Finally a Name for My Struggle — How the Label “Skin Picking” Helped Me

I still remember exactly how, from early puberty onwards, I would often stand in front of the mirror for hours. It started out harmless: a small blackhead on my nose, a tiny pimple, a bit of oil in a pore. But I couldn’t stop. The longer I looked, the more spots I found. I squeezed, picked, scratched. I slipped into a kind of rush.

And it didn’t stay limited to my face. Over time, what began with my nose spread across my whole face, and eventually my upper arms, nails, legs, even my hair — everything became a target. I could spend minutes, sometimes hours, picking at myself until the skin was raw, until it bled, until scabs formed. Afterwards I looked awful: I was ashamed, in pain, and often left with scars that have stayed with me to this day. For a long time I couldn’t understand why I was doing it, even though I rationally knew I was only hurting myself — especially because I was actually lucky and never dealt with acne or anything like it as a teenager.

The worst part was the feeling that I was “weird.” That I was the only one who did this. I couldn’t explain why I was doing it. It was like a compulsion I didn’t understand — and that made it even worse.

Over the years, it kept changing. At first it was mainly my nose, then it slowly spread across my whole face, step by step. Eventually my upper arms and legs became targets too. For a long time I couldn’t understand why I was doing this — even though, rationally, I knew I was only harming myself. Especially because I was actually lucky: in my teens I never suffered from acne or anything like it.

To this day, I remember a friend from my youth who had rough, bumpy skin since elementary school and suffered a lot because of it. I still remember her saying she would love to get it treated. When I reacted with surprise, she simply said, “Of course — I think flawless skin is pretty much the most beautiful thing there is.” In that moment I felt so stupid, because at the same time I was actively contributing to my own skin having flaws — and I still couldn’t explain why.

Again and again, I tried to “stop.” I thought the right motivation would give me the willpower to finally manage it. Months before my wedding, I swore I would stop — so that on my wedding day I could wear a sleeveless dress without regret and without shame. But even that didn’t work. I simply couldn’t manage to control it long-term. Whenever I made a new resolution, I felt proud at first because I’d held out for a few days. And then I’d fall back into that hole — and in a single “session,” undo all the healing that had happened in the meantime.

The first time I heard the term “skin picking”

At some point I came across a word that changed everything: skin picking. Suddenly there was a name. Suddenly there was a concept that described what I had been doing for years.

And as absurd as it sounds: it was a relief. Finally, I had words. Finally, I knew: I’m not the only one. Other people know this pattern too — it’s been researched, there are studies on it. And most importantly: it’s not something I made up, and it doesn’t make me “freaky.” It has a name.

In a calm moment, I was able to show my partner the articles and studies on the topic and try to explain more clearly why I sometimes disappear into the bathroom in front of the mirror for what feels like forever — and come back out with a battered T-zone. I was able to create more understanding in our relationship and open up the conversation.

Info box: What is skin picking?

 Clinically, it’s referred to as dermatillomania or “Excoriation (Skin-Picking) Disorder.” It belongs to the obsessive-compulsive and related disorders spectrum. Typical is repeated, often compulsive squeezing, scratching, or picking at the skin, nails, or hair — often until visible skin damage occurs. Many people describe it as a kind of trance or rush that can last minutes or even hours. Often there is a desire to stop, and attempts to control it — but it doesn’t last long-term. Afterwards there are often feelings of guilt, open sores, scars, or infections. Most people are surprised to learn that it’s a recognized diagnosis — and that they’re not alone.

Why the label helped me

For me, this label wasn’t a cage — it was a door. It didn’t take away my freedom; it took away my shame. Because suddenly it wasn’t just “my weird behavior,” but something many people share. I could talk about it. I could read about what others experience. I could understand that it isn’t about “lack of discipline” or “being stupid,” but about a real pattern that affects many people.

That didn’t mean my skin picking was gone. But it did mean I felt less alone. I knew: I have language for my suffering. And that made it easier to be gentler with myself.

So what’s left in the end?

In the end, this remains: labels are never purely good or purely bad. They can box us in when we identify with them too strongly — an experience I write about in this article. But they can also do the opposite: they can relieve us, because we finally understand what’s happening to us.

The label “skin picking” gave me exactly that: clarity, language, and the possibility of seeking help in a more targeted way. Suddenly I could read other people’s experiences, connect, and take seriously what used to feel like just a “weird habit.” And that knowledge — that I’m not alone — was my first step toward learning how to live with it.

Of course, over the years I’ve integrated a few strategies, more or less successfully, to reduce my skin picking. If you’re interested, I wrote more about that here.