My Acne-Picking Habit Has Changed Me in Unexpected Ways
Every day at 11 a.m. sharp, my phone vibrates. There’s no regularly scheduled call on the line, no good-morning text. It’s nothing like that.
A small white rectangle flashes on my lock screen, courtesy of the Reminders app. “Don’t touch your skin,” it reads.
I have received that reminder every morning since December 3, 2016.
Dermatillomania, or excoriation disorder, is characterized by the repeated picking of one’s own skin. According to Mental Health America, it’s related to obsessive-compulsive disorder and may cause “significant disruption in one’s life.”
I have not been diagnosed with dermatillomania. I have never sought a diagnosis. Since my early skin-picking days in middle school, I have resented the idea of labeling my habit, resented the idea of facing it.
My first noticeable zit sprung up around seventh grade. It was on my chin, creating a noticeably swollen spot just below my lips. Not only did it physically hurt, but its presence overpowered everything I loved about my appearance. Every time I smiled, I felt it. Every time I went to the bathroom, I saw it. After a week of avoiding my reflection to no avail, my frustration came to a peak. One night while home alone, I stormed into my parents’ bathroom, the one with the clearest mirror, and picked at it.
The next day, the zit reappeared, this time even larger. I didn’t realize that my interference was probably the cause of its worsening condition. All I cared about was the momentary release that came from popping it.
Nearly a decade later, I find myself perched in front of a mirror once every few weeks. I’m here, staring at my face. At first, I love what I see. I know who I am, and I’m proud of her. After a few minutes, though, my gaze becomes judgmental, magnifying my skin to supernatural proportions. The pores around my nose inflate. The entirety of my huge forehead is covered in little bumps the texture of the moon. The small blackheads that have appeared on my cheekbones since going on birth control turn into craters, waiting to be dug out.
I poke and prod at each danger zone until I feel I’ve won a peculiar battle. It’s a strangely victorious feeling, and it doesn’t last. Soon I snap out of it. I can see my whole face again. At this point, I usually cry.
I don’t feel like myself after picking my face. Through the acne scars and dark marks, it becomes hard to see the person I’ve spent my entire life learning to love.
I know I need to put my habit to bed. There are days when I don’t feel comfortable going outside, knowing I picked at my face the night before. Sometimes I forget what I’ve done by the time I wake up in the morning. When I walk past a mirror, I remember, and my heart sinks to my stomach.
Usually no one notices my self-made blemishes, but that doesn’t matter to me. I have always prioritized my own views of myself, meaning that when I’m feeling great, nothing anyone says can bring me down. This also means that when I voluntarily pick at my own skin, I don’t care whether others see a difference. I know what I’ve done.
There are people like me. You may not see us, but we’re everywhere. Just look at the 2.7 million people who follow @drpimplepopper on Instagram. (Of course, there are plenty of reasons for watching pimple-popping videos, but I know I’m not the only one who views them cathartically.) The first time I told a friend about my tendencies, I was relieved to learn that she also struggled to keep her fingers away from her face. After talking for awhile, we came to the conclusion that we don’t have to like all of our habits to love ourselves.
I don’t have a permanent solution to my problem. Keeping busy puts the picking at bay, but only temporarily. Yet my relationship with my skin has improved recently, thanks in large part to the acne-appreciation movement. Watching others embrace their skin for what it is has kept me from trying to alter mine. Those moments are becoming less and less frequent by the day. I love scrolling through my social media feeds and seeing a diverse range of users, from acquaintances to influencers, putting their faces on display in all of their pimple-pocked glory. It makes me question why I ever viewed acne as something more than my skin’s natural mechanism.
Skin picking still plays a role in my life, albeit unwanted. But all this reflection on the subject has made me realize something new: Maybe seeking a diagnosis wouldn’t be so bad. For all I know, it could bring me one step closer to finally deleting my 11 a.m. reminder.
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