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My scalp is bleeding to the right of the crown of my head, and I don’t know why.
In middle school, I used to pick my scalp until it bled because I always needed something to pick. I also picked at the tiniest of scabs and even acne. I picked at my cuticles until they bled. I bit my nails constantly. While everyone told me to stop it, I couldn’t. It was something that I sometimes didn’t even realize I was doing until I felt the pain of success. You know, prying the scab off and feeling blood on my hand or my head or wherever. And then there was the wave of regret. It hurt to wash my hair because the shampoo would get in all the little wounds. And I couldn’t remove nail polish from my fingers without immense pain. Washing my face with astringent was a nightmare of “FUCK” and “SHIT THAT HURTS LIKE A MOTHER.”
Then somewhere along the line, I just stopped. It wasn’t because anyone urged me. I guess I just found better things to do than pick at scabs and acne and cuticles and my scalp and bite my nails. Hard to imagine, I know. Something better to do than pick.
So that’s why it was unsettling to run my fingers through my hair and feel blood on my fingers. And now, when I run my fingers through my hair, I feel scabs forming. I just wonder how they got there, because I gave up that habit a while ago and I don’t plan to start it up again.
Anyway, I’m getting too confessional. I’m home from the beach. I’ll write about strangers’ bodies tomorrow.
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