I remember when my skin started falling off. It was winter, so it wasn’t abnormal for my skin to be dry and flaky, I just needed to use more lotion. But the moisturizers stopped working. My skin was not dry, but scaly sores developed over my body, the most concerning spots were around my face. I would pick at my forehead and temples, scratching off dry skin and leaving dull red nicks that scabbed back over and never healed. Some days I would try to convince myself that a spot looked better than the day before.
I kept taking my pills, but nothing seemed to ever improve.
It was my private shame, but I was able to keep it concealed. That all changed as my condition worsened to the point I could no longer hide it. The next stage escalated from the small dry patches I could gently scrape at with a fingernail to larger chunks that pulled away from my face like perfect puzzle pieces. There was no pain, and no blood attached to the skin. Was I drying out? Blood and all? Under the flesh was just a void. I couldn’t bring myself to push my finger further into the dark hole in my face. Not sure if I was more afraid of touching something or nothing.
I’m falling apart, but I don’t go to the doctor because they would tell me to stop taking my pills. They’d be angry that I didn’t need them for my prescription, just cash.
One day my ear loosened as I brushed my hair. It sagged slightly like its foundation was crumbling. I tried to readjust it, but I couldn’t get it to return to its normal level. I kept comparing angles in the mirror, wondering if anyone else would notice.
As flecks of my shell continued to peel away, I stopped worrying about how to stop the process and moved on to how to cover it up when I left the bathroom. What story should I prepare to use if someone asks me about it?
Someone pounds on the door. “What are you doing in there?” says my dumbass brother, “I have to pee.” I open the door and he pushes past me without waiting for me to leave and begins peeing loudly. He finishes as soon as I close the door and punches me in the shoulder as he walks out, “Wash your hands, asshole.” I hate it here.
I return to the mirror to inspect the day’s decay. I reach to touch a spot under my eye and my left arm falls off. In the same spot my brother had just punched me, my arm cleanly falls off at the shoulder and lands with a dull thud. I stare at the still warm mannequin arm, lying in an L-shape, waving back at me from the floor. I lift my t-shirt sleeve to see a dark empty circle where my arm was attached to my shoulder. I pick up the limp appendage and slide it under the sleeve, it does not reattach. I hold the arm in place. My reflection wonders how long I can keep this up.
“Honey, do you want to play?” My mom’s voice echoes from the other side of the house. They don’t even care about what I’m going through. They’re oblivious to my pain. They couldn’t handle my reality. Screw everyone. I walk out defiantly, ready to shock them with my personal horror. I’ll judge them for their petty disgust, expose their superficial values, and reveal which of us is truly ugly.
My family is playing a board game at the dinner table. My mom looks up happily, “Oh, hi dear, are you going to join us?”
My dad and brother do not look up.
“Do you think you could bear to sit with this freak? Are you ashamed to say you’re even related to me? Too ashamed to even look at me?”
“Of course not, dear. We love you and always will,” says Mom calmly as her eyes return to the game.
“What about now!”
I pull my arm out from under my sleeve and wave it around.
“What about now!” I repeat myself and pause dramatically.
My dad looks at my mom, “Do we have to do this every day?”
Mom nods patiently and pats Dad’s hand, “He has to decide when he’s ready.”
They know.
Mom gives me her default squinty smile, “We love you just the way you are, dear.”
Oh God, how long have I been doing this?
I need help.
