S T A T E M E N T
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Wednesday, April 19, 2023 — 7
The Journal of Psychiatric
Research asserts that 2.82% of
18 to 29 year olds have a skin
picking disorder, which makes
skin picking most prevalent
among college-age students. By
my count, as someone with a
skin picking disorder, I’m about
one in 35. That’s maybe someone
in your first-year writing class.
Or your two hour computer
science lab. Or someone in line
with you at Ricks. Or at least,
someone 20 feet from you on
your Commuter North ride.
Skin picking disorders aren’t
uncommon, they’re usually just
hidden. For example, Lindsay
Gellman, reporting for the New
York Times, followed Deborah
Hoffman, a Texas woman who
picks at her back, an affliction
she was able to hide from her
husband for 21 years. In fact,
one of the most common places
to pick at skin is behind the
ear: another perfect place for
concealment.
Unfortunately,
my scabs and scars and wounds
and welts aren’t in a concealable
place on my body because I pick
at my fingertips.
Skin picking disorders are
part of a collection of body-
focused repetitive behaviors.
BFRBs
are,
most
generally:
repetitive
self-grooming
behaviors that can and often
do lead to physical damage and
social impairment. Just some
examples of BFRBs include hair
pulling, cheek or nail biting, and
skin picking.
The Journal of the American
Academy
of
Dermatology
investigated
BFRBs’
relationship with the COVID-
19 pandemic and concluded
that 67.2% of people with a
BFRB experienced increased
symptoms over the course of
the pandemic. What I wish the
Academy of Dermatology had
investigated instead was the
number of people whose BFRBs’
origins lie amidst the pandemic.
Based on anecdotal evidence
found in Reddit threads and
FaceBook support groups, I
think
the
pandemic
jump-
started a significant amount of
BFRBs — including mine.
There are two avenues from
which skin picking disorders can
originate: obsessive compulsive
disorder and boredom. For me,
it began with boredom. My go-to
coping response in the face of
boredom has become picking
and peeling at my fingers and
quite unnervingly, I usually
don’t notice until my fingers
are raw and bloody. During the
pandemic, I had the privilege of
being extremely bored. I was not
an essential worker surrounded
by the virus, nor was I on the
frontlines combatting the virus
in emergency rooms; instead, I
was sitting at home, developing
a (so-far) unconquerable skin
picking disorder.
In public, I keep my hands in
my pockets or folded slyly under
my armpits. I don’t want people
to see my fingers, which they
would if my hands were out in
the open. They are perpetually
scabbed, red or bleeding — so
much so that people notice in
passing. I carry around silicone
thimbles, hoping to scratch
them instead of tearing up my
skin. I struggle to hold pencils
because sometimes the stylus
must rest on an open wound.
I can’t do the dishes without
gloves because the soapy hot
water stings. And man oh man
do my fingers hurt. All the time.
***
King Midas’ story is tragic,
and niche-ly similar to mine.
The myth of King Midas begins
in Ancient Greece, where he
ruled over Phrygia (modern-day
Turkey). He was a kind, gentle
leader with only two flaws:
He was foolish — the coded
mythological word for dumb —
and, he loved gold … to a fault.
One day, King Midas, true to his
character, invited an injured,
starved satyr into his castle
for refuge. Lucky (or, soon to
be unlucky) for him, this satyr
was a mentor to Dionysus, the
Greek god of wine and pleasure.
Dionysus, in turn, granted King
Midas a wish. Foolishly, as
was his nature, he wished that
everything he touched would
turn to gold.
Maybe it was greed, maybe
it was fated or maybe King
Midas was just plain witless
— because this wish, he would
soon find out, was a curse. At a
feast celebrating himself, Midas
would discover that the food
he touched turned to gold. He
couldn’t eat. He grew scared,
eventually falling to his knees
and begging for a hug from his
daughter. She too turned to gold.
The most poignant aspect of
this myth is that King Midas had
no escape. He could never heal.
His affliction was so immediate
and so severe that he had no
choice but to watch the world he
loved turn to gold. In this way, I
am a derivation of King Midas.
Everything is at my fingertips,
but my fingertips are damaged.
In an almost repulsive way, in a
way that prompts unwarranted
comments from my professors,
in a way that people belittle me
for, and mostly in a way that
scares people. The world in my
grasp, until it sees my fingertips.
***
My fingers have gotten me
into real trouble before. The
first thing I remember from
when I got into my car crash
were
my
tears;
fear-driven
tears, searing tears, the kind
that make the whole world stop
and order you to feel each one
as they come. When I tried to
dial 911, my fingers, I remember,
were healed. But with every
battle won, there seems to be
another to conquer. This time
instead of bleeding, sore fingers,
it became fingers marred with
scar tissue. I had gone through
the cycle of picking and then
healing too many times to count
on my perpetually blood-stained
fingers. When you pick at scabs
or at scarred skin, it grows back
— stronger: Scar tissue becomes
an
inevitable
condition
of
healing — a poetic evolutionary
trait — but also a troubling one.
For example, scar tissue often
causes problems with repeated
heart
surgeries,
c-section
recovery and, apparently, skin-
picking disorders.
The reason I said I was trying
to call 911 — not that I did call
911 — is because my thumbs
wouldn’t register on my phone’s
screen because of the scarring.
Me and my face soaked with
prickling, searing tears were
helpless. Scar tissue was my
body’s final attempt to stop me
from hurting myself. A fresh,
thick layer of skin which fails to
conduct electricity enough for
me to hit the nine. Or the one.
Or the one.
***
I think a reader’s natural
response by now is something
along the lines of if it’s gotten
you into danger before, and
it hurts and it renders living
in the world so difficult, then
why don’t you stop? I think
the answer lies within my
very human relationship with
pleasure and pain.
Neuroanatomy would point
out
the
obvious:
Pain
and
pleasure originate from the
same place: the amygdala. Just
as you can’t scratch your scalp
without incidentally messing
up your hair, you can’t activate
pain neurons without lighting
up the pleasure neurons, too.
The neural circuitry of the
way humans perceive pain and
pleasure can, in some cases like
mine, confuse the recognition of
the two, so I don’t even realize it
hurts until the blood is flowing.
***
There are 19 steep steps,
worn from use, leading into my
apartment. The path is narrow,
and I often feel compelled to
push against the time-yellowed
walls, hoping to somehow spare
myself the imminent suffocation
the stairway threatens.
Being awoken by a fear-driven
scream is a remarkable sort of
haunting. The change in mental
state is severe: a benign lack of
thought to a malignant brace for
attack. But this scream, emitted
from one of my roommates, was
fueled by the sight of blood. I
had Rorschach-ed the path’s
wall with blood — King Midas
style.
After I managed to brush the
event under the rug, and sent all
of my roommates back to bed,
I sat on stair number 16 and let
my tears burn my face. One day,
I will win — I will end this skin
picking disaster. Until then, I
think I just need some grace
— someone to assure me that
everything I touch won’t wear
my Midas red.
Design by Grace Filbin
The gory, less greedy, Midas touch
SAMMY FONTE
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