Red, Red Hills

Hidden in a room for several hours at a time, I sit alone by the wall picking at my troubled skin. There would be the occasional thought of leaving this safety-net that I call a bedroom, but that would provoke the eyes of others to be drawn to the weeping, scaly patches on my exterior. I've been all familiar with my family, yet I still remain discontent to show my torn face to them, even for meal time. Love, they have for me; as I have much for them. Love can't hide embarrassment, the shame I have for myself and this tormenting disorder that mysteriously haunts me day by day.1

My knees pulled eagerly to my chest, staring at the red patches that had formed on the crevices of my elbows. The raw skin stretched slowly, begging to be thrashed, as I swayed back and forth. I feel liquid streaming down my back; this is not sweat, but the yellowing draining from an afflictive rash. Reaching up to slowly stroke my face, my fingertips skim over the painfully mountainous hills of my chin; I felt the redness, there was no need for any sort of mirror. Pulling my hand away, I glance down to see a glossy residue. Neither confused nor worried, I casually wipe this substance on exposed sheets. These contents were the all too recognizable medication that I had managed to drown myself in earlier that evening.2

I twist my hips in a way that begs to tear my skin. The yellow drainage had dried itself into a disagreeable crust that latched onto my waistband. Slowly, I move the lose fabric away from myself, hearing the infected skin break away angrily. I do not wince or cry out. This was not an incident or rare occurrence, but a day to day coincidence.3

The warmth of the room was no aide in this case. I often demanded a cooler setting, however, a shut door would often enforce heat to gather. I bring together the courage to stand up--raw, delicate skin straining with every flexing movement. As I stumble over to the full length mirror next to my nightstand, I take a long, hard glance at my appearance. My eyes were barely open from the swollen lids; my mouth: slightly parted from the inflamed irritation. I knew I was a painful sight. If I never had a chance to stare blankly at my horrid appearance from time to time, I'd feel just fine. Perhaps the pain was just a buried lie inside my own head?4

And then, for the first time in weeks, the corners of my mouth had turned upward. There I stood, in front of my very own reflection, smirking. Why wouldn't I love myself before? I once hated myself for my own pain, for my own misery--I hated myself because I couldn't imagine what people were thinking when they saw me. Now, I realized that I was one who started it. I hated myself because I believed the unsaid thoughts of others that were heard in my own mind. But now, I've forgiven the manaical dictator inside my mind. I've forgiven the confused stares of others who happened to gaze upon my exposed skin. I've forgiven the red, red hills that had pestered me into hating what I couldn't control during a phase of my life. Though I couldn't always control the unforgivable disorder upon my own flesh and the pain that it inflicted, I could control my own perspective.5

Calmly, I turned around to face the white-painted door by the window. And as I gripped the handle, with a swift motion of the wrist, I pulled the door open. Right now, I had a family. I had an amazing circle of friends. I had an education. I had a life to live.