I've been picking at "imperfections" in my skin since I was eight or nine, and I am now 22. Come by it honestly, though-- my mother used to do it to me, and now it's... well, awful. I have minor scarring on my face, chest, and legs... and my arms are covered in little red and white spots, and of course, hundreds and hundreds of scabs.

Unfortunately, a few years ago I tried to take matters into my own hands, and only made things worse: I found out that trichotillomania has a higher success rate of treatment, and so tried to switch from picking on my arms to pulling out arm hairs. Yeah... we can all imagine how well that turned out: ingrown hairs. Once, I tweezed all the hairs on my left leg, which of course caused ingrown hairs that I delighted in tearing out. Hair-pulling now is limited to my eyebrows, and to certain "wrong" hairs on my arms and legs.

The worst part for me is that when I'm consciously working on a "difficult" blemish, I chant inside my heads about "getting the intruders out." I know it's ridiculous, insane, and not true, but I can't help telling myself that inside those zits... are aliens or some sort of device to track me, and I cannot allow them to remain.

It's awful and I try to stop, but the only thing that works is to be constantly busy-- I even do it during class (with other people watching! I can't make myself care), so I take notes obsessively, always with my hands occupied. Having depression doesn't make staying active particularly easy, though...

Frequently I tell myself, "okay, only five more, and then you HAVE to stop," but another hour will go by, and I will only cease when my neck or fingers start to ache.
Well, anyway. I can't say that it's nice to know there are more of me, for your sakes, but I guess it's somewhat comforting.