Commit Me

'I said commit to me.'
Daily Prompt: Commit

Would Someone Please Commit Me

Lock me up, throw away the key
Give me a bed and let me sleep
A padded room, with no one else
No clock, No Time, all by myself

No dishes, laundry, dirty dogs
No work, alarm, long backlogs
No calendar, watch or loud cellphone
No t.v., radio, leave me alone
No pants, no bra, leave me naked I can bare it
No need for binding, or straight jacket

Just leave me be, in silent bliss
The maddening world I will not miss
Just shut the door and let me free
Would someone please commit me

 

 

 

Excoriation – Understanding My Skin Picking Disorder

Since I was a kid I always had the “bad habit” of picking at my sores. It was a compulsion that I didn’t understand, I just knew I did it and in result I would get peroxide or alcohol (whichever was available) doused over my raw areas to keep them from getting infected.  My mom used to tell me “your going to get infantigo!”  I figured this was bad but never had any idea what it meant. So at a young age I started creating scars on my arms and legs.  You can only imagine what a severe case of the chickenpox’s did to me! My desire never really went away, my focus later changed to nail biting and cuticle biting and pealing.  I thought this was normal behavior as well, just another “bad habit”.  One my mom would tell me “your going to get worms!”.  Again, it sounded gross but my compulsion was stronger than my moms words.

As an adult in my late 30’s I had a minor mental  breakdown that resulted in a diagnosis of Bi-Polar II, OCD and social anxiety. The more I learn, I realize this is a common cocktail of problems for a lot of people.  During my breakdown I used outbursts of rage to expel my feelings and experience release and control.  Not the best medicine I can tell you that!  But after I was properly medicated and the tornado inside of me came to a low churn and I was no longer angry, I had no outlet for my anxiety (which even with medicine does exist). I noticed I was picking again. A grown woman, picking her sores! Grow up!

I think what I have experienced is that medicine takes care of the major swings, keeps the extreme anxiety, depression and OCD tenancies at bay, but there is still a lot left to behavioral modification and self control.  I have never had a drug/alcohol, smoking or any other type of addiction, but I understand the undeniable, uncontrollable urge that it takes with every ounce of your being to talk yourself out of giving in.  It’s a mental battle that I often lose.

So now i’m 42 and over the past year the picking has gotten worse. I have accounted it to the amount of stress in my life with one of my daughters going to college, a new job, and life in general.  It has gotten to the point where my arms and wrists are a plethora of open wounds and gnarly scars, and thanks to pesky mosquitoes assisting me in opening new wounds they are also on my legs now as well .  It got so embarrassing that I actually wore gloves at work trying to keep from picking at them and also using that as an excuse to hide them from people that may not understand. I try make-up on them, which never works, I wear long sleeves in the summer, and I am terrified of what people will think at the public pool, or even the Walmart cashier when she sees me hand my money over. It’s embarrassing and just plain gross.

Another thing that I experience is what I call “phantom itching” which in my case is directly anxiety related . There are no bites, no topical reasons for the itch, yet it gets in my head and I cannot control the desire to scratch.  I experience an itch that is so deep under the skin that it’s impossible to satisfy, resulting in scratching layers of skin off to try and reach it.  Sometimes wrenching my hands and feet will sooth it, but often times I just have to compulsively itch it until I feel that it’s gone, leaving “rub burns” and open areas to later pick at.  Seriously, who can ignore the most annoying thing in the world, to have an itch where you can’t scratch it.

The act of picking to most people is absolutely disgusting, painful and they avoid it at all costs.  For me, the compulsion comes in a few of different ways. ONE: I mindlessly search my arms and legs while I am preoccupied watching t.v., talking to someone or driving in the car.  I don’t even realize I am doing it, I find a nice easy scab that is raised off of the skin and without even acknowledging my behavior I pick it off and end up in a bloody mess. There is no purpose to this other than “idol hands do the devils work”.  TWO: This one is directly anxiety related, if I am under a lot of stress and can’t seem to get release, I will close myself in the bathroom and literally pick every thing I can find. Not only does the amount of pain it brings “hurt so good”, but the letting of blood makes me FEEL better. It lets out a relief that allows me to calm down and regain control (man, this sounds really sadistic). The THIRD thing is directly OCD related, when I come across a scab that isn’t easily accessible. Generally it’s deeper in the skin, with no raised edges. It’s like a challenge that I cannot turn down.  I become hyper-focused on picking it out.  Not because i’m stressed, but merely due to the obsession. I have gone to great lengths, such as using tools, needles, tweezers, or any other objects that will help accomplish my mission. These generally hurt a lot, but pain does not seem to bother me while I am this focused.  After I finish the dirty deed, these tend to the be my “go to” sores for weeks to follow, making it very difficult to heal, and leaving the worst scars.

In a less intrusive but still very aggravating compulsion that has the same release is choosing certain areas of my body and over cleaning it.  Not my whole body, and I’m not a germa-phobe but I will get in my head that this area is not clean enough and I will rub it until its raw, which feels SO good at the time, then soon after I regret.  The more irritated it is, the more I want to scrub, it feels good, then bleeds, then hurts like hell creating a vicious cycle.

I have recently done some research and found articles on this disorder called Excoriation (see link below).  It was very interesting to read and be able to FINALLY have something that described EXACTLY what I was experiencing. Its in the OCD family of issues, but it’s classified as Skin picking disorder – a type of repetitive “self-grooming” behavior called “Body-Focused Repetitive Behavior”(BFRB). Other types of BFRBs include pulling or picking of the hair or nails that damages the body.

If you experience any of these issues, you may want to research and learn why you do what you do. I am not at the top of the scale in this compulsion, but nonetheless, it’s damaging to my skin, my confidence and my social interaction with the general public and even my family.

So if you happen to see me or someone else, and wonder “geesh is that person on meth?”, which people laugh and say to me all of the time, consider it might be a disorder that can’t be easily controlled and there is more to the story than you realize.

http://www.webmd.com/mental-health/skin-picking-disorder#1

 

 

 

 

Never Again

shoulder to shoulder
chest to chest
breath on breath
sweat on sweat
forced movements forward and backward against my will
can’t see anything but the ceiling, not even my shoes
flashing lights, yelling, sour smells
no exit through the wall of bodies
elbows gouging, feet stomping, heads thrashing
assult from all sides
so damn loud its deafening
the only escape is behind my eye lids
i’m all alone I tell myself
breath I remind my lungs
I create a bubble around me in my mind
and when the music stops
I fight my way out of the crowd
it was a mash-pit panic attack
never again.

 

My Happy Place

Sitting on my deck, vast and beautiful. My happy place.
The air is humid and hot and thick. A bead of sweat builds and trickles down my cleavage.
The sun is bright, almost unbearable, the grass so vibrant I can hardly look at it. I shade my eyes from it’s glare, closing them even. I don’t need my eyes to tell me it’s beautiful.
The lazy dog lies at my feet uninterested in any exertion of energy, as am I. He lies without a worry in the world. This must be why they call it the dog days of summer.
A wasp circles overhead, doing whatever it is that wasp do? I have no idea and I couldn’t care less, just leave it be and hope it gives me the same courtesy.
The birds are squawking insistently, communicating to the others in near by trees.  The gossip goes on for hours. Do they ever tire of something to talk about?
A breeze stirs, just enough to rustle the leaves and give me a moment of relief from the swelter. Then it calms, the the air thickens again.
I have air conditioning inside the house. Relief just through those doors. I could go in and be cool and comfortable in the artificial air and sit on my cozy couch. But inside there are chores to be done, people calling me mom and honey, a television blaring some radical cartoon character that only yells his words when he speaks, and lunch to be made.
No, I think I will sit here. In the heat, and the blazing sun, with my lazy dog. I will relax my muscles to the point of wondering if I still have feeling in my body, I will soak up the rays on my skin, enjoy the sweaty trails running down my body as it soaks through my clothes. The world can live without me for a little while longer.  Right now, I am in my happy place and carefree.

 

 

 

Struggle Between the Sheets

between the sheets

Slipping between the silky sheets
bare skinned and anticipating
that intimate moment we all long
the satisfaction that will soon swallow us whole
the soft rising and falling of our breath
and just when you’re about there, in bliss…..

you’re RUDELY awakened!
moments away from sleeping climax
the sheets get STRIPPED from your body
it becomes a full game of tug-o-war
struggling to steel a corner back
he’s wrapped like a burrito
he lays like a rock
fighting against his 200 lb body
as he snores peacefully
all of his parts warm and cozy
while you lay exposed
naked, cold and sleepless.

The struggle between the sheets is real folks,
don’t let it happen to you.

Smooth Moves

I knew we had something real. I even knew that we were breaching that scary line where “like” meets “love”. We spent every waking minute together possible and a lot of that time was hanging out with his rowdy family, giving me new experiences everyday (some that my parents worked my whole life protecting me from) most of them just honest to goodness simple fun!

He was so crazy and made me laugh at his total commitment to physical comedy no matter how ridiculous he looked. He was real and honest and it was refreshing. Not to mention utterly hot! That bleach blonde hair, those broad shoulders and arms that were built by carrying lumber and swinging a hammer…and the legs…those glorious legs…so long………………sorry I lost myself for a moment.

He loved cars and music and everything that combined the two. He took me places that smelled like oil and fuel and somehow made it fascinating! He was rough around the edges, untamed by a woman’s heart and at times frustrating and unruly. But it was all part of the grand package. A package that made me dangerously teeter the line.

That day…no, that moment, when I fell hopelessly, willingly and completely. The tight rope that I clung to in order to make sound decisions and keep my guard up was swept out from under me so fast my head spun. It was so simple and so sweet, I never saw it coming.

Here we are in a room packed with people lining the walls awaiting their turn at the table or simply observing and cheering on their favorite shooter. Country music played on the stereo as it did every time I was there, I assume it was never actually turned off considering the house never really slept.

I stand with my back against the wall, my foot kicked back propping me up and sporting my little summer dress that I know drives him crazy as it hugs my curves nicely. I saw one of the other players take notice as well but it didn’t phase me. My eyes were glued to the misty blues gazing back at me across the table. That smile….oh that smile.

The stereo music was mindlessly rotating songs that we all knew, some caused the whole room to break out into a medley of horribly off key singing that was fantastic! But then “the song… that song” came on. Know one payed any mind, the conversation never paused. But somehow I didn’t hear them. In fact, the room cleared and it was just us, gazing at each other. And he was singing softly. It took me a second to hear the song. It wasn’t even the song at first that was so special, it was his eyes as he sang it. It was his mouth as the words came out with so much emotion and sincerity. The melody spun the room and made my heart explode. I knew, at that strange moment that my heart was his. As George Jones gave the background melody and that beautiful man in the room sang the words…”you’re as smooth as Tennessee Whisky, you’re as sweet as strawberry wine….you’re as warm as a glass of brandy and I stay stoned on you’re love all the time”……I lost myself wholly.

Twenty years later as me and that beautiful misty blue eyed man hold hands while driving down the road, and good ol’ George Jones pours out of the radio, my heart melts, I am back in that room falling in love all over again.

Rambling Thoughts

A trapped beetle in a jar
Light shines through the lid of the universe


The hands on the clock slows
Tick—-Tock—-Tick—-Tock
The old mans face is worn with time
The clock stops
The man is no more


A smile across a crowded room
Confirmation of worthiness
Confidence inspires thought
A stranger changed the world


Waiting for a message
words without pictures
paints the world with brighter futures
will I get the job?