Red Skin & Disappointments

I was 7 when I first began it. Even though it was 10 years ago, I still remember it crystal clear. It was almost my turn to read the paragraph from the story and the words began swarming as if they were in alphabet soup. Little did I know it was dyslexia. I began to sweat and my fingers trembled. It was an accident really, a slip of the nail. My finger nail caught on the skin of the top on my hand and tore off a bit of the skin. Suddenly, my racing heart calmed, my fingers trembled a little less. This was the beginning. As I grew older and my troubles became worse, so did my disorder. I'm not just being dramatic when I say my troubles became worse, they really did. I was bullied mercilessly all through out my childhood, but all that stopped as I began to grow into a women. Suddenly, I didn't just catch the attention of my fellow classmates. He was a fellow solider in my dad's platoon, and my best friend's father. Well lets not get into that. That was a long time ago. The point is, as all my trouble began to pile on, the bullying, the rape, the drugs, I began to pick more then just my hands. It had progressed to my arms, my back, my shoulders, my neck, my face, my scalp, and my knees. In the span on just a couple of years, my entire body is covered in ugly red skin, scars, and opened sores that might be getting infected at this very moment. The more I see them, the more I feel the need to pick. Its crazy how that works right? How even though I hate it, I still want- no need- to pick? I want to stop. I NEED to stop. But what no one understands, what my parents don't understand, is that it isn't self harm. That is never what it was for me. It was almost like therapy. Weird how the thing that is making me feel crazy, is also one of the only things making me feel sane.