On a more focused note, the dissociative disorder has surfaced once again. I was really good: all through the Sirens tour I was sure to not pick and keep everything fresh and friendly. I also, however, let my nails grow out long. Now we have to evaluate this situation based on several factors:
1) I just got on my Tampax surfboard to ride the crimson wave, which of course means I've been a little more broken out than usual. Always happens round this time.
2) Since my nails are longer, the effects of the picking are much more pronounced and the results I get are a lot more satisfying (for those of you just tuning in, I pick at tender skin on my body when I get upset about things, or unbalanced... it's a dissociative / associative disorder I lovingly picked up in college. The main areas of attack are my breasts and arms and face.)
3) I just quit my job. My financial situation is about to get really, really ugly. That's not an easy thing to digest.
4) I'm on the downside of the manswing. Used to be "yay for guys, they kiss and touch me! Relationships are unnecessary for me now, I'm Independent!" where now it is, "gosh, I wish I had a boy to touch and kiss me all the time, not just late on Saturday nights or when I'm under the influence. It'd be nice to have someone to care for."
So with all of those factors, it's easy to understand where I am with the whole picking situation. It doesn't make the marks any less red or the fingernails any duller. It just means I sigh with understanding after a session instead of sighing with frustration or confusion.
On the other hand, I am genuinely trying hard to curb it this time around. I'm making the most conscious effort that I can to avoid the pulling up of the shirt or the reach down the front or the curl around the back of my arm. I really am. I allow myself face picking to distract, but really, that's just like burning your hand with a cigarette to take your mind off the gunwound.
It's so interesting to me, the picking disorder. It brings to mind so many memories of emotional pain, but I really wonder what the chemical or physiological process is. What is it that takes the physical pain and translates it, electromagically, into some kind of coping mechanism? How does the slice of my fingernail equal a stitch in my heart? Really, it can't be truth. It's not truth. It's just magic. Fake. Mirrors and smoke, that's my disorder. Mirrors and smoke.
