I AM A PICKER. It’s true. There isn’t one day that goes by in which I have not picked. It’s terrible. By the time I am done my face is splotchy, red, and swollen in spots. I give myself more zits than I manage to deter from forming in the first place.
Once, a long while ago, I picked the side of my nose so badly that I had to wear a band-aid over it. I was so ashamed that I lied and said my kitten attacked me. In reality I was the only thing that attacked my face.
I am considerably better about it now than around the time I was addicted to meth. When I was high I would spend hours, literally, in a mangled, awkward ball like position to reach the other spots. My legs were broken out hip to ankle, and I don’t even want to remember what my face went through.
I am tempted to pick at my children once in a while, but they are smart enough to hide if they see that look in my eye. Ironically, I find it extremely gross to pick at someone else, though. My best friend once told me that she picked at her boyfriend and I was completely grossed out; still am to think about it! Must be the germs….