On Dermatophagia

I distinctly remember the moment that I began self-harming. I was in the second grade, and I was sitting in class, facing away from my desk, attention rapt on whatever the teacher was saying-- so much so that I noticed a bit of my fingernail was a making a break for it. I decided that, like any reasonable human being, I would bite it off. I did so so enthusiastically (or with such poor aim) that I actually dug into the skin next to the offending hangnail. And for some strange reason, it must have felt great.

That was twelve years ago. Since that fateful day, I have been chewing the skin off my fingers on a daily basis. And by daily, I certainly do not mean there is a certain time I do it, a little bit of space in my day where I can relieve this strange urge. I bite my fingers constantly. I bite them unconsciously. I bite them until they are sore and bleeding. I bite them even though they are often sore. I bite them despite my mothers constant warnings when I was younger that I would get gangrene and have to have them cut off. I bite them even though my boyfriend has expressed how much he would like me to stop hurting myself like this. I bite them because I cannot stop biting them.

I always thought that biting my fingers was just a habit that I had formed and that it was nothing even close to psychological. This is what I told my mother, who has tried in vain to get me to stop. Telling me how repulsive my hands look did not work ("Vanessa, you're a flutist! You can't have such disgusting fingers!"), nor did the aforementioned warnings over the serious medical repercussions that could occur (I assure you, I used to live my life truly believing that my days with operational hands were numbered). She began asking me why I was so nervous. I always assured her that I was not nervous, that this was not the case (if you knew me outside this blog, you would that that's a damn lie). It was a habit. Just a habit. And I could stop anytime I wanted to.

I tried to last year by wearing gloves for the entirety of the latter half of winter break, and the results last a few weeks, but I never reached a point where I could feel fully comfortable without biting just a little. I told Luke to tell me when I was biting (or picking at) my fingers and make me stop. He tried in earnest to help me, but most of the time when he stopped me for a moment, I found-- almost mysteriously, as weird as that sounds-- my hands in my mouth as soon as his back was turned. It was incredibly frustrating for us both. He tired of failing to stop me, and I tired of feeling-- moreso than ever-- like I couldn't even control this strange behavior. I think trying to stop was really the point at which I began to think that maybe there was something wrong with me that wasn't just nervous or crazy or purely habitual. I had only ever briefly, passingly thought of my behaviors as a form of self-mutilation. It certainly is, and you would know that if you could see the sheer damage I can do on my own body with a complete disregard to the pain it causes me. (Unfortunately, my camera is not very good at doing its job and I've continued to forget to buy it batteries, so I won't be able to show you my actual hands as an example. Examples of similar ones to come, if you're interested. Just sit tight.)

One night, I was sleeplessly sitting in front of my laptop gnawing away when I decided that I should just look the damn behavior up on the internet. I found something that I never thought-- nay, dreamed-- I would find. A wikipedia article titled "Dermatophagia." When I opened the link, I was shocked. The pictures were so familiar to me that I swear I wondered if someone had sneaked into my room and took photos of my fingers. I read the article hungrily, desiring nothing more than to know what this dermatophagia business was all about. Believe it or not, the suggestion that it is actually an OCD-spectrum disorder was one of the most exciting things I have ever read. I further looked up Dermatillomania (in recent years I have also suffered a significant amount of compulsive skin-picking related to my hands and otherwise), and then Impluse-Control Disorders. I was floored. I was psyched! The idea that something is psychologically wrong with me and other people do this, too, and maybe someone can fix me omg omg omg was one that lifted a huge weight from a shoulders, a weight that had been plaguing me for twelve whole years. When I read that therapy can help-- for the first time in my life and after a very negative experience with therapy as a child-- I wanted that therapy. I wanted help. I wanted to be able to shake someone's hand and not worry that they'll be sickened by me. I wanted to be able to pass papers in class without trying my best to keep the person next to me from catching a glimpse of my torn-up skin. I wanted to not be sore, to not bleed, to not feel out of control of my own body. The idea that something could be at work psychologically was amazing.

When Luke woke up (God bless him, really-- this is the man who has said to me that if feel like hurting myself, I should just bite on his hands instead), we talked about it.

"I looked up a ton of articles after that-- everything I could find, even though there wasn't much-- and they say that if I get therapy for it, I might be able to work through this and really stop."

This possibility is one I have never thought would be realistic for me.

I wanted to write this post even though it is irrelevent to fashion because of the excitement I feel in my search for treatment. I wanted to write this because there is so little about dermatophagia on the internet, and I can only hope that if someone just like me is trying to find someone just like them out there, they will find this post and feel not-so alone anymore. I have been thinking and worrying about making this post for a couple of weeks now, because I didn't know what admitting I have a such a bizarre and, frankly, gross compulsion as part of my everyday life would mean to you readers. I feared admitting it would make me lose all credibility, or seem like a psycho, or just seem disgusting to others. But I've said it. And it is a weight off my shoulders.

To make this entry relevent to you: is there something about your appearance that makes you embarrassed or that you try to hide? Are you trying to improve it? Become more comfortable with it?


EDIT: Part 2 of this series on Dermatophagia/Dermatillomania