Derma

Fingertips still sore from cutting my nails, I hold the mirror up to study my face.

I can't go longer than a day without picking my skin. Pulling my hair. Scratching my scalp until there's blood on my hands.

It's not my fault. It's not the medication. I've done this for years before I even found out what it was. Naturally, nobody thought of it as a problem, as a compulsion, as a disorder.

It was just a bad habit. And I was being stubborn about breaking it. I could stop at any time, my parents tried to convince me.

The doctor saw me pulling my hair when my mom brought me in for depression. I already knew that I had trich, and he could only mumble that word as if he didn't consider my problem to be serious enough.

The next visit to the doctor, he acknowledged the sores across my face, my legs, my arms, and my scalp. He told me just to try to stop picking.

I can't, though. If I could, believe me, I would have done it long ago. I would have stopped before I even realized that I had this problem.

Fingertips still sore from cutting my nails, so short that I drew blood several times, I put down the mirror.

I can't look at myself anymore.