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I'm #PickingMe over Skin Picking because I want to feel beautiful again. I want to feel supported again. I want to be understood. And most importantly I want to understand and build a community with people like me.
In the quiet depths of solitude,
Where the bathroom sink spills over,
A relentless compulsion takes hold,
And I, the chronic scab picker, uncover.
From tender youth, this habit grew,
Embedded deep in nightly strife,
Morning's light, a fleeting respite,
Eclipsed by fingers gripped with life.
Each scab a story etched in skin,
Each scar a chapter of battles won,
Yet beneath the veil of pain's relief,
Lies a longing to cease, a battle undone.
I clutch a makeup sponge, a mask,
To hide the evidence of unseen war,
For who would understand this dance,
With blood and skin, a tug-of-war?
"Don't tell me to stop," I plea,
For if it were easy, I'd be free,
To walk without the weight of shame,
Unseen scars, a silent plea.
In moments lost to daily grind,
I find myself slowing, longing to find,
A red light, a brief pause in time,
To sate the urge, a moment's bind.
Tweezers, toothpicks, earrings too,
Tools of solace, a restless crew,
Through years that pass, relentless still,
A journey etched in scarlet hue.
So here I stand, a life laid bare,
Not seeking pity, nor the glare,
But understanding in whispered tones,
Of battles fought, unseen, unknown.
For in the quiet depths of solitude,
Where the sink spills over, I abide,
A chronic scab picker, a soul in search,
Of peace within, where scars reside.
My name is Katie Houck, and I am a chronic scab picker.
It all began innocently enough in second grade, a tiny itch that led to a fascination with the layers of healing skin. By third grade, I had started collecting my scabs in a small bag, examining each one with a curious eye. The cells of each scab were like miniature universes to me — intricate and fascinating.
As I grew older, so did this compulsion. It became a nightly ritual, my restless fingers seeking out imperfections to mend. The bathroom sink often overflowed with water, a silent testament to my ongoing battle against the urge.
Nights were the hardest. Awakening in the stillness, my fingers would automatically find their way to my face, searching for scabs as if they held the answers to unspoken questions. Sleep wouldn't come until every blemish was tended to, every scar uncovered.
I always carried a makeup sponge to conceal the evidence of my nightly skirmishes — the blood and marks that spoke volumes of battles fought in solitude. Friends and family tried to offer advice, urging me to just stop. If only it were that simple. Who would choose this path, leaving behind scars as reminders of hidden struggles, enduring the embarrassment of a habit that defied reason?
Often, I found myself picking unconsciously, lost in thought or worry, my fingers betraying my conscious mind. And when fingers weren't enough, I resorted to tools — tweezers, thumbtacks, even earrings in moments of desperation — seeking release from the relentless cycle.
Years passed, and the habit deepened its hold. At 32, I had long been labeled a chronic scab picker, a title I bore with resignation and defiance. Even driving became a test of willpower, navigating streets with one eye on the road and the other on a stubborn scab, sometimes delaying turns to buy just a few more moments of indulgence.
Each scar tells a story of perseverance, each drop of blood a testament to my spirit's capacity to endure and to heal. My journey continues, marked by a daily struggle against an urge that refuses to be ignored, seeking solace in understanding and acceptance amidst a world that often fails to comprehend.
This is my story — not just a tale of scabs and scars, but of strength found in vulnerability, of battles fought quietly, and of a journey towards self-acceptance, one day at a time."- Katie Houck, 32, Richlandtown, PA
