A word on Body-Focused Repetitive Behavior
It's funny: for something I have so much to say about--something with so much that needs to be said--the minute I sit down to write on it, it's overwhelming, and I don't know where to start. I know, I try to keep this blog mainly writing-related, but this needs to be said. I suppose I'll just try to keep it fairly brief.
I'm my own worst enemy. As long as I can remember, I've always had this...habit. A compulsive need. An uncontrollable drive. The emotion didn't matter--whether I was frustrated or happy, sad or bored, I would methodically pick apart my skin, gouging little wounds along my arms, legs, face...anywhere my hands could reach. Often enough, I wasn't even aware I was doing it. That sounds pretty bizarre to most people, I know, but it's true....And...even when I was conscious of it...even knowing it was literally disfiguring me, I couldn't stop. The necessity would needle itself into my skull until action came through in steady, repetitive scratches. Growing up, I didn't need to be told twice what I was doing wasn't normal--though, told--and teased--I was plenty. I knew it was wrong, but I was trapped by myself, by this force. I was a weirdo. I freak. A monster. At least, that's what I thought.
It wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties that, on complete chance, I learned about the dermatillomania disorder. Everything I did, everything I struggled with...it had a name. It wasn't just me--there were more of us--there was an us. An us with a named disorder and colors and a ribbon and everything. I know that sounds weird to feel like such a revelation, but that's the thing; up until then, I didn't know. No one talked about things like that. I never saw anyone else like me In my life, I'd heard vaguely about trichotillomania, the hair-pulling-disorder-sibling, but even that wasn't often talked about. I didn't realize that what I went through was a thing. I didn't know what Body-Focused Repetitive Behaviors were, even though I, myself, had one. I'd done therapy in my life before, sure, but mainly for OCD and depression, and, while that did a world of good, I don't believe I'd ever even heard the word "dermatillomania" prior. Even just the knowledge that I wasn't alone was a huge step in my life, and it has changed my outlook altogether.
Seriously, though, how messed-up is that? That I was in my mid-twenties and just learning about the disorder I suffered with? Just then learning that I wasn't alone? That it wasn't just me being out of control with something so unnatural? That's what happens when people don't acknowledge disorders like dermatillomania and trichotillomania: people don't know about them. What's more, since I've started trying to talk about it and raise awareness about derma, I've actually had several people online--some online friends, some complete strangers--come forward and tell me that they didn't know that was something other people did, because they suffered like that, too, and that some had given up hope. Not just one person came forward, either. Several. One is too many. That many is heartbreaking.
We can do something about this. We can love, we can support, and we can raise awareness. The more people know, the more people will know they're not alone, and that is so, so important. They say that knowledge is power, and, up against a foe like this, it can turn the tides of battle completely. If you have five minutes today, please, check out the Trichotillomania Learning Center page. http://www.trich.org/about/ab-intro.html I'm not asking you to for anything more than time. I'm just asking you to spare five minutes--those five pointless minutes while you're waiting for an e-mail to go through or someone to pick up the phone or your coffee to cool or whatever--and to take those five minutes to at least glace enough to become aware. That understanding can make a difference. You can make a difference. Awareness is a battle in and of itself, and simply taking five minutes to give yourself a cliffnotes education is progress.
Earlier this evening, I came across a picture of myself from 2002--a rarity. I didn't like taking pictures, and with obvious reasons. It was from a time before. Sure enough, seeing my face in that picture, I'd pretty much given up and given in, and it was written in vibrant nicks across my face. Guys...it was bad. I want to cry just looking at it. I wasn't happy with myself. I felt like I was a freak. Out of control. Helpless. I loathed my own reflection--my own skin....
If I could talk to that younger Katie now? I'd give her a hug. I'd tell her she's a fighter. I'd tell her that she's dealing with something bigger than herself, but that she can overcome it. I'd tell her that it's no weakness of her own, no freakishness, nothing worthy of ridicule or stares--both of which she'd faced plenty of in her life. I'd tell her to keep going, that she's not alone. I'd tell her that, someday, she'll get a better handle on it. I'd tell her that, someday, maybe she'll be able to look in the mirror and call herself "beautiful." I'd tell her that, scars and wounds or not, she already is.
And I'd tell the same thing to every single other person fighting.
You. Are. Beautiful. You always were.
