Derma

It's exhausting, this fight to be strong. To wake up from a blissful sleep, only to be hit with the harsh reality that is life. To have the dried blood of the night caked under my fingernails. The smell of iron seems to swell in my room, a constant reminder. The sores litter my body, and the disappointment I experience is incomparable to any other. Dermatillomania is a clever abuser. The only person to blame is me and my hands, their inability to leave me alone. The crime against me is my own, why would anyone sympathize? The psychological pain is equal to the physical pain, both swirling into this big mixing pot of hell. The general consensus of disgust over my disorder stings, more than I'd ever care to admit if it were not done lyrically. Frustration, pain, and shame are all familiar to us dermatilomaniacs. Such a misunderstood disorder makes the coping even harder. Yet I still survive, because it's not just my scar tissue that's tough.