I started picking when I was in sixth grade and around eleven years old. This was when I first started to get acne, and I was so mortified by the sudden appearance of all of these little white bumps on my face that I wanted to make them go away. It wasn’t a very logical thought process – I never thought “I don’t like my acne, so I’m going to pick it and it will disappear,” and I never thought about what the consequences of picking could possibly be.
Thus, the picking started, and believe me, this was the WORST type of picking you could imagine. I usually had three or four gigantic scars on my face, which started as small pimples that would have easily gone away had I left them alone. This was also when I was starting to discover makeup (now around 7th grade), and I would cover my scars with thick, cheap concealer. It was a joke, and I tried to convince myself that other people didn’t notice.
Picking is mostly, if not definitely, a psychological problem. Before I started 6th grade, before I began this horrible habit, I had smooth skin, many friends, and a very comfortable lifestyle. This may be a given for most people in elementary school, but once I entered middle school, after moving to nowheresville on the opposite side of the country, I lost all of those luxuries. I had no friends to help me through the hardships of middle school and I was simultaneously scaring potential friends away with my scar-ridden demeanor. I hated my body and covered it with baggy, masculine clothing. I became depressed beyond melancholy, and rarely slept. When driving to school, I was nervous beyond belief. I hardly remember any of my middle school years because I was on autopilot most of the time – never thinking or feeling, only functioning. Picking was no exception.
I’m not sure why picking holds such an appeal for people who are in that state of mind – not necessarily depressed, but down on themselves. I believe it’s a form of self sabotage – a subconscious “I’m not worth anything, so why should I bother taking care of my body?” statement. The acne gives us an excuse to get lost in an effort to purge the toxins from our bodies, without wanting to accept the fact that we’re doing more harm than good by picking.
By the time I was in 8th grade, I loathed myself and had no friends. I changed middle schools in the middle of 8th grade after moving to a different town. I had a desire to start anew, and finally stopped causing huge scabs on my face, though I continued to pick often. I can’t say my mood changed much, and someone even started rumors that I cut myself. At the end of the day, picking was my only friend whose shoulder I could cry on, relieving my worries.
My freshman year in high school wasn’t much better, as high school usually goes. I slightly changed my look, and boys started to like me, which only made me more of a nervous wreck. By the end of my sophomore year, the picking became much less noticeable and although it was still a habit, I fit in more easily.
I chose to graduate early, so my junior and senior years were condensed into one. Once again, before my junior year, I moved to a different state. This time I decided I would act extroverted even if I was shy, and I quickly made a lot of friends who respected me and treated me well. I admitted my faults (of course, never mentioning “picking”), and became much less of a nervous wreck. I was confident and wore feminine clothing and makeup. On some days, I even chose to dress up fancy for the sole reason that I wanted to look good. I tried not to pick, because I suddenly realized how BAD the lighting is in school classrooms, and even if I didn’t pick, the small red scars on my pale skin were clearly visible.
I am 18 years old now, and waiting to begin college after having time off from graduating early. This has been a blessing and a curse to me, because I am bored out of my mind, which gives way to the habits of boredom. I have never once stopped picking, and although I wouldn’t classify it being nearly as bad of a habit as it used to be, the habit has expanded to my entire body. When I have nothing to do, which is often the case, I will pick at my arms (suffering from keratosis), back, and legs, hardly even realizing I’m doing it. You see, it is hardly a nervous habit anymore. Now, it’s mostly just been stripped down to nothing more than a “habit” in the most basic meaning of the word.
Habits, like anything, take time and effort to discontinue. I am the type of person who is largely affected by willpower, and if I consciously register that I am picking, I’ll stop doing it. It’s a matter of admitting when I am doing it and taking responsibility for the consequences that will follow.
I wish I could restart my middle school years (hardly), and stop myself from picking before I leave all of these chest, back, and facial scars that I have now. Scars that will never go away. Occasionally, I do see a person with a pimple and I really want them to go pop it – sometimes, you just NEED to make that pimple less 3D and more 2D, then hope it doesn’t turn into a scar. I’m sure I’ll never get over the occasional urge to pick, but for now, I am working on it.
I know this entry was extremely long, but I hope people read it and realize you’re not alone, because this is a habit that is hardly discussed, like it’s a taboo topic, even though I can guarantee you that 99 percent of people out there have picked their faces at least once in their lives. It’s discussed so little that the word “picking”, used with the specific denotation of picking your face, is a sharp word that feels difficult to hear, much like an 8 year old girl and the word “penis”. I would even compare the amount of treatment this problem receives, or lack thereof, to that of an addiction to porn. It’s laughable, because picking is one of the most difficult addictions to face in the existence of addictions.
