Okay, screw it, I’m totally lost as to what to do here.
I pick at my eyelashes. All the time. It’s my nervous habit, my bored habit, my distracted habit, my daydreaming habit, my unconscious habit, my "Hmm, how do I explain to people about the eyelash-picking… what to say, what to say…" habit. If I’m sitting on the couch or at my desk or in a screening, or even at a freaking meal or at church, odds are I am, I have, or I am about to reach up and twiddle my eyelashes on my forefinger or with my thumbnail. Sometimes I will even do both eyes at once, with my left hand — thumb on left set, ring finger on right set, blinking furiously into my flesh. It’s not pulling them out; it’s bending, crinkling, crunching, and ultimately, speck by speck, breaking.
This is messed up.
Well, fine, so on The Freaky Shit Scale, this doesn’t even really rate. It’s just a dumb fiddly habit, but I REALLY want to break it. Desperately, in fact. I know right now my eyelashes are growing back, but what if one day they don’t? They’re all different lengths. I bet I’m capable of having long eyelashes all across, but in the middle they’re as short as my lower lashes (which are longish by the standard, but still not long enough to be actual EYELASHES), and on the edges my lashes are slightly longer, but the effect is totally uneven. And it’s probably not that noticeable, but I notice, and the lady who did my makeup for the Grammy thing we did noticed (in a kind way), and really, I need to stop picking at my effing eyelashes.
In fact, I just paused, and up flew my hand to my face. STOP IT, hand.
My mother used to say, "Think eyebrow, not eyelash." That was ten years ago. That obviously was not the fix, although I admire the effort, and anyway, should I be pulling out my eyebrow hair? Granted back then, I had a lot more of it, and a brow-pulling fetish might’ve come in handy and saved on some waxing fees. But, we cannot go back, only forward, and no, dammit, I don’t really want to pull on my eyebrow hair.
I wonder why I have this eyelash obsession. I can’t really pinpoint what it is. It’s not really fun. It’s not exciting. It’s not an adrenalin rush. It’s not attractive. It’s not secretly going to make me rich (well, unless somebody wants to pay me loads of money to quit my job and be their lab rat in a totally safe, non-toxic environment, in which case, I totally take checks). When I was younger, I remember sitting there folding over the ends of my lashes between two fingers unti they were all crinkled, and then I’d run them under my finger nail and then pull the nail away and feel it catch on my lashes.
That’s lame, you guys. I felt like I was in the middle of a funky fetish film just writing that last sentence. I don’t do that thing now, but I’m clearly still kneading and picking and folding. How did this start? What the hell is up with that shit? Couldn’t I be obsessed with laundry instead? Could I be folding my sweaters, and not my eyelashes? Cruel, cruel fate!
Plus, let’s not ignore that I have a phobia of bad things happening to eyes, so my fingers have NO BUSINESS being all up in my ocular grill.
How do I quit? I can’t paint something disgusting over them, like you (theoretically) can if you want to quit nail-biting. And I can’t really wear sunglasses all day. Or a blindfold. Should I rotate an eyepatch all day, thus creating a temporary blocker to half my lashes at a time? Should I flog myself? Lop off the offending digit? I can’t afford to pull out any hair (more on THAT little drama later — I am upset with my hair). And my nails, well, we already have a tenuous relationship at best. I could try to bite them at all times, to keep my hands busy and thus alleviate the fear that I will break off all my lashes one day, but "save the lashes by murdering the nails" seems like a bit of a pyrrhic victory.
Any advice out there for a freak like me?