I absolutely hate when anyone asks about my scars or, worse, an open sore that I've picked at. Typically I'll just say it's nothing and they usually don't pursue it any further, but the nosy people are the worst. I guess that's just part of my social phobia though.

I remember the day I started, too. I've always had this big, ugly mole right in the middle of my torso that I didn't like. So on a long ride to grandma's house when I was about 7 or 8, I began to pick at it under my shirt, thinking I could "take it off." It hurt but also felt good in a strange way. Of course I never got the thing off, and the scarring I caused itches like crazy sometimes. Later I picked open a blemish on my leg, and it just continued from there...

My parents didn't try to understand either. They always just told me to stop, even forcefully moved my hand away from the area they knew I was picking at. They never bothered to ask why I couldn't stop. But then they never recognized the depression or anxiety, either. Funny; I remember them always noticing and stopping me when I picked at church... Yet they never took my insistence that I didn't want to go anymore seriously.