disorders ✦ a.i

one

Utterly displeased.

The two words that thoroughly explain how I feel when the familiar wash-over of humiliation, hurt and remorse decide to take a toll on me.

Like right now, for instance.

I'm in the gradual process of packing up my belongings and slowly - but surely - readying myself for what is about to come.

What I'm trying to get at is that today is the day I'm being sent to a therapy center for people like me.

Why, may you ask?

Well, when I was younger - the age of ten, to be more specific - I found out I had been diagnosed with a condition called Tritchotillomania.

Tritchotillomania, as it's explained, is a disorder that affects you to pull out body hair, whether it'd be from your scalp, underarms, legs, eyebrows - or even in unpleasant cases - pubic hair.

The condition, itself, is truly a pain; physically, mentally and emotionally. I just can't seem to rid myself of it. It's almost as if it's attached to my whole being, in some sort of way.

Permanently attached.

I haven't found a cure. Not yet, at least. My mum has even brought me to a few specialists throughout my adolescent years, but they didn't particularly provide that much help, persay. There was one thing that they did provide me with, though, despite my mum's unruly protests.

A supply of medication.

The medications weren't the basic  bubblegum or grape-flavoured liquid medicine, either. They were tablets far too large to be swallowed whole - too large for such a petite child, like me, to handle.

But I guess it wouldn't of made a difference for me anyway, because, in reality, the things I would swallow on the daily when I was younger made a precise comparison to those pills.

Nevertheless, my mum was still tentative about giving me such pills, because, quite frankly, the amount of substance in one pill of that size meant it was possible for me to overdose; and that was the last thing she wanted her ten-year-old daughter to do.

Not only that, but she wasn't going to allow me to consume so many tablets that I would become too affiliated with drugs and end up an addict or some other nonsense.

So, in result, she me inhibited me from taking the pills and returned the unopened prescription back to the specialist, demanding a refund, plus an alternative.

The specialist then gave her one more solution, which was quite dry, if you ask me.

His exact words were: "The only possible substitute I can give you right now is to wait a while and see if the condition wears off. If it fails to do so, then I'm afraid I cannot provide any further alternatives. Though Tritchotillomania is meant to wear off over time, some are unlucky. Let's just hope your daughter is one of the lucky ones."

It's been five years since then, and I can assure you that absolutely nothing has changed.

But, luckily, my mum continued to seek for more options that could be helpful for my case. It took her quite a while, but after about four direct years of searching, she came across a solution - more-so an advertisement - online, informing about a therapy center for young adults. It provides them, supposedly, with a vast amount of opportunities and care for all with disorders. And, to say the least, mum was more than excited when she found out about it, and, within a blink of an eye, I was enrolled into it.

"You almost done?"

I avert my attention - away from the few bags stuffed with a majority of my belongings - to my mum that is leant against the doorway. I notice she's wearing a half-hearted smile, with an item tucked inbetween her slightly-chapped hands. Curling my lips into my mouth in content, I hum slightly and nod a quick nod.

"This is for the best, you know. It pains me to see you so upset - it really does - but this is our only option at the moment. Give me some credit, Ore. I've been searching for help for five years, and, look, I found something worthy."

I begin to gnaw at the inside of my cheek, a single tear brimming at the corner of my eye. I quickly swallow to prevent any more liquid from blurring my vision. "I understand that and I appreciate what you've done. But I just don't want to go - it's such a long time. I'm willing to get help, but I'll miss you too much."

"Three months, Ore; it's only three months. We can call, text, facetime - hell, we can even set up visitation. You'll be fine, just don't worry too much. And I'll miss you a whole lot more. But, like I said, there are many ways for us to contact each other. It's the twenty-first century, for christ-sakes. The possibilities are endless."

After hearing such a statement, I immediately find myself grimacing - mainly at her choice of words in the last sentence - but, nonetheless, I send a curt nod in approval. I'm simply letting her know that I'm ready for a change. "I guess you're right. I love you."

"I love you too. Now, we have a long drive, Ore, so stop fucking around and move it."

She turns on her heel, about to descend from the room, until she comes to a sudden halt. In almost an instant she whirls back around to face me once more. "I almost forgot to give you this. Here."

Tossing me the object that was once closed tightly in her hand, I make a quick reflex to catch it. I almost miss, though. Almost.

Exhaling a short breath along with a chuckle, my hands wrap around something solid but quite lumpy. I open my hands, allowing the object to breathe and glance down to take a look at what my mum brought me.

A quiet scoff leaves my throat and I find myself contorting my eyebrows in sheer displeasure.

It's a . . . stress ball.

I give it a gentle squeeze and shake my head a bit, carelessly tossing the ball onto my bed. I shift a glance upward to question why she would give me such a thing, but a frown soon forms on my lips when I notice she's already long gone.

This is ridiculous.

Within the next few dragged-on minutes, I finish packing the last of my necessities and, absentmindedly, zip up the three brimming duffel bags in a quick motion. I then plop down onto the bed lazily, simply ignoring the fact that I'm most likely crushing a number of items inside the duffels, and release a long, overly dramatic sigh through pursed lips.

In all honesty, I have more significant things to worry about right now, like being treated at a therapy center - across the country, might I add - with God knows how many patients that are diagnosed with similar and/or even more drastic conditons than me.

To say all of this is nerve-wracking would be a subtle understatement.

But I guess it's just something I have to deal with, saying as I do have a disorder myself. And the therapy center is where people like me belong.

It's where I belong.

++

hi hi hello so yes ik it took me 293939292+ years to update but i'm here!!

i hope you all enjoyed this first chapter and ily sm!

stay sexy x

♡ please don't be a silent reader ♡