Trigger warning this content has mental health, self harm, gore and depression,
If you do not wish to read about that do not continue.
As a child I was diagnosed with OCD, I never really thought it would affect my life as much as it has. The day my mom had brought me to the clinic to see if I was mentally ok, the doctor said I was showing early signs of OCD. With me being only a child I thought I had a so-called "good difference" about me, I would soon learn I was wrong.
I started to notice little things I would not be able to pry my mind off of little things, like how one shoe lace was a tad bit longer than the other. I would have to stop everything I was doing and retie my shoe until it was perfect. I would get scolded by teachers for not paying attention, the thing was I was in fact paying attention. Maybe it wasn't the addition and subtracting on the board but it was how one light in the room was brighter than the other light.
Over time I would see how I would react differently to little things that others would not even be bothered by.
As I grew older and started to go through puberty like most kids I started to get pimples. The second I saw one growing on my face I would immediately try and pop it. Even if it wasn't ready to pop. I squeezed at it until there was blood dripping down my cheek, and only then I was satisfied. After a day or two there would be a scab forming where the pimple had once been, I would run my fingers across the new feeling on my face. It would drive me crazy, I needed my skin to be smooth with no bumps, it needed to be perfect , yet there one lay on my face. I would rip the scab off my face and wait for a new scab to heal over and I would continue the process.
Scars started to appear on my face, but as long as there were no bumps I was ok with it. But doing this led to another thing. One day I discovered little tiny bumps on my arms. I would spend hours picking at my skin to the point of my arms being all bloody and my eyes bloodshot from straining them to look for more bumps. My skin needed to be perfect and it was imperfect to me. If spending hours picking my skin off to get rid of the bumps made it better then I would spend the time to do it.
A year would pass and my skin would be covered in scars, it would stop me from going with friends to the beach where I'd have to wear a swimming suit or wear tank tops and shorts. If I were to wear them, people would see my arms and legs, and I couldn't have them see how imperfect my skin is.
I soon realized I was spending a lot of my time picking at my skin, and my hands would get tired and sore. So I found a better way to make my skin perfect and smooth. I took apart a pencil sharpener and took out the razer. I would slide it over the bumps and it would slice my skin off. It might have hurt more but to me it was more efficient. I would remove whole sections of my imperfect skin. After doing that my whole body became a scabby mess just like my mind.
I was losing myself to this addiction. I would lock myself in my apartment for days not even doing anything other than this problem i was trapped in.
The OCD that I once thought was a "good different" about me had turned me into a monster. If I even stepped outside to go to the store I could feel the eyes of everyone on me, burning into me. I would hear and see the kids get scared of me and go hug their mother for protection. I disgusted people, I disgusted myself. I felt like i wasn't even living my own life, like something had taken over and would not let me do anything until i got my fix in. I had no friends or family to go to, I never stayed in touch with my parents and never went out to meet new people. There was no one I could turn to for help. The help I so desperately needed. I was alone with no one other than my imperfect self.
I was constantly bleeding all over, I never gave a chance for new imperfect bumps to grow back. My skin was discolored with infection. There were places puss would push out from my arm and others where my skin started to turn a gray color. I looked like the living dead, and that's how I felt. I had to resort to covering my body with bandages to stop blood from getting everywhere. I had completely made myself disappear to the outside world. No one really cared that I had seemed to leave the face of the earth. I had also become numb to the pain that I inflicted on myself. I was numb to everything at this point. Nothing could impact me in my life. I felt as though I had gone through everything. There was nothing else that could make my life a living hell. Because my life is a living hell, and I have become accustomed to the heat, scream and terror.
I was done with living as if I had no control over myself. What was the point of living if there was no good reason? There was no happiness to my existence. I had nothing to live for at this point. I had no emotions left. I could not feel joy or sadness, I was crazy and i knew it. I had accepted my fate, I could not continue to go through this. It was unfair how i suffered every day while others could go out in the sun and play. There was no turning back for me. the damage has been done, no amount of healing will help me. let alone I could not even let my skin heal.
I felt as though I started to view the world in a different perspective. It was either you have a good life with some troubles or you fall into the darkness. How come I don't have that happy life like others have? What did I do wrong to deserve this? Nothing that's what, I became angry with myself and the world. Why do people look at me with disgust? To me they are the disgusting ones, with their imperfect bumpy skin. I became aggressive and started having rage out breaks to where I'd break everything I had in my reach. But deep down I knew my anger came from my sadness.
Why am I like this?
Why do I do this to myself?
Why do I have to be perfect?
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Some people are stuck playing life on 'hard mode', whether they want to or not... It is desperately unfair.
I agree with you on that, i wrote this story partly from my own experiences