Standing Out

I sat alone, struggling. My hands reached to free a defiant hair on the back of my head and the surging relief of doing so was short-lived. I had done it again. I had pulled out another hair.

“Why am I so hopeless?” I muttered angrily to myself, whispering rapidly to execute another habit. I squeezed my hands, sat on them, but I couldn’t shake off the urge to pull out another hair. This time, my hand slipped stealthily from its place of confinement and crept towards my eyebrow, just to have the satisfaction of plucking. For a moment, I paused to admire my handiwork, and then stopped. I had messed up again!

“They tell me that it isn’t hard to stop pulling hair or break habits, but that’s easy for them to say! They aren’t different! They’re normal! They’re who I wish I was.” My focusing habit began, as my hands scrambled to hone in on my various problems. As the habit wore off, I jerked my hands rapidly two more times each. Frustrated, I paused, making high and then lower screeching sounds. No matter how I tried to get rid of my habits and other problems, nothing worked. Things just kept popping into my head, like a song that you can’t stop hearing over and over and over again in your mind.

I reached for another hair subconsciously, pulling it out and relishing the feeling. After a while of routinely ripping hair from my scalp, I began to realize what I was doing. Angry and self-conscious, I punched myself several times, trying to force the odd notions away.

What can I do? I felt helpless in my own skin, let alone in front of other people. It didn’t seem possible to ever fix what was wrong with me or even get it under control. When my parents first researched my conditions, they were shocked to learn that many other children and adults, just like me, struggled throughout the world with trichotillomania and tic disorders. If there were so many of us, then why wasn’t there a cure? I couldn’t help but think bitterly, none of them are in my school, so no one truly understands me.

I’ve noticed that I pick a lot when I’m stressed out. I probably have picked another gaping hole in my head by now, yet another thing to be teased about when I go back to school tomorrow on Thursday.

Sometimes when I stop thinking about my own problems, I think of Jeanne. She’s changed a lot ever since we confronted Jack at Brianna’s house, although I’d never tell her this. It really makes me feel good that she actually cares about me and has made significant strides to becoming a better sister. Other than Cindy and kind of Sara, she’s all I have right now.

I guess I forgot to mention that I somehow got myself into detention with Mr. Ashworth. He thought that I was being rude by muttering in his classroom. He probably surmised that I was mocking him with my involuntary sounds.

Luckily for me, when Mr. Ashworth called my house number to alert my parents, they couldn’t pick up because they were at work. He grumbled a voice message, but with all of the deep-throated growls he made into the phone, I’m not sure that anyone would be able to understand him.

After grabbing himself coffee and leaving me in his room alone for twenty minutes, he came back, ready to interrogate me.

“Why did you disrupt my class?” He bellowed.

“Did no one inform you of my personal conditions that got me confined in the Special Needs classroom?”

“Of course, they did! What does that have to do with mocking me?”

I sighed. This was going nowhere, fast. “I have a muttering vocal tic that I do involuntarily. I meant nothing by it.”

He looked suspicious. “Of course you’d say that. Trying to escape detention from old Mr. Ashworth, aren’t you? It’s not going to be that easy.”

“Yes, sir,” My voice bubbled with exasperation.

His eyes narrowed. “I’m going to choose to believe you, Mya. But you better not do this again or it’s back to Special Needs for you. Now go. I want to leave this room so I can refill my coffee.”

I realized that I got off easy just because he cared about his beverage so much, but I couldn’t shake off an uneasy feeling as I left the room, backpack slung over my shoulders. I knew that I couldn’t afford to screw up again, but how? I don’t try to do most of my habits, they just happen.

As I made the long trek back to my house, no school bus to transport me, I prayed that my parents weren’t back yet. If they are, I have a lot of explaining to do.

Fortunately, as I opened the navy blue door to my house and stepped inside, the only one who greeted me was my cat, Opal. My parents were not home yet. I sighed with relief. I was going to be okay. No one was going to ever know about this.