Suddenly I see

As long as I can remember, I've had a fascination with picking at myself. Not just any part of me, but specifically, my head. Even when I'm not itchy, I scratch. At one stage, as a child, I used to rub sand into my hair to have something to pick at.

Pretty odd behaviour, right?

I found it became even more pronounced when I'm stressed; this year has been hell on wheels, for the most part, and it got to the point I was giving myself actual sores on mys calp. Let's just say that going bald was never an option.

Today, I found out that what I'm doing is an actual mental condition. Yes, it seems that I may well have Dermatillomania.

The hell? Hmm, as a semi-hypochondriac, I have to wonder if it's not just me jumping on the mental-illness bandwagon. But I know that's not it.

I don't pick at any other part of me but my scalp, and yes, I end up feeling humiliated and ashamed about it - but I can't stop. I've even found myself doing it in my sleep. If that's not totally whacked out, i don't know what is.

So, Dermatillomania what's that all about?

From Band Back Together:

Dermatillomania or Compulsive Skin Picking (CSP) is the urge to rub, pick, scratch, squeeze or dig into the skin, often to remove some perceived irregularity or flaw such as a flake of dry skin or a pimple or scab. The action may be performed with the fingers, nails, tweezers, needles or any other instrument.
Picking can happen on any part of the body or in a combination of places.
Picking is usually preceded by an intense urge to "fix" the spot.

Yes! Even when it's not a good idea - like when driving

The urge becomes the focus of attention until relief is found by acting on the urge.
Often the picking happen in a trance-like state and in severe cases, a person can spend several hours a day performing the actions associated with trying to "smooth out" or remove all the problem spots.
The picking is almost always followed by a feeling of guilt, shame and regret about the damage done to the skin. Sufferers often are also diagnosed with social anxiety disorder and depression.
Many people do not realize that CSP is a real illness and do not report it or seek treatment.

You can be damn sure I'll be telling Des about this when next I see her.

CSP is not listed in the DSM-IV. Dermatillomania labeled as an impulse control disorder (grouped with things like kleptomania and pyromania).
CSP is now often considered by many professionals as a Body-Focused Repetitive Behavior (BFRB).
Some professionals will classify it as an subtype of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder because a large percentage of people with OCD also pick their skin.
Many of the emotional and psychological processes resemble those of Trichotillomania (Compulsive Hair Pulling) and you may find the resources for Trichotillomania helpful, as well.

Wait, there's something ELSE?

Okay, no, that part's not like me. I'm interested in my scalp - not my hair.

Dermatillomania has a much higher incidence in women than in men.
CSP is not the same as self-injuring or self-harming behaviors (like cutting or burning). Dermatillomania sufferers are not trying to inflict damage upon themselves. Instead, people with CSP are trying to "correct" some imperfection.

So why do I do it?

Some believe Dermatillomania is a natural "grooming instinct" gone haywire. These people theorize that there is a genetic or biological component.
Others think it is a self-soothing mechanism or emotional outlet because many sufferers report being "zoned out" or trance-like while picking.

That's for sure.
Is there any treatment? Well, apparently anti-depressants might help. Since I'm on Ritalin, Valdoxane and Esperide, maybe that combination will help. Time will tell.

So, there you have it. Sorry; this blog has pretty much been light-hearted until now. But what the hell. You always knew I was a freak, right?

* I should mention that this post was inspired by Chibi Jeebs' Break-up Letter to Dermatillomania, which was what sparked off my realisation.

Owie. Yuck. And also, yay!

It's been a torrid few days here in the Ysabel-MadCat household. Apart from the big announcement at my work and the rush to wrap up the last few days at the office (and the consequent cramming of a month's worth of communication into less than a week by my esteemed colleagues in the other city, less said the better), my department was also introduced to our new manager, who'll be starting at the end of January. We all knew she was coming, of course, but it's nice to finally have official confirmation.

Then, last Monday, 13 December, the department went out for our year-end lunch. Nice enough, although - unlike every single other department in the entire company - we had to fork out of our own pockets because our acting head doesn't want to run foul of the compliance department. Which sucks, quite frankly.

It was a tasty lunch, quite filling, not too expensive, and we followed up with a stroll around the shops that dot that particular restaurant's precinct; not to my taste, fairly whitebread, I'd say, all French Provencal and fake-rusted garden ornaments, that sort of thing - pretty enough, just not my kind of style. I wasn't enjoying it very much, frankly, because I was feeling rather over-full - quite Christmas-lunch-full, in fact, which was rather odd, considering all I'd had was a lamb roast, mash, a glass of wine and a few spoons of chocolate mousse. After a final cup of tea, we headed back to my colleague's house for a couple of cocktails, which I mixed (quite weakly, as we still had to drive back home that night) while we chatted and kuiered quite convivially in the balmy evening air. As MadCat was on night shift last week, he saw to the animals and when I got home at 9pm, all I had to do was go straight to bed, to toss and turn uncomfortably all night.

Tuesday was a bit of a nightmare of discomfort, as my chest hurt all day and I was quite the moaning Minnie, annoyed with my arrogant colleagues from that distant port city and snowed under with silly bits of work that, quite frankly, were streaming in because people had only thought of these items at the very last minute. That night I lay alone in bed, thinking I was having a heart attack, the pain was so excruciating. I tried to phone my mom - as I tend to do in all such situations - but the phone just rang and rang, unanswered. So eventually I got up and wrote my funeral wishes - rather dramatic, I know, and thank goodness I didn't post them to my blog, but really, that's the sort of thing that makes me feel better - writing out my will before a long journey, or setting out my funeral wishes when I'm all on my own, or something else devilishly superstitious.

Wednesday was sheer hell. I just couldn't muster the strength to do anything. In between bouts of getting ready for work, I had to keep lying down. It was sheer torture. Eventually MadCat came home from work, and convinced me that I needed to go to the doctor. I called both my bosses, and they were both sick as dogs, too - both had been vomiting all night. In total, four of us had been struck down by some virus at that restaurant. It wasn't the food - that had been delicious, and perfectly cooked; someone was carrying a virus on his or her hands, and passed that to us through the meal, either through cooking or delivering.

But there was more. Before heading to the doctor, I'd taken delivery of Deafboy and Adventure Girl's pups - because it was bucketing down, and the pups needed a dry spot for the day, as there was nowhere else for them to go; they couldn't spend a third day outside in the rain. You can imagine what awaited me when I came home from the doctor, with four excited dogs stuck in the lounge and the patio, sleeting rain driving in and the four of them rushing around dragging water everywhere. Poo piles. It was lovely.

Eventually I managed to drag my carcass through to the bedroom, order the dogs through to my room and passage with me, and pass out. And that's how we spent the day, with me occasionally getting up to let them all out for pee breaks, then back into bed,. then out again when MadCat awoke, then out again when Adventure Girl came to fetch them, and back to bed for me for the rest of the night.

So it's gone since then, with the occasional foray into the world to test the waters for Candlewick's kitchen tea, and a fabric shopping expedition with BellyDiva. But I still haven't recovered, and in fact had a relapse this weekend - this time with added puking. Wonderful. I'm still queasy, and very unhappy. I hope this does not bode ill for Christmas Eve, and Day, and Boxing Day, too.

Tomorrow (today?) I'll post about the quite nice afternoon we had on Friday, with the geeky photographers, and how that perked me up somewhat. It was good. A ray of sunshine in an otherwise awful week. And there'll even be pics! It's a plus.

Talking tough

How I wish I had learned some form of self-defence. However, my mom wouldn't let me learn karate because (a) it was a devil-tainted sport (meditation! The horror) and (b) girls didn't do that. - and I point-black refused to do ballet.

But most bullies will back the hell down if faced with opposition; they really only like to pick on people who don't fight back, because they're actually cowards themselves. Also, I've discovered, bullies really don't like it when people on whom they're picking turn into raving psycho loonies who will attempt to annihilate anything in the vicinity.

Still, I don't pick (physical) fights, on the whole. In fact, I have never picked a fight except with Deafboy (and then I broke my hand on his jaw. That frigging hurt like a bitch, but I was too proud to complain, so I left it. At least it seems to have healed okay). But I do have an unfortunate habit of taking on people most likely to pulverise me; my only real weapon is the element of surprise, or my desire to never be seen exhibiting any form of pain.

Example 1: the bodybuilder I slapped because he wouldn't stop ragging on me, who then punched me so hard I flew over my cousin's bed; he didn't expect a raging ball of fury to come back over the top and take him to the ground (since I was 16 and he was 18, it's probably a good thing my cousins pulled me off him, or I would have been a smear on the carpet once he regained his wits).

Example 2: In Std 4, aged ten, I gained a reputation as Ms Coldheart, because I would not - I would not - exhibit any pain when I was punched, pinched, kicked or had the dreaded "mousie" performed on my arm. These were the bullies who tended to pick on my younger cousin, Greg, who was in Sub B at the time; so I'd take his place in the torture because, come on, he was almost five years younger than us! Naturally he'd cry when hurt! Asses. But all the bullying stopped the day I broke one boy's jaw (I was nearly suspended for that, until my mother pointed out all the bruises and other injuries I'd accumulated from their nastiness. She still wouldn't let me take up any form of karate, though. Sigh).

Basically, I am too belligerent for my own good; I dread to think what would happen were I ever involved in a hijacking, or a home invasion that left my loved ones in danger.

Lalalala

So we stayed until 11:30 last night, uploading files. Let me restate that.

11.30. That's PM. Uploading files. Big-ass files. And hey! Here I am, again (I've been here for an hour and a half already, people. You can't buy dedication like this!).

Soooo ... I'm a little punch-drunk. Just a leetle. I was fine driving home last night (although I had to turn around halfway, come back up the R55, and take my normal "come to work" route back because there was a 2-kilometre (or so) line of brake lights heading through Diepsloot and up the hill ahead of me! IT WAS MIDNIGHT! Why was there a freaking TRAFFIC JAM?

Anyway, the Coke Light (ugh) that SimsBuddy bought (accompanied by delicious, I'm-going-to-regret-this-in-two-weeks pizza) helped keep me alert for the drive home. The four hours of sleep, though? Not so much help. At least MadCat had warmed the bed for me, so I was able to snuggle into his shape and pass out without shivering my ass off.

Heheh. I said "ass". I am 7 years old. And how lame was THAT?

Sigh. Clearly I need COFFEE! And I have used the last of my delicious Mocca Java. Now I am drinking Ricoffee, which: YUCK. But add three heaped spoons, and six of sugar (did I mention I am SLEEPY and need a rush?) and it almost tastes like ... sludge (hence the SIX SPOONS of sugar!).

Ooh, just remembered! Last night, Greeneyes had been trying to help me set up the file upload system and when we'd determined that it was working, left for home - but he was so concerned about me staying late that he offered to come back and bring me a home-cooked meal! And he'd do it, too. I'm glad he has a wonderful wife (and it doesn't hurt that they're both gorgeous to look at). Man. When I have boys, I hope to bring them up as sweet, polite and all-round wonderful as Greeneyes.

Now I am reading Miss Doxie archives while uploading files (it takes FOREVER to get them attached, and then sent). More as the mood strikes.

At least I didn't come home to a steaming pile of poop last night!

Just don't

Wittier people than I have written about the hell that is Facebook, its neediness, the stupidity of friending all and sundry, the banality.

All I want to know is: why do my friends - my real-life friends - have to mention me to EVERY DAMN FORMER ACQUAINTANCE? Now I have an ex (whom I've been avoiding) and a former ... he wasn't even an acquaintance! I drove him home once when he was drunk! ... wanting to be my friend.

Why don't people just FUCK OFF?

A red-filled glare

I've been having rage-induced moments lately. Well, I've had them several times, but of late - say the past year - they've become more frequent. Once or twice a week, in fact, instead of every couple of months.

I remember the attack, and I think about what I could have done. I am triggered by stories about crime, about home invasion, about dignity stripped from helpless victims as they are subjected to torture, abuse and death by callous monsters. And I see myself on the attack, using my body as a weapon, biting flesh from those monsters, gouging out their eyes, breaking their ribs, filled with inhuman strength and throwing them through windows. I think about the ubiquitous home invasion happening to Moosquared and I about go insane. A red film covers my eyes, a roaring fills my ears, my jaw clenches and I go rigid. My foot presses down on the accelerator.

I have to physically pull myself back from the brink. I have to think about something else, slow down, turn on the aircon, open the window, put on calmer music. I have to stop.

I told MadCat yesterday. I know I've mentioned this to him before, in passing. This time I gave him details. And he says these sound like TLE seizures to him.

I think he's right.

I go into a fugue state, I think. I blank out, and only my subconscious is pulling me back and warning me to snap out of it. My aggression knows know bounds. I take pleasure in the thought of using my teeth to rip out the throat or bite off the cheek of someone who dares threaten me and mine.

I've been there, I've been in that life-threatening situation, and I didn't react this way. I made a decision to sit back and wait out the situation until the time came when I could make a difference, or die. I chose to live, but even as I fought for my life I didn't go to extremes; I was afraid to damage too much.

This time - next time - some time ... it will be different. My aggression has heightened over the years; I am far less tolerant, less patient, less willing to abide by society's norms. At the same time, I have become physically weaker.

But I will fight. And maybe that attitude is not the safest to have when my life and the lives of those I love are being threatened.

I don't know if that's a good thing. I don't know if I should be at their side. I don't know how they would look at me afterward.

Friends will be friends

Supper with Sunshine and Guttermind, Moosquared and Rhino in attendance. Wonderful, as ever; the fun we have is incomparable - as ever. Dancing with Rhino, being taught new steps, has me thinking I may want to take up said dancing in the future. Perhaps Rhino will be my partner, unless he is able to get Moosquared to dance with him! I think she might - she does love him more than anyone in the world, after all.

Guttermind was his typical funny self; as Rhino was attempting to teach me new dance steps, and swirl me around the room, Guttermind would get jealous of the lack of attention and leap in between us, throwing himself into our group. We were also treated to much chest-flashing - a scary thought but there he is, getting more and more laid-back with us! As Moosquared says - we really come here for the floor show. And the food (the mussel soup was DIVINE! Although I was good and didn't even touch the bread.).

The cake was a disaster, of course. Oh well. Next time, I shall make cupcakes, one each, and that will be easier since they won't turn into cake-biscuits. This baking thing is hard! Perhaps next, I shall attempt Mama Jo's famous cheesecake (I believe it's a version of New York cheesecake, although she's never called it that. To her, it's simply cheesecake).

I am in deep stress. Being the sole provider this month is making me tremble. I did the grocery shopping yesterday, to the tune of R1500. Today was Dischem, to the tune of R670 (I managed to put down the nice-to-have lipstick that would only have cost R35, but was not on my list. And I just remembered that I forgot to buy eyeliner. Doh! I will have to look like a vampire this week, then.

Stress. Lack of money. I can't keep it up much longer. Being broke and poor is getting really old, really quickly.

The slow lane

So, having started with the best of intentions (isn't that always the way?), eating healthily, taking raw veggies to work for snacking instead of the two chocolate bars and packet of chips I was consuming toward the end of the year ... I'm already bored. See? This is my problem! There's a reason I used to have five or six different drinks on the same table back in the day! I GET BORED!

Of course, maybe the metallic taste of the courgettes or the odd sweet-bitterness of the peppers are affecting me. I just need to get used to their "true" flavour. And all that water and green tea's gotta help, right?

OK - I'm just going to keep thinking of the weddings. I do NOT want to be the biggest person in the photos! (Well, the biggest woman at the Best Wedding Ever, at any rate.)