Fumbling Towards 38

November 3: Thick Skin

Jana Schmieding
Nov 4 · 6 min read

Much like a female lead character on a television show where women are actually in the writer's room, my skin is deeply flawed. I’ve always had at least slightly shitty skin and before I continue, I want you, reader, to just relieve yourself of the extraordinary pressure to help me cure my bad skin that you may feel while reading this essay. Having perfect skin is one of the more sinister tentacles on the evil squid that is the European beauty ideal. This is because much like fatness, you’re often either born with good skin or not. And I was not. I’ve dealt with acne for the better part of my life except for this really lovely part of my 20s when, for some mysterious reason, my hormones were in perfect harmony with my body like a white yoga instructor is with her Instagram account. But it didn’t last. Around 34, my low-income body was tired of the hormonal gentrification it noticed happening and decided to fuck some shit up. Mayhem ensued. Breakouts erupted across my jawline and down into my double chin at a rate that was out of my control. It was also a new strain of acne; it was of a more mature pedigree and it knew me too well. This is the acne that I wear every day now as I inch closer and closer to 40. This is the acne that I love to hate, that provides for me a daily adversary and that holds the power of illuminating some of my deepest insecurities every time I look in a mirror.

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You see, not only am I an acne sufferer, but I am also a skin picker. Content warning: I’m about to write in detail about my skin picking. For those of you who are in the 1.4% of the population who also struggle with an excoriation disorder, what’s up! Skin picking is on the OCD spectrum and is considered a Body Focused Repetitive Behavior or a BFRB, and for me, popping, picking at or peeling away the bumpy imperfections on my skin have been some of the most calming-ass, soothing-ass moments of my entire adulthood. I know, listen. The things we do to cope with stress or just our own mental health conditions are truly wild. I’m constantly amazed at how beautifully fucked up we all are. The way my picking has always been with me since I was a young woman is sort of reassuring. Unfortunately, it’s seen by non-pickers as a disgusting habit, like nail-biting or eating tide pods. But I find a lot of comfort and solace in this offensive behavior. And furthermore, if you don’t count me, my picking is not hurting anyone!

Does it hurt? Not really. My skin has toughened to the feeling. It’s almost like my skin longs to be picked in the same way that Carrie forever longs to be treated like an adult woman by Mr. Big. There’s a desperate crush that my fingertips and fingernails have on my body’s skin. The two are super attracted to each other but they’re not a good match. They hurt each other without trying. They go for blood. In more recent years, my acne has been appearing across my face as these ultra-sensitive pencil erasures that embed themselves deep into my epidermis. They don’t excise easily like a whitehead or a teenage pimple. They have roots — ancestry — and no amount of digging ever makes them completely go away. So with over a year of job insecurity and poverty at my back, I take up arms and go to battle with my cystic acne nearly every day. The battleground is most frequently my face. But when the field is literally dotted with the bloodied dead, I often take my sharp-nailed troops down to my chest or up and down my arms. “Pop! Pop! Pop!” One by one, the bad guys fall and I reign victorious. Indeed I am battle-worn but I carry my scars with pride.

I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re like “you need help, lady!” And you’re probably right. Here’s how much of a dickhead I am about my skin: I’ve been to a dermatologist a total of ONE TIME in my adult life and I’m pretty sure it was for a facial. In my defense, I’m scared? I have an extreme aversion to medical professionals because I have internalized through cultural fatphobia and Natives being overly pathologized that everything happening inside of my body is somehow my fault. I am afraid because it’s happened before, that when I go to the dermatologist, they’ll look at my face, curl their mouth judgmentally and ask that painful and exposing question: “Do you pick your skin?” I once received a breast exam from my OBGYN in NYC and when she saw the scabs dotting my breasts, she was alarmed.

“What happened?” she inquired. And I had no choice but to make her feel more at ease by airing my embarrassing mental health condition.

“I have a skin picking disorder,” I told her.

“Oh. I’ve never seen anyone pick their skin on this area,” she responded.

“Neither have I,” I added and then I literally died right then and there and morphed into the ugliest, most lowly evil hag ever to wander the ethereal plain.

Here’s the thing. I recognize that the adult thing to do here would be to address my disorder with a behavioral therapist and come to grips with the fact that I am quite literally hurting myself when I’m stressed, anxious or bored. You see I pick at any and all times of the day. When I’m watching tv, I pick. When I’m putting my makeup on, I pick. When I’m tired and trying to soothe myself to sleep, I turn on my phone’s flashlight and shine it across my body so that I can — you guessed it — pick. Picking is my strange bedfellow. Right now as I write this, picking is my muse! Also, again, picking isn’t making anyone unsafe. I’ve had other abusive disorders in my life with food and with substances but this one isn’t making my insides sick. I recognize that others with this disorder suffer more than I have and that many see picking as either a catalyst and/or a result of extreme anxiety. But I see it as something that gives my messiness a face. And that’s the part that I think makes people shocked.

“Fix that thing you do that makes you look crazy.”

“You have mental problems and I can tell.”

“You don’t take care of yourself. How dare you.”

“Stop picking or you won’t be beautiful.”

All of these responses are the most dangerous result of my picking. Having scabs and scars on my body is somehow an affront to the happy narrative women are expected to constantly cosplay — that nothing is wrong, that we’re doing just fine, that our brains and our bodies are working toward perfection so don’t you dare give us a single damn break! Fuuuuuck that. As a militaristic defense strategy, I’ve started to go without makeup in front of my friends and family more often. I want them to see that even though I can’t afford a behavioral therapist right now or an expensive dermatologist-recommended skincare routine, I’m still an acceptable Jana. Yes, I am a temporarily-struggling Jana. I am a very fucking messy Jana who doesn’t have a job and you can see that on my skin. But I ask you, reader to please not blame me for these transgressions. Instead, point your blame at this shitty fucking culture that white men have developed to ensure that women never for one second feel safe or autonomous or connected or calm. Not even in our own fucking skin.

If you struggle with a BFRB, look into the TLC foundation for support.

Jana Schmieding

Written by

Lakota writer, comedian and educator trying to move the needle for Native representation in pop culture. In a funny way.

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