on one side, meeting a vertical drop on the other. Like a capital N with the left-hand line missing.
The wound wasn’t bloody, or weepy, or even moist. It looked as though someone had ripped a deep chunk from my forearm a long time ago, and my arm had been left to heal that way. The vertical-drop wall of the wound was pink and wrinkly like scar tissue, but the part which sloped down to meet it was smooth and pure, with hairs and freckles growing on it all the way down to the bone. In my dream, I was shocked and frightened. I was too scared to touch it. I just stared.
Right at the deepest part of the wound, where I could see a sliver of the bone of my forearm, it seemed as though the wound didn’t quite stop. The walls pressed together, but they weren’t sealed together, rather like some Freudian pseudo-vagina on my arm. As I stared at this monstrosity in horror, it seemed I was somehow, impossibly, able to look all the way down this wound, travelling all the way down my arm through flesh and bone, and spreading out in the palm of my hand like a disease, all straggly-edged. And inside my palm I could see, as if looking at an x-ray, the bones of my hand and fingers. Parts of the bone were missing and others were breaking off; I was quite simply rotting away inside my skin.
The last thing I remember before waking up in a cold sweat, is my dream-brain understanding that I had done this to myself.
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