Maybe

Fri, 01/31/2014 - 20:30 -- praline
A strand of hair 
derived from my scalp 
is detected by my two brown eyes,
the color a reflection of both.
 
My vision blurs 
as a sea of unwanted memories 
surging in my mind 
blocks my sight,
trying to revive itself,
trying to make me remember.
 
And it succeeds 
as a flood of recollections
of all the embarrassment 
and pain flows inside of me,
the familiar feel of hair
plucking out I sense.
 
I recall the shame felt
as my reflection in the mirror
stared back at me
as I saw the shortage
of hair on my head
everyday.
 
I look back on
the same remark
of how little hair I had 
thrown at me 
unknowingly hurtful 
and my response,"I know."
 
I see the days 
when I longed to have 
each and every one 
of those thin strings gone,
to have them shaved off
so that I could halt 
all those feelings
bottled up inside me
so that I could ultimately 
stop myself from ruining 
the only thing I had,
myself.
 
It took several years 
to understand 
to even notice 
what was wrong with me.
 
I had always thought 
it was a special habit,
something that made me different.
But I guess I was just 
different in another sense.
A kind of different 
that was detrimental and shameful.
 
The day I discovered my condition
was a surprise
but not a pleasant one.
I felt incredulous 
and utterly horrified 
as I was shown a video 
of a person like me,
fearing what would happen 
to me and saying,
"I think I have it."
 
Continuous and vigorous research
on the matter followed
and proved me right 
as I found out 
it was indeed true.
 
Frantic, I looked for ways
of recovery and treatment 
but instead of ceasing,
it continued and 
if it even could,
worsened.
 
I looked at 
the multiple brown locks
separated from my head
by my compulsive urge
even though my mind
was telling me to stop
but my hands were 
stubborn and relentless.
 
I recollect
the days that 
I inspected each hair
determined to find one 
that was out of place
that was curly
to the point where
my eyes and hands
were weary and sore.
 
But I remember
all that work and languor
was worth it
as a rush of 
satisfaction and relief
ran up my spine 
when the task was done.
 
Before, I even had a story 
for my incessant urge
that I believed to be true
but it was said 
that it didnt happen.
 
Throughout the years,
I suppose i couldnt 
and still cant distinguish 
the difference, the line, 
between reality and fantasy 
that all memories could be 
just fanciful dreams 
that seem real, that seem true,
a delusion begging to stay,
never intending on going away.
 
As I struggled through this period 
of discovery and realization,
I found out the bitter
truth and reality 
of the saying 
of pulling your hair out
because of stress or anxiety.
 
I had planned 
on seeking help
but ended up not needing it.
I recovered somehow 
and didnt even realize
I had stopped until later.
 
That 16-letter word 
still lingers in my head,
a souvenir of that period of time,
still makes me uncomfortable
and still haunts me to this very day.
 
I'm not sure what I learned from this.
Maybe I can get through difficult times.
Maybe I can achieve anything on my own.
Maybe I only need myself.
Maybe I am my own enemy
but also my one and only savior.

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