BLLLAAAAARRRRGGGHHHHH.
THAT's how the last couple of weeks has gone.
I'm not even sure I want to write. I really would like to just beat my head against a brick wall and then sleep for a very long time.
I seemed to decide somewhere around the start of last week that it didn't matter. I was half off the bandwaggon and meaning to get more serious with myself again. And then a whole bunch of SHIT happened and I decided FUCK IT, I'll get back on the bandwaggon AFTER I've sorted all this shit out, and in the meantime I don't give a flying fuck.
So I went to town on myself. I have a massive scab in the middle of my chin that's been there all week, and every day I tell myself I'm going to leave it alone and let it heal now, and every day I rip it off my face before ten AM. And the rest ain't so prettty either.
I'm so pissed off right now. I think I really need to go hit something. Writing this is not making me feel any better. Just more frustrated.
It's not even the kind of pissed off that is going to keep me away from the mirror tonight. If anything, it's the kind that's going to keep me going back.
And tweezers. They've come back out too. I told myself that I would do it instead of picking, but that's a fucking lie. It was calm and controlled, at first. And then I got myself into such a frenzy that my hands were shaking and I couldn't aim properly or pluck fast enough and there was SO FUCKING MUCH OF IT and it ALL HAD TO FUCKING GO and then I had to drop the tweezers and run out of the bathroom because I was going so crazy with frustration at not being able to do it fast enough that I thought I might just end up stabbing myself with them and that would not have been good.
It's okay to tweeze, I told myself to start with, it's a good distraction from picking, just don't let it become as much of a problem as picking is, and you'll be fine. And here I am on a Monday afternoon, hiding in my parent's bathroom, making crazy screaming noises inside my head about ripping my whole groin out with a pair of tweezers.
How the fuck am I here? After everything, after all this time and effort, after believing I was mostly on top of this, HOW THE FUCK AM I HERE?
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Repairing the Mirror Relationship?
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!
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!
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.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Waxing Lyrical
Memories consume
Like opening the wounds
I’m picking me apart again
You all assume
I’m safe here in my room
Unless I try to start again
I don’t want to be the one
The battles always choose
'Cause inside I realize
That I’m the one confused
I don’t know what’s worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream
I don’t know why I instigate
And say what I don’t mean
I don’t know how I got this way
I know it’s not alright
So I’m breaking the habit
Breaking the habit tonight
Clutching my cure
I tightly lock the door
I try to catch my breath again
I hurt much more
Than anytime before
I had no options left again
I’ll paint it on the walls
'Cause I’m the one at fault
I’ll never fight again
And this is how it ends
I don’t know what’s worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream
But now I have some clarity
To show you what I mean
I don’t know how I got this way
I’ll never be alright
So I’m breaking the habit
I'm breaking the habit
I'm breaking the habit
Tonight
~~~Breaking The Habit
Linkin Park
* * * * *
Look at me
I will never pass for a perfect bride
Or a perfect daughter
Can it be
I'm not meant to play this part?
Now I see
That if I were truly to be myself
I would break my family's heart
Who is that girl I see
Staring straight back at me?
Why is my reflection
Someone I don't know?
Somehow I cannot hide
Who I am, though I've tried
When will my reflection show
Who I am inside?
When will my reflection show
Who I am inside?
~~~Reflection
Disney's Mulan
Like opening the wounds
I’m picking me apart again
You all assume
I’m safe here in my room
Unless I try to start again
I don’t want to be the one
The battles always choose
'Cause inside I realize
That I’m the one confused
I don’t know what’s worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream
I don’t know why I instigate
And say what I don’t mean
I don’t know how I got this way
I know it’s not alright
So I’m breaking the habit
Breaking the habit tonight
Clutching my cure
I tightly lock the door
I try to catch my breath again
I hurt much more
Than anytime before
I had no options left again
I’ll paint it on the walls
'Cause I’m the one at fault
I’ll never fight again
And this is how it ends
I don’t know what’s worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream
But now I have some clarity
To show you what I mean
I don’t know how I got this way
I’ll never be alright
So I’m breaking the habit
I'm breaking the habit
I'm breaking the habit
Tonight
~~~Breaking The Habit
Linkin Park
* * * * *
Look at me
I will never pass for a perfect bride
Or a perfect daughter
Can it be
I'm not meant to play this part?
Now I see
That if I were truly to be myself
I would break my family's heart
Who is that girl I see
Staring straight back at me?
Why is my reflection
Someone I don't know?
Somehow I cannot hide
Who I am, though I've tried
When will my reflection show
Who I am inside?
When will my reflection show
Who I am inside?
~~~Reflection
Disney's Mulan
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Other Outlets
[Content Warning added 20Jan2014 for compulsive eating and trichotillomania aka hair pulling.]
I haven’t seen my reflection since Saturday.
It’s easier that way I guess. Knowing it’s pickable is one thing, actually seeing it is too much. Even if I manage to walk away from the mirror, it will nag me until I go back.
I feel frustrated. Strangely, I don’t feel a strong urge to pick. I just feel generally frustrated, and wanting to do something to relieve the frustration. Cue binge-eating, and wielding tweezers at my bikini-bits again. I’ve been keeping it shaved down there ever since the disaster with the waxing strips; the itchiness of the stubble only bothers me for a week or so after shaving the first time, and then it goes away. So I’m not trich-ing on it because it itches or anything. Just because it’s something I can do which absorbs me enough to make me forget about my face. It’s a diversion. But even there I have to be careful – it’s easy to get zealous enough about it that I start digging into myself to root out the stubble lying beneath the surface. I don’t want to replace one flesh-destroying habit with another. Even if the replacement seems like a better option because it’s not on a public part of my body, it’s still not much of a trade-off.
I picked a little today. Both times were at my desk at work, and I found myself doing it before I’d realised what I was doing. If I catch myself in time, I can stop myself, and that’s fine. But to leave a scab half-picked, to imagine it partly hanging off my face, is just not an option. It probably should be. I should probably be stricter with myself. But Christ, how can I leave it looking like that? Feeling like that?
So I caught myself half-way through, when it was too late, and then finished the job feeling guilty. The first one, on my chin, felt really dry and flaky, as though it was ready to come off anyway, so I didn’t really beat myself up over that. The second was pretty fresh – didn’t bleed, but wept some clear fluid. I should not have picked that one.
But god, it’s good to be back on the SPOM board. It’s so fantastic to feel like I’m not alone. Yeah. Not much else to say on that point I guess, just wanted to say it.
Well, I’m done here. I’m gonna go write some stuff up in my diary proper. Or maybe I’ll get as far as the bed, gather my diary and pen about me, and then pick up the tweezers. Just for five minutes. And then do it until bedtime.
*shrug*
I haven’t seen my reflection since Saturday.
It’s easier that way I guess. Knowing it’s pickable is one thing, actually seeing it is too much. Even if I manage to walk away from the mirror, it will nag me until I go back.
I feel frustrated. Strangely, I don’t feel a strong urge to pick. I just feel generally frustrated, and wanting to do something to relieve the frustration. Cue binge-eating, and wielding tweezers at my bikini-bits again. I’ve been keeping it shaved down there ever since the disaster with the waxing strips; the itchiness of the stubble only bothers me for a week or so after shaving the first time, and then it goes away. So I’m not trich-ing on it because it itches or anything. Just because it’s something I can do which absorbs me enough to make me forget about my face. It’s a diversion. But even there I have to be careful – it’s easy to get zealous enough about it that I start digging into myself to root out the stubble lying beneath the surface. I don’t want to replace one flesh-destroying habit with another. Even if the replacement seems like a better option because it’s not on a public part of my body, it’s still not much of a trade-off.
I picked a little today. Both times were at my desk at work, and I found myself doing it before I’d realised what I was doing. If I catch myself in time, I can stop myself, and that’s fine. But to leave a scab half-picked, to imagine it partly hanging off my face, is just not an option. It probably should be. I should probably be stricter with myself. But Christ, how can I leave it looking like that? Feeling like that?
So I caught myself half-way through, when it was too late, and then finished the job feeling guilty. The first one, on my chin, felt really dry and flaky, as though it was ready to come off anyway, so I didn’t really beat myself up over that. The second was pretty fresh – didn’t bleed, but wept some clear fluid. I should not have picked that one.
But god, it’s good to be back on the SPOM board. It’s so fantastic to feel like I’m not alone. Yeah. Not much else to say on that point I guess, just wanted to say it.
Well, I’m done here. I’m gonna go write some stuff up in my diary proper. Or maybe I’ll get as far as the bed, gather my diary and pen about me, and then pick up the tweezers. Just for five minutes. And then do it until bedtime.
*shrug*
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Kick-Start at the Bungalow
[Content Warning added 20Jan2014 for use of ableist slurs and thoughts of self-harm.]
Wow. Haven’t been on here in a while.
Truth is, I’m not doing so great. I mean, compare myself to a year ago, yes, progress has been made. But compare myself to eight months ago – I’ve slid backwards. Especially right now; I have a faceful of scabs that I don’t seem quite able to leave alone. At my desk at work. On the bus. Habit-zones I thought I’d cracked. And so now my hands are back all over me like I never trained them to leave it alone.
I’ve sort of been dimly aware of this for a while, but it’s become less and less ignorable over the last few days and now I’ve hit crunch point. I helps, I think, that Caleb knows. I’m seeing him this evening, and he won’t say anything, but he’ll know that I’ve been major picky, and I’ll know that he knows. That helps to keep me self-aware of when I’m doing badly, and not just push it to the back of my mind.
I’ve just moved into my parents’ house for a fortnight, to feed their cats while they’re on holiday. The change feels kind of inspirational I guess. I’m here on my own and I can set up the house my own way, without having to worry about housemates asking me where the bathroom mirror’s disappeared to. The mirrors here are sorted; that was the first thing I did as soon as Mum and Dad left. I’m not doing stickers because I’m too much of a perfectionist – if I miss just one, I feel like the perfection is totally ruined and there’s no point anymore. I thought about doing my arm again as a kick-start back into being strict with myself, but I’m not single anymore, and Caleb would notice. I’m not sure he’d understand that, and even if he did, I’m pretty sure he still wouldn’t like it. I don’t want to look like an emotard, and I don’t want to upset him. So: cutting = no.
Been back on the SPOM board for the first time in months, feel I might read the book again too. So long as I was doing well and not really thinking about it, it felt best to steer clear of obsessing about the issue by browsing forums etc, and just let the issue fade into the background of my life. Yes, I still picked occasionally, but overall I was doing really well, and I felt like obsessing over every tiny slip would be the opposite of helpful. That was a good place to be inside my head.
Trouble was, because I was focussing on other things and not obsessing, I guess I didn’t notice when I gradually started to pick more often again. Telling myself to let the little slip-ups go and not stress myself out and make myself worse. It happened slowly. I hardly noticed. And then a couple days ago I looked in the mirror – properly looked, not just glancing to check my hair or blindly picking – and I thought, “Holy crap. Where did all that come from? I’m a mess!”
Lots of new people and topics on SPOM since I was there last. This post intrigued me particularly,
http://www.stoppickingonme.com/bb/viewtopic.php?t=4302
because of the link to personality disorders. The poster wrote, “My mother has OCPD (not OCD)” and I wondered what the difference was between the two. So I clicked the handy link and looked up OCPD.
It was pretty spooky.
http://www.ptypes.com/obsessive-compd.html
I don’t want to be some jumped-up hypochondriac who runs round the internet self-diagnosing all kinds of weird and random stuff. I’m not going to say “Ohmigod that’s me, I have that disorder” because I don’t particularly believe in labelling people’s oddities and making them diseases, making them something that's ‘wrong’. I don’t like the idea of that.
…But then, an aversion to ‘wrong’ is listed as a symptom of OCPD! So, catch twenty-two much.
The need to be ‘right’. Yup. Ever since I was a little kid at the top of my class, looking down my nose at all the other kids for getting things wrong. I rarely got into trouble at school, and when I did, I cried buckets. I couldn’t help it. I hated being in the wrong. I guess I wasn’t used to it because it didn’t happen much. I was very good at pleasing the adults. I remember it seemed like the most important thing in the world – to be right, and to have an adult tell you so.
Perfectionism that interferes with task completion. This is why I take so long on jobs at work. I get so caught up in doing things the ‘right’ way, following the ‘right’ routine and process, I lose focus of what it is I’m trying to achieve. I spend ages picking apart little numerical differences (I’m an accountant) that shouldn’t matter, but do, because they’re not quite ‘right’. By about three pence. The half hour I spend finding that three pence will cost the client twelve pounds. And then I need to make sure all the page margins and column widths are correct, and that all the numbers are to the right number of decimal places, and that the zoom factor is set to the largest it can be without cutting information out on each page… Needless. Pointless. And yet I waste time on it, over and over, every day. I tell myself I’m not going to do it, it’s not important, that I’ll just sort out all the column widths on the page in one go, at the end, save time. But as I’m inputting on the spreadsheet, that columns that are wider than they need to be niggle me relentlessly until I just fix it, to stop it annoying me. And then it’s the same for the next column I create. And the next. One by one, wasting so much fucking time.
Morally inflexible. Well, naturally. Otherwise I’d be doing something wrong, wouldn’t I? Can’t have that. I’m an absolute dragon over ethics, and poor Caleb is bearing the brunt of it at the moment. I’m starting to wonder if I’m really in the right on that one. He’s going to be poor, and it’s going to be my fault. Is it really as much of a big deal as I’m making out?
Adopts a miserly spending style. Ohmifuckinggod I damn near had a panic attack when I got my backpay in November. I had twice my usual pay in my bank account and my brain just screamed. I didn’t know what to do with it. In the end I drew it all out and hid it in my room. What sense does it make to be afraid of having money? No, not of having it. Of spending it.
Blah. This is descending into a general emo rant of epic proportions. Jesus, I want to go cut myself now! :s Butno. For that is silliness. Well, I guess I’m done here. Conclusion: I’m a neurotic freak, and I think too much.
Peace, out.
Wow. Haven’t been on here in a while.
Truth is, I’m not doing so great. I mean, compare myself to a year ago, yes, progress has been made. But compare myself to eight months ago – I’ve slid backwards. Especially right now; I have a faceful of scabs that I don’t seem quite able to leave alone. At my desk at work. On the bus. Habit-zones I thought I’d cracked. And so now my hands are back all over me like I never trained them to leave it alone.
I’ve sort of been dimly aware of this for a while, but it’s become less and less ignorable over the last few days and now I’ve hit crunch point. I helps, I think, that Caleb knows. I’m seeing him this evening, and he won’t say anything, but he’ll know that I’ve been major picky, and I’ll know that he knows. That helps to keep me self-aware of when I’m doing badly, and not just push it to the back of my mind.
I’ve just moved into my parents’ house for a fortnight, to feed their cats while they’re on holiday. The change feels kind of inspirational I guess. I’m here on my own and I can set up the house my own way, without having to worry about housemates asking me where the bathroom mirror’s disappeared to. The mirrors here are sorted; that was the first thing I did as soon as Mum and Dad left. I’m not doing stickers because I’m too much of a perfectionist – if I miss just one, I feel like the perfection is totally ruined and there’s no point anymore. I thought about doing my arm again as a kick-start back into being strict with myself, but I’m not single anymore, and Caleb would notice. I’m not sure he’d understand that, and even if he did, I’m pretty sure he still wouldn’t like it. I don’t want to look like an emotard, and I don’t want to upset him. So: cutting = no.
Been back on the SPOM board for the first time in months, feel I might read the book again too. So long as I was doing well and not really thinking about it, it felt best to steer clear of obsessing about the issue by browsing forums etc, and just let the issue fade into the background of my life. Yes, I still picked occasionally, but overall I was doing really well, and I felt like obsessing over every tiny slip would be the opposite of helpful. That was a good place to be inside my head.
Trouble was, because I was focussing on other things and not obsessing, I guess I didn’t notice when I gradually started to pick more often again. Telling myself to let the little slip-ups go and not stress myself out and make myself worse. It happened slowly. I hardly noticed. And then a couple days ago I looked in the mirror – properly looked, not just glancing to check my hair or blindly picking – and I thought, “Holy crap. Where did all that come from? I’m a mess!”
Lots of new people and topics on SPOM since I was there last. This post intrigued me particularly,
http://www.stoppickingonme.com/bb/viewtopic.php?t=4302
because of the link to personality disorders. The poster wrote, “My mother has OCPD (not OCD)” and I wondered what the difference was between the two. So I clicked the handy link and looked up OCPD.
It was pretty spooky.
http://www.ptypes.com/obsessive-compd.html
I don’t want to be some jumped-up hypochondriac who runs round the internet self-diagnosing all kinds of weird and random stuff. I’m not going to say “Ohmigod that’s me, I have that disorder” because I don’t particularly believe in labelling people’s oddities and making them diseases, making them something that's ‘wrong’. I don’t like the idea of that.
…But then, an aversion to ‘wrong’ is listed as a symptom of OCPD! So, catch twenty-two much.
The need to be ‘right’. Yup. Ever since I was a little kid at the top of my class, looking down my nose at all the other kids for getting things wrong. I rarely got into trouble at school, and when I did, I cried buckets. I couldn’t help it. I hated being in the wrong. I guess I wasn’t used to it because it didn’t happen much. I was very good at pleasing the adults. I remember it seemed like the most important thing in the world – to be right, and to have an adult tell you so.
Perfectionism that interferes with task completion. This is why I take so long on jobs at work. I get so caught up in doing things the ‘right’ way, following the ‘right’ routine and process, I lose focus of what it is I’m trying to achieve. I spend ages picking apart little numerical differences (I’m an accountant) that shouldn’t matter, but do, because they’re not quite ‘right’. By about three pence. The half hour I spend finding that three pence will cost the client twelve pounds. And then I need to make sure all the page margins and column widths are correct, and that all the numbers are to the right number of decimal places, and that the zoom factor is set to the largest it can be without cutting information out on each page… Needless. Pointless. And yet I waste time on it, over and over, every day. I tell myself I’m not going to do it, it’s not important, that I’ll just sort out all the column widths on the page in one go, at the end, save time. But as I’m inputting on the spreadsheet, that columns that are wider than they need to be niggle me relentlessly until I just fix it, to stop it annoying me. And then it’s the same for the next column I create. And the next. One by one, wasting so much fucking time.
Morally inflexible. Well, naturally. Otherwise I’d be doing something wrong, wouldn’t I? Can’t have that. I’m an absolute dragon over ethics, and poor Caleb is bearing the brunt of it at the moment. I’m starting to wonder if I’m really in the right on that one. He’s going to be poor, and it’s going to be my fault. Is it really as much of a big deal as I’m making out?
Adopts a miserly spending style. Ohmifuckinggod I damn near had a panic attack when I got my backpay in November. I had twice my usual pay in my bank account and my brain just screamed. I didn’t know what to do with it. In the end I drew it all out and hid it in my room. What sense does it make to be afraid of having money? No, not of having it. Of spending it.
Blah. This is descending into a general emo rant of epic proportions. Jesus, I want to go cut myself now! :s Butno. For that is silliness. Well, I guess I’m done here. Conclusion: I’m a neurotic freak, and I think too much.
Peace, out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)