“So I told him what went on in my marriage,” Todd said. “That meant a lot to him, and we built a friendship off of these wonderful conversations.”

The near-divorce from his wife is the thing that pushed Todd to finally take the friend-making plunge, he thinks. In high school, he could easily avoid connecting with other people because he could always go home and play video games. But, he realized, “If I don’t suck it up and find some positive method of dealing with all my needs…I am only going to be able to see my son on alternating weekends.”

When he first explained that, I thought it sounded a little calculating. How would his friends feel, knowing they were the only things standing between him, his wife, and a divorce lawyer? But friendship can be so difficult, and so time-consuming, that maybe this is just what the initial stage looks like: admitting human connection is something you need, like vegetables and water, because it’s good for you. Eventually, you come to like it. Or maybe even to crave it.

The first time I picked my skin until I bled, I was eight or nine, in some horrible after-school center, feeling left out and not sure how to fix the situation. Instead, I grabbed hold of my cuticle and tugged it with the full force of my resentment. When the blood came, it startled me, but it also gave me something to do. I can’t talk right now, I have to go ask for a Band-Aid. No one wanted to talk to me anyway, but they couldn’t have even if they wanted to, since I had an emergency on my hands. Literally.

I’ve done this same thing, mostly subconsciously, ever since. I do it mostly when I’m feeling anxious, but some days I seem to be in a constant state of having just picked, picking, or about to pick my skin. I usually only realize it has happened when I feel a warm trickle next to my nail bed or look down and see red fingerprints on my computer keyboard. Many of my shirts have crimson streaks near the hems, evidence of where I’ve pulled them on or off my body with my mangled fingers.

I realize the irony: when I feel uncomfortable in my skin, I peel it away. I’ve come to realize the embarrassment of picking doesn’t dissuade me from doing it. Instead, it creates an excuse, a reason why things didn’t go the way they should have. It wasn’t my fault, I can say to myself. I was bleeding. Who can function when they’re bleeding?

When my boyfriend picked me up from visiting Deana, I told him to drive me straight to the emergency room. My thumb was oozing, and I could no longer ignore the pain.