Hello,
I have always picked on my scabs, and cant think of a time as a child when i did not. I remember specifically one time in first grade i was picking at an infected scab on my thumb and a little girl next to me was completely grossed out (which of course embarrassed me.) Nonetheless, I have been a scab picker my whole life, and only grew worse when i started developing pimples. Along with my scabs, my face scalp and back are constantly being picked from pimples (and psoriasis since i have that as well). I have some mild some terrible scars on my arms, and legs as well as discoloration on other parts from childhood to present. The worst part is the pleasure i get out of doing it. I get extreme satisfaction out of popping a really bad pimple, and feeling the "pop" on my fingertips (otherwise its no good.) The reason that i constantly pick is to feel this "pop" from a pimple or scab. I can have scabs that have healed up nicely, and i will tear away at skin and pick it so the blood comes back up, and eventually (if i squeeze hard enough) it jut pops right through the scab. The best feeling for me is not only the pop on my fingers, but if it squirts on my face, mirror, anything. (i know really gross) If i go through all the touble of picking a scab or pimple and it doesn't pop, i did all that work for nothing and usually either continue to pick it, or wait a few days to try again. This has been an ongoing thing my entire life, and i just recently realized that it was a problem. Many people in my life (mainly my mom, friends, boyfriend) comment on these unattractive scars, or the band aids all over, and of course i get embarrassed since it is a sensitive subject. Yet, i just can not stop no matter how many times i say i need to. I'll pop or attempt to pop a really bad pimple which leaves an unsightly mark on my face, and ill say to myself "this is the last pimple I'll pop", and of course it never is. I am a usually extremely happy person, but do have alot of issues with stress, panicking, and anxiety from various aspects of life. I have seen many similar cases to mine (where people pick their scabs for their own reasons, mine being the "pop") but nothing like mine exactly. i was just hoping that this could help someone else, and myself for sharing. Thanks for reading (if you haven't stopped by now haha.)
I have always picked on my scabs, and cant think of a time as a child when i did not. I remember specifically one time in first grade i was picking at an infected scab on my thumb and a little girl next to me was completely grossed out (which of course embarrassed me.) Nonetheless, I have been a scab picker my whole life, and only grew worse when i started developing pimples. Along with my scabs, my face scalp and back are constantly being picked from pimples (and psoriasis since i have that as well). I have some mild some terrible scars on my arms, and legs as well as discoloration on other parts from childhood to present. The worst part is the pleasure i get out of doing it. I get extreme satisfaction out of popping a really bad pimple, and feeling the "pop" on my fingertips (otherwise its no good.) The reason that i constantly pick is to feel this "pop" from a pimple or scab. I can have scabs that have healed up nicely, and i will tear away at skin and pick it so the blood comes back up, and eventually (if i squeeze hard enough) it jut pops right through the scab. The best feeling for me is not only the pop on my fingers, but if it squirts on my face, mirror, anything. (i know really gross) If i go through all the touble of picking a scab or pimple and it doesn't pop, i did all that work for nothing and usually either continue to pick it, or wait a few days to try again. This has been an ongoing thing my entire life, and i just recently realized that it was a problem. Many people in my life (mainly my mom, friends, boyfriend) comment on these unattractive scars, or the band aids all over, and of course i get embarrassed since it is a sensitive subject. Yet, i just can not stop no matter how many times i say i need to. I'll pop or attempt to pop a really bad pimple which leaves an unsightly mark on my face, and ill say to myself "this is the last pimple I'll pop", and of course it never is. I am a usually extremely happy person, but do have alot of issues with stress, panicking, and anxiety from various aspects of life. I have seen many similar cases to mine (where people pick their scabs for their own reasons, mine being the "pop") but nothing like mine exactly. i was just hoping that this could help someone else, and myself for sharing. Thanks for reading (if you haven't stopped by now haha.)
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I do the exact same thing..I always assumed the pleasure came out of knowing I was getting this build-up of bacteria out of my skin. Just wanted to let you know someone else out there feels for you and has the exact same problem
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Why have I picked at, dug at, gouged out and eaten me for the last 53 years?
I...
Self Medicate
using cocktails;
Self Mutilate
through self-cannibalism;
Self Sabotage
with little sleep.
=suicide!?
At the end of May 2008...
I unwittingly put these 3 things in motion, hoping, believing naively the man in my life, would show he cared.
Not so.
I blacked out, crashed to the floor (all 6'+ of me plus high heels), near the edge of the dance floor where he and 2 of our male mates and I were dancing.
I felt it hit me. I felt dizzy and knew I needed to lean against something or I'd fall.
In that millisecond prior to the fall, this is an idea of what went through my mind.
"Looked over at him. He was engulfed in his air of peacockness. I knew if I asked for help, he'd mock or laugh at the suggestion I wasn't feeling well. After all I looked fine!
Instead, I backed toward a huge marble pillar on the dance floor to support my balance. A narrow marble shelf surrounds the pillar around high elbow height and I miscalculated catching hold.
That must be where I blacked out, coz the next bit I was told about by 2 of the 3.
Apparently I lurched forward but no one (3 blokes?) could catch me from falling. In falling forward I hit my left arm against a round gold metal dance floor fence surround.
I vaguely remember hitting the floor.
I was then fully awake and as I tried to get up feeling totally embarrassed, he and one of the mates lifted and helped me walk outside.
The mate was concerned for me but not the 'birthday boy'.
He sat back on the chair outside and Picked At me, grilled me and laughed at the sight of me falling... "How many drinks have you had?" "You're drunk" "Watch out what you're doing, you might hurt someone!"
I am a single parent, so drinking is a luxury. That night I'd had 3 vodka & lemonade.
In fact I'd been careful not to drink at his milestone birthday party that day, as I knew I was going out and didn't want to compromise my enjoyment of the night by drinking during the day, which I don't anyway.
He continued giving me a dressing down and providing me with facts and statistics. Not once did he ask if I was actually OK.
He only found out I had bruises and grazes a few weeks later when he saw my elbow with the yellow bruises and asked what I had done this time...... *sigh*
Up to the present day...
Last Friday evening as I drove home from his place, it suddenly occurred to me how important the difference in meaning a word can make to a phrase. The 2 phrases... Pick On someone and Pick At someone.
I realised it was Pick At someone, which is what I have been trying to understand regarding his behaviour toward me. He Picks At me in every sentence of conversation, like he's trying to get to the core to dig something out.
And that is EXACTLY what I physically do to myself and have done for all of my life. I Pick At myself as proof? I am being Picked At by someone close to me.
It began when I was born with excema. I remember as a small child Mum continually telling me off for picking the scabs from the grazes which form from the itch ya MUST scratch when ya have excema.
Next event I remember as a child, was the chicken pox. There was a large pock scab in the middle of my forehead which wouldn't heal, as I kept lifting off the scab.
One night in particular as I was heading for bed, I remember Mum saying something along the following lines... "And I don't want to find you've scratched off the scab!"
Well I did but how was I going to hide the scab from her? I had to eat it. I remember carefully, lifting the scab a little at a time around the edges until I got to the centre, which was not completely healed. To get it off cleanly I had to dig at it.
I now have the deepest, scab removed hole, on my body in the middle of my forehead staring at anyone who cares to look at me. It's there in plain sight with nothing to hide.
Like the first person who wrote about this message, I too had enjoyment from the self gouging pain. Mine is the crunch of the scab and the taste of my blood. In fact the first taste of any blood containing scab is totally euphoric.
Throughout my life, I've been easily able to hide the fact that I scratch off scabs, by digging in my scalp. If my hair was shaved, my scalp would have more ditches and concave holes, than there are craters on the moon. As I run my hands through my hair and fingertips over my scalp looking for a scab to remove, there are bumps and lumps and holes and craters everywhere.
I understand if a person reading this finds it difficult to picture anyone who could or would try such self destruction. Maybe the reasons come from the following events in my childhood, youth and adulthood.
To save space & time I will collate where possible, the events into basic facts...
Up to 9 years of age - our father committed voyueristic acts against my next youngest sister (1 yr 10 mths younger) and myself. My sister informed me in 2004 of the voyuerism. She informed me about one time, where we were made to take off our underwear and touch each other while Dad looked on. She said she was 7 and I was 9. I hadn't remembered or acknowledged it till then. In the hot weather we were not allowed to wear any covering on the top half of our bodies.
I also have a youngest sister who's 5 years younger;
From about 9 to about 11, Dad touched me when I had a bath on Sunday nights under the guise of washing my back.
One night, Mum caught him massaging my left boob and hit the roof. Later that night, I was given precise, thorough and strict instructions by my father, as he drove me to the country railway station, telling me I must keep what happened a secret and he would sort it out with Mum while I was away. I was terrified. To make matters worse, in the capital city where I was going, I happened to see my grandfather who was a policeman at the time. I thought he knew and could see something was wrong. I was scared and assumed I was in trouble. Grandpa just smiled, said hello and was on his way. I still thought he knew though;
From about 11 to 15, my father made me have intercourse with him at least once a fornight. It was my job to help Dad cut down the sheep from where he'd hung it the previous day in the shearing shed. This was done once a fortnight. I was the eldest, strongest, tallest. I was forbidden to wash my hands after each rape in the shearing shed and had to hold the meat on the kitchen table while Dad cut up the sheep into smaller servings for putting into the freezer. And probably no surprise to readers, I absolutely HATE sheep/mutton/lamb. It makes my stomach heave at its smell.
Readers... If you're into statistics, here is something for you to work out.
Once a fortnight for 1 year = 26 times, 2 years = 52 times, 3 years = 78 times, 4 years = 104 times. Plus other times when Mum was away in the capital city or at one of her many meetings she attended in the country district, making a minimum of around 110 times I was raped by my father before I blew the whistle on him.
My younger sister was also being raped during the same period of time.
15 years - I blew the whistle on my father at school. I told a girl I knew, just to spite Dad coz he said no one would believe me. He was right there. No one did and it was pushed under the carpet like I was a naughty girl.
I had to tell my mother that same day. I was threatened by the Principal of the school and a religious minister whom I'd never met. They told me I must tell my mother coz they were going to check up on me by ringing her to see if I'd done as I'd been told.
Neither parties rang or followed up as the next day I lied after being hounded and blamed by my mother for the horrid mess I now brought upon the family. How dare I drag our good name through the dirt. You will go to school tomorrow and totally deny all you've said and tell them you lied. It is something to sort it out at home. It has nothing to do with anyone else. To this day, Mum blames me for what Dad did to my sister and I.
Following the whistle blowing, I was in a haze. My father was then on a mission to remove me from the house. He tried to get me a job by the end of year 10, but there wasn't anything going in the local country town. He found me a job in May the following year, just before I turned 16.
I had to then board in the country town, 15 miles from home, so I could work in the retail shop.
In that daze, I suddenly had money in my pocket, something I'd never known previously. The most money I'd ever seen in my hands prior to that was a $10 note, which I had found laying on the ground.
By working in retail, I met travelling salesmen who invited me for a drink or a meal at the local pub. And the end result... I gave them sex.
It wasn't all bad. I was free of Dad's control and loved that freedom. At 16, I suppose I was the happiest I'd been for many, many years and this must have shown in my demeanour.
I met a wonderful guy and began a loving and caring relationship with him. Both of us could see positive outcomes and talk kinda hinted at something great in the future for both of us.
Then one day he took me to his mate's place, who was married to a gorgeous lady and they had 2 or 3 young children and she was pregnant. I mainly felt happiness and joy in that home. I have since remembered there was an unhappy undertone.
That night/next morning at about 3 am, the married man crawled into the house where I was boarding, came into the bedroom where I was sleeping and raped me. I couldn't make a noise coz if I did, I would have been removed from where I was boarding and wouldn't have had anywhere to live. Obviously I blamed myself. I must have encouraged/flirted/done something to make him want to rape me. I desperately tried to wash out and remove his sperm from within me, but a facewasher can't get inside the vagina. I never told my boyfriend his mate raped me.
As I mentioned, I freely 'serviced' the regular travelling salesmen and did so around the same time I was raped. So I'd been having sex with 3 men at once... almost. The boyfriend however, always used a condom.
As fate would have it, I became pregnant. I was 17. When my father found out, he was horrified and reminded me the reason he had intercourse with me was so I WOULDN'T get pregnant.
I had to have an abortion. That decision was made for me by my parents and of course they believed it was to the boyfriend and so he had to pay half the costs of the abortion. No way could I tell my parents about the rape and certainly not the free servicing. I lied again and again to cover my tracks. My boyfriend of course didn't believe it was him. I convinced him it was coz there'd been one accident with a condom and I used it to the hilt. He kinda believed me but didn't at the same time. Obviously he turned on me and didn't want anything more to do with me.
I am still gutted to this day at the pain I bestowed upon this man. He had a great job, car, personality and demeanour and was also a Vietnam Vet. He was my height and loved me for me. It is the only time in my life I've had to openly plan/concoct a lie. The pain it causes to the liar and I presume the recipient, is something I sometimes don't know how to bear. I feel so bad for hurting an innocent man.
Not long afterwards I lost my job in the retail shop for stealing merchandise. No surprises there. I look back now and know I was wanting to be noticed coz I had something to tell. The boss kept the stealing to himself. To my parents, the boss said they were doing staff restructuring.
Dad then went to the next nearest town we were familiar with, which was 35 miles from our farm home.
He got me another job in retail. I had 3 jobs in total in around 2 years. Each time I was asked to leave, it was for stealing merchandise.
The 3rd job was the best. A brand new supermarket had opened and I was given a supervisor role at the age of just 17. I felt fabulous and worked very hard, finding great joy in being appreciated.
In the meantime, I met, fell in love and got engaged to a guy who lived close to the large town. We had many friends. We enjoyed drag races on the highways, getting drunk around campfires in the scrub, going to the drive-in and doing all the things teenages enjoy.
Again, I must have been doing something wrong coz that relationship went onto utter destruction.
One night after work at the supermarket, we'd planned to meet up with the boys at the lake. This is where I was told of their plan for me.
One of the lads was still a virgin and they wanted me to break him in. My fiance said he would go first, then the brothers, then the virgin, then my fiance again. He said it would be OK because he was going first and last.
The breaking in of their mate was to take place on the backseat of my fiance's car in the scrub near where we regularly went as a group of guys and girls. The brothers had girlfriends and I knew them all well.
However, thanks to the virgin, he refused to be a part of the gang rape. He whispered in my ear that he wouldn't/couldn't do it and asked me to keep quiet and he would deal with the blokes.
I was pleased he wasn't willing to follow the crowd.
I hated the rest of the experience, laying in a pool of semen with nothing to clean me up with afterwards. I felt totally gross but had to put on a happy, brave face.
I don't remember a lot about events after that although I got very sick with what was believed to be Glandular Fever. The happiness and joy I'd been experiencing disappeared again that night.
And there's more. Somehow my fiance found out the virgin had lied. So my fiance sent him around to where I was boarding to have a secret sex session so he would be broken in.
Again the virgin refused to touch me. He apologised for putting me through the ordeal and said he must ejeculate this time, but that he would masturbate so it would seem more likely that he'd been broken in. I never heard another thing about that night and as I said before, I was not well for a long time after the event.
I decided there was a need for me to leave the larger town and move to the capital city as I couldn't cope with seeing the brothers and the way I felt they now looked at me. Plus my fiance treated me differently as well. I had to get outta there.
So I moved to the big city and soon afterwards had my priceless coin collection stolen by so called mutual friends whom I now believe were heroin addicts.
Within a year of being in the capital city, I met my first husband and had 2 children to him. He hit me regularly and I even told some people at work, but of course nothing was done. He locked me out of our bedroom on occasions, sometimes in the middle of winter with no blankets and I had to almost sit in the oven to keep warm.
He eventually burnt down his house 3 days after Christmas.
The house was never part of me in his eyes and was solely in his name. He'd stated at the beginning when the house was bought that if it was in joint names then I could fight for half the house if the marriage didn't last. Well the marriage didn't last, especially after he torched the house. I filed for divorce as I had to get outta there too.
The children suffered too. Incest was committed between the 2 children. One of them had a stroke at 19 years of age because of taking umpteen tablets along with many bucket bongs, many E's and loads of alcohol. That child now has short-term memory loss and must be taken by ambulance to hospital everytime an epileptic siezure hits. The person goes into a coma and must obviously be monitored until they wake up. Then, its time to go home.
The other child became hooked on heroin at the age of 12 and stayed on that destructive path till the age of 23 when my child met up with an 'angel' who was willing to take the time and had the money to put my child through the Naltrexone treatment program and have the slow release Naltrexone implants. What a difference that made to my child. There were smiles again and joy in our lives.
After being clean for almost 2 years, my child was tempted with Ice/Speed from a new partner. Destruction followed with them being busted many times for dealing. My child physically attacked me and I had to get a restraining order to protect myself and my 2 younger children... from my 2nd marriage. Eventually the dealing came to an end with them both going to jail. This made my child wake up somewhat and again for a while this child was clean.
But unfortunately it didn't last as my child met and fell in love with a recovering Heroin addict. The HA was on the Methadone treatment and also taking the tablets which they get from the Chemist and put under their tongue... forgotten its name. But instead of taking them orally, my child and partner shot them up. This pair had a child in August 2007 and it was born a Heroin addict. The baby is fine... but are there long term effects?
As this posting is taking a long time to write, I will complete it via another post.
In conclusion of part one, I believe Self Mutilation via Picking At sores, is a symptom of a larger problem of someone very close, Picking At the sore picker, trying to weaken their resolve by continually Picking At them with words until they crack under pressure of frustration. The person of interest in my case, boasts he is the best at breaking people by putting them under pressure which sees them crack/explode/lash out in anger. He thinks it is worthy of a huge laugh and says it is funny to watch the weakened person crash.
Who is or has Picked At you?
I...
Self Medicate
using cocktails;
Self Mutilate
through self-cannibalism;
Self Sabotage
with little sleep.
=suicide!?
At the end of May 2008...
I unwittingly put these 3 things in motion, hoping, believing naively the man in my life, would show he cared.
Not so.
I blacked out, crashed to the floor (all 6'+ of me plus high heels), near the edge of the dance floor where he and 2 of our male mates and I were dancing.
I felt it hit me. I felt dizzy and knew I needed to lean against something or I'd fall.
In that millisecond prior to the fall, this is an idea of what went through my mind.
"Looked over at him. He was engulfed in his air of peacockness. I knew if I asked for help, he'd mock or laugh at the suggestion I wasn't feeling well. After all I looked fine!
Instead, I backed toward a huge marble pillar on the dance floor to support my balance. A narrow marble shelf surrounds the pillar around high elbow height and I miscalculated catching hold.
That must be where I blacked out, coz the next bit I was told about by 2 of the 3.
Apparently I lurched forward but no one (3 blokes?) could catch me from falling. In falling forward I hit my left arm against a round gold metal dance floor fence surround.
I vaguely remember hitting the floor.
I was then fully awake and as I tried to get up feeling totally embarrassed, he and one of the mates lifted and helped me walk outside.
The mate was concerned for me but not the 'birthday boy'.
He sat back on the chair outside and Picked At me, grilled me and laughed at the sight of me falling... "How many drinks have you had?" "You're drunk" "Watch out what you're doing, you might hurt someone!"
I am a single parent, so drinking is a luxury. That night I'd had 3 vodka & lemonade.
In fact I'd been careful not to drink at his milestone birthday party that day, as I knew I was going out and didn't want to compromise my enjoyment of the night by drinking during the day, which I don't anyway.
He continued giving me a dressing down and providing me with facts and statistics. Not once did he ask if I was actually OK.
He only found out I had bruises and grazes a few weeks later when he saw my elbow with the yellow bruises and asked what I had done this time...... *sigh*
Up to the present day...
Last Friday evening as I drove home from his place, it suddenly occurred to me how important the difference in meaning a word can make to a phrase. The 2 phrases... Pick On someone and Pick At someone.
I realised it was Pick At someone, which is what I have been trying to understand regarding his behaviour toward me. He Picks At me in every sentence of conversation, like he's trying to get to the core to dig something out.
And that is EXACTLY what I physically do to myself and have done for all of my life. I Pick At myself as proof? I am being Picked At by someone close to me.
It began when I was born with excema. I remember as a small child Mum continually telling me off for picking the scabs from the grazes which form from the itch ya MUST scratch when ya have excema.
Next event I remember as a child, was the chicken pox. There was a large pock scab in the middle of my forehead which wouldn't heal, as I kept lifting off the scab.
One night in particular as I was heading for bed, I remember Mum saying something along the following lines... "And I don't want to find you've scratched off the scab!"
Well I did but how was I going to hide the scab from her? I had to eat it. I remember carefully, lifting the scab a little at a time around the edges until I got to the centre, which was not completely healed. To get it off cleanly I had to dig at it.
I now have the deepest, scab removed hole, on my body in the middle of my forehead staring at anyone who cares to look at me. It's there in plain sight with nothing to hide.
Like the first person who wrote about this message, I too had enjoyment from the self gouging pain. Mine is the crunch of the scab and the taste of my blood. In fact the first taste of any blood containing scab is totally euphoric.
Throughout my life, I've been easily able to hide the fact that I scratch off scabs, by digging in my scalp. If my hair was shaved, my scalp would have more ditches and concave holes, than there are craters on the moon. As I run my hands through my hair and fingertips over my scalp looking for a scab to remove, there are bumps and lumps and holes and craters everywhere.
I understand if a person reading this finds it difficult to picture anyone who could or would try such self destruction. Maybe the reasons come from the following events in my childhood, youth and adulthood.
To save space & time I will collate where possible, the events into basic facts...
Up to 9 years of age - our father committed voyueristic acts against my next youngest sister (1 yr 10 mths younger) and myself. My sister informed me in 2004 of the voyuerism. She informed me about one time, where we were made to take off our underwear and touch each other while Dad looked on. She said she was 7 and I was 9. I hadn't remembered or acknowledged it till then. In the hot weather we were not allowed to wear any covering on the top half of our bodies.
I also have a youngest sister who's 5 years younger;
From about 9 to about 11, Dad touched me when I had a bath on Sunday nights under the guise of washing my back.
One night, Mum caught him massaging my left boob and hit the roof. Later that night, I was given precise, thorough and strict instructions by my father, as he drove me to the country railway station, telling me I must keep what happened a secret and he would sort it out with Mum while I was away. I was terrified. To make matters worse, in the capital city where I was going, I happened to see my grandfather who was a policeman at the time. I thought he knew and could see something was wrong. I was scared and assumed I was in trouble. Grandpa just smiled, said hello and was on his way. I still thought he knew though;
From about 11 to 15, my father made me have intercourse with him at least once a fornight. It was my job to help Dad cut down the sheep from where he'd hung it the previous day in the shearing shed. This was done once a fortnight. I was the eldest, strongest, tallest. I was forbidden to wash my hands after each rape in the shearing shed and had to hold the meat on the kitchen table while Dad cut up the sheep into smaller servings for putting into the freezer. And probably no surprise to readers, I absolutely HATE sheep/mutton/lamb. It makes my stomach heave at its smell.
Readers... If you're into statistics, here is something for you to work out.
Once a fortnight for 1 year = 26 times, 2 years = 52 times, 3 years = 78 times, 4 years = 104 times. Plus other times when Mum was away in the capital city or at one of her many meetings she attended in the country district, making a minimum of around 110 times I was raped by my father before I blew the whistle on him.
My younger sister was also being raped during the same period of time.
15 years - I blew the whistle on my father at school. I told a girl I knew, just to spite Dad coz he said no one would believe me. He was right there. No one did and it was pushed under the carpet like I was a naughty girl.
I had to tell my mother that same day. I was threatened by the Principal of the school and a religious minister whom I'd never met. They told me I must tell my mother coz they were going to check up on me by ringing her to see if I'd done as I'd been told.
Neither parties rang or followed up as the next day I lied after being hounded and blamed by my mother for the horrid mess I now brought upon the family. How dare I drag our good name through the dirt. You will go to school tomorrow and totally deny all you've said and tell them you lied. It is something to sort it out at home. It has nothing to do with anyone else. To this day, Mum blames me for what Dad did to my sister and I.
Following the whistle blowing, I was in a haze. My father was then on a mission to remove me from the house. He tried to get me a job by the end of year 10, but there wasn't anything going in the local country town. He found me a job in May the following year, just before I turned 16.
I had to then board in the country town, 15 miles from home, so I could work in the retail shop.
In that daze, I suddenly had money in my pocket, something I'd never known previously. The most money I'd ever seen in my hands prior to that was a $10 note, which I had found laying on the ground.
By working in retail, I met travelling salesmen who invited me for a drink or a meal at the local pub. And the end result... I gave them sex.
It wasn't all bad. I was free of Dad's control and loved that freedom. At 16, I suppose I was the happiest I'd been for many, many years and this must have shown in my demeanour.
I met a wonderful guy and began a loving and caring relationship with him. Both of us could see positive outcomes and talk kinda hinted at something great in the future for both of us.
Then one day he took me to his mate's place, who was married to a gorgeous lady and they had 2 or 3 young children and she was pregnant. I mainly felt happiness and joy in that home. I have since remembered there was an unhappy undertone.
That night/next morning at about 3 am, the married man crawled into the house where I was boarding, came into the bedroom where I was sleeping and raped me. I couldn't make a noise coz if I did, I would have been removed from where I was boarding and wouldn't have had anywhere to live. Obviously I blamed myself. I must have encouraged/flirted/done something to make him want to rape me. I desperately tried to wash out and remove his sperm from within me, but a facewasher can't get inside the vagina. I never told my boyfriend his mate raped me.
As I mentioned, I freely 'serviced' the regular travelling salesmen and did so around the same time I was raped. So I'd been having sex with 3 men at once... almost. The boyfriend however, always used a condom.
As fate would have it, I became pregnant. I was 17. When my father found out, he was horrified and reminded me the reason he had intercourse with me was so I WOULDN'T get pregnant.
I had to have an abortion. That decision was made for me by my parents and of course they believed it was to the boyfriend and so he had to pay half the costs of the abortion. No way could I tell my parents about the rape and certainly not the free servicing. I lied again and again to cover my tracks. My boyfriend of course didn't believe it was him. I convinced him it was coz there'd been one accident with a condom and I used it to the hilt. He kinda believed me but didn't at the same time. Obviously he turned on me and didn't want anything more to do with me.
I am still gutted to this day at the pain I bestowed upon this man. He had a great job, car, personality and demeanour and was also a Vietnam Vet. He was my height and loved me for me. It is the only time in my life I've had to openly plan/concoct a lie. The pain it causes to the liar and I presume the recipient, is something I sometimes don't know how to bear. I feel so bad for hurting an innocent man.
Not long afterwards I lost my job in the retail shop for stealing merchandise. No surprises there. I look back now and know I was wanting to be noticed coz I had something to tell. The boss kept the stealing to himself. To my parents, the boss said they were doing staff restructuring.
Dad then went to the next nearest town we were familiar with, which was 35 miles from our farm home.
He got me another job in retail. I had 3 jobs in total in around 2 years. Each time I was asked to leave, it was for stealing merchandise.
The 3rd job was the best. A brand new supermarket had opened and I was given a supervisor role at the age of just 17. I felt fabulous and worked very hard, finding great joy in being appreciated.
In the meantime, I met, fell in love and got engaged to a guy who lived close to the large town. We had many friends. We enjoyed drag races on the highways, getting drunk around campfires in the scrub, going to the drive-in and doing all the things teenages enjoy.
Again, I must have been doing something wrong coz that relationship went onto utter destruction.
One night after work at the supermarket, we'd planned to meet up with the boys at the lake. This is where I was told of their plan for me.
One of the lads was still a virgin and they wanted me to break him in. My fiance said he would go first, then the brothers, then the virgin, then my fiance again. He said it would be OK because he was going first and last.
The breaking in of their mate was to take place on the backseat of my fiance's car in the scrub near where we regularly went as a group of guys and girls. The brothers had girlfriends and I knew them all well.
However, thanks to the virgin, he refused to be a part of the gang rape. He whispered in my ear that he wouldn't/couldn't do it and asked me to keep quiet and he would deal with the blokes.
I was pleased he wasn't willing to follow the crowd.
I hated the rest of the experience, laying in a pool of semen with nothing to clean me up with afterwards. I felt totally gross but had to put on a happy, brave face.
I don't remember a lot about events after that although I got very sick with what was believed to be Glandular Fever. The happiness and joy I'd been experiencing disappeared again that night.
And there's more. Somehow my fiance found out the virgin had lied. So my fiance sent him around to where I was boarding to have a secret sex session so he would be broken in.
Again the virgin refused to touch me. He apologised for putting me through the ordeal and said he must ejeculate this time, but that he would masturbate so it would seem more likely that he'd been broken in. I never heard another thing about that night and as I said before, I was not well for a long time after the event.
I decided there was a need for me to leave the larger town and move to the capital city as I couldn't cope with seeing the brothers and the way I felt they now looked at me. Plus my fiance treated me differently as well. I had to get outta there.
So I moved to the big city and soon afterwards had my priceless coin collection stolen by so called mutual friends whom I now believe were heroin addicts.
Within a year of being in the capital city, I met my first husband and had 2 children to him. He hit me regularly and I even told some people at work, but of course nothing was done. He locked me out of our bedroom on occasions, sometimes in the middle of winter with no blankets and I had to almost sit in the oven to keep warm.
He eventually burnt down his house 3 days after Christmas.
The house was never part of me in his eyes and was solely in his name. He'd stated at the beginning when the house was bought that if it was in joint names then I could fight for half the house if the marriage didn't last. Well the marriage didn't last, especially after he torched the house. I filed for divorce as I had to get outta there too.
The children suffered too. Incest was committed between the 2 children. One of them had a stroke at 19 years of age because of taking umpteen tablets along with many bucket bongs, many E's and loads of alcohol. That child now has short-term memory loss and must be taken by ambulance to hospital everytime an epileptic siezure hits. The person goes into a coma and must obviously be monitored until they wake up. Then, its time to go home.
The other child became hooked on heroin at the age of 12 and stayed on that destructive path till the age of 23 when my child met up with an 'angel' who was willing to take the time and had the money to put my child through the Naltrexone treatment program and have the slow release Naltrexone implants. What a difference that made to my child. There were smiles again and joy in our lives.
After being clean for almost 2 years, my child was tempted with Ice/Speed from a new partner. Destruction followed with them being busted many times for dealing. My child physically attacked me and I had to get a restraining order to protect myself and my 2 younger children... from my 2nd marriage. Eventually the dealing came to an end with them both going to jail. This made my child wake up somewhat and again for a while this child was clean.
But unfortunately it didn't last as my child met and fell in love with a recovering Heroin addict. The HA was on the Methadone treatment and also taking the tablets which they get from the Chemist and put under their tongue... forgotten its name. But instead of taking them orally, my child and partner shot them up. This pair had a child in August 2007 and it was born a Heroin addict. The baby is fine... but are there long term effects?
As this posting is taking a long time to write, I will complete it via another post.
In conclusion of part one, I believe Self Mutilation via Picking At sores, is a symptom of a larger problem of someone very close, Picking At the sore picker, trying to weaken their resolve by continually Picking At them with words until they crack under pressure of frustration. The person of interest in my case, boasts he is the best at breaking people by putting them under pressure which sees them crack/explode/lash out in anger. He thinks it is worthy of a huge laugh and says it is funny to watch the weakened person crash.
Who is or has Picked At you?
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I always did the same thing and the pop is what does it for me. Sometimes I feel like I can concentrate more. Sometimes I am thinking about an issue or something I need to do when I am trying to pop. I also pop the aureolas on my breast. The bumps usually have some liquid in them and this kind of pops. I unfortuanely have created scarring on my face that will no longer heal. I went to a dermatologist and they did some chemical peeling which actually made the scarring worse. Wish I new what the answer was.
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Try Googling "Stereotypic Movement Disorder."
Wikipedia has a brief entry on SMD along with links to more detailed sources of info on its causes & treatment: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stereotypic_movement_disorder
I pick the skin around my fingers. In private, at my scalp and nose too, and like someone already said, pimple popping is way more fun than it should be :-). I used to grind or clench my teeth, which created a really pleasant sensation in my gums (don't even think of trying this if you don't already! it will only lead to jaw pain and possibly dental damage). When I'm around others I'm often tapping my toes or flexing my leg muscles back and forth, rhythmically--somehow its stimulating and engaging, and I feel driven to do it for quite awhile, just tapping or flexing away before the drive sort of fizzles out :-)
I'd like to do less of the skin picking, because it creates bleeding sores around my fingers and I have to wear bandaids sometimes to allow the skin to heal. Also, I can't help but suspect others notice me picking and are a little disturbed about it. I definitely pick more when I'm stressed, so relaxing seems to help.
Wikipedia has a brief entry on SMD along with links to more detailed sources of info on its causes & treatment: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stereotypic_movement_disorder
I pick the skin around my fingers. In private, at my scalp and nose too, and like someone already said, pimple popping is way more fun than it should be :-). I used to grind or clench my teeth, which created a really pleasant sensation in my gums (don't even think of trying this if you don't already! it will only lead to jaw pain and possibly dental damage). When I'm around others I'm often tapping my toes or flexing my leg muscles back and forth, rhythmically--somehow its stimulating and engaging, and I feel driven to do it for quite awhile, just tapping or flexing away before the drive sort of fizzles out :-)
I'd like to do less of the skin picking, because it creates bleeding sores around my fingers and I have to wear bandaids sometimes to allow the skin to heal. Also, I can't help but suspect others notice me picking and are a little disturbed about it. I definitely pick more when I'm stressed, so relaxing seems to help.
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ms. picker...can i jus say how broken hearted i am for your history, no child should ever go thru such horror...only to then witness and take part in their children's related horrors- i do relate to your situation on many levels - and say that im praying for you and yours. you have a gift for written expression and helping others with that - and should do something with that gift - there are a few self-publishing organizations out there. it might help you and others in the process. much love and appreciation...lisa
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