I have watched anxiety change my life in more ways than one. It started when I was extremely young, with a stress relieving technique I used. Once my mother noticed me doing it and tried to correct it, I knew it was something that was not normal and if I wished to continue, I would have to do so in a secret. I have recently learned that this disorder has a name: excoriation disorder. For as long as I can remember, picking has calmed me down. Whether I was picking at scabs or, more frequently, my scalp, it has always been one small thing that made me feel in control. At the same time, it is the one thing that has plagued me with shame. This constant and sometimes unbearable urge to dig at what I felt where imperfections, to slowly pick apart my body.