Destroying My Skin at Thanksgiving
Can you enjoy a delight that is sick? Can an arguably masochistic pleasure be a delight? I have had acne and ezcema since my days in middle school, that appalling time of ravaging hormones, years of scars and betraying photos to prove it. Many years later, it still troubles me, and there are habits that in a way ensure its continued presence. Pick, pick, pick. Every whitehead needs to be eradicated because I have no patience. And the act of doing so, of digging my nails into the white mountain and seeing it erupt, is so delightful. A disgusting delight. So gross, I cringe in my revel of it. And yet the urge is strong, even when I know I have created more scars because I didn’t have the patience to let them heal. I didn’t have the patience to let people see me as I am, putting too much power in these little mountains. They took so many people’s attention away from my eyes. Perhaps the delight is in hoping they don’t see the scars. I only know how to answer the itch, with more scars. But perhaps, the delight is in the moments when they do see the history of damage, and still think I am beautiful.