Maybe
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.