Note: This chapter was exceptionally difficult for me to write, written on the most personal and deep level I have touched yet with this story. Up until now, none of these things in the story have been easy to come to terms with, let alone talk about or even write about. But channeling my feelings through a character in whom I can relate to on some levels makes it all the more easy to be able to open it without and reveal who I am through the stories and how I feel without ever having to expose myself. This story has encouraged me to reach out of my comfort zone and reach things I didn't know were possible. I'm thankful to everyone who has read my compilation of mini stories in this one big one, and am comforted to know that there are other's out there who can relate. With anxiety, truly all we want to hear are the beautiful words, "what do you need to help you?" being said with sincerity, and being shown that they're are people out there to talk to! Please find that buddy or adult you trust, PM me, anything, but please know that you are NOT alone in this world! God Bless and thanks for reading!
-XXX-
Carly busily roamed around her room, shaking out Sam's dusty clothing from the floor in front of Carly's coffee table and couch which she had in the last few weeks made her home. She never was bothered by the fact that it looked like she caused Carly's room to look as if a tornado swept through it, and she often tripped in the dark on her way to the bathroom at night, falling with her arms out to catch herself on top of her dirty clothes pile scattered on the ground before her.
Carly stirred restlessly at night, basking in the stench she could no longer take there, losing her patience with Sam's lazy and filthy habits, and today was the day that Carly would take the initiative to do it herself, no longer being able to stand living in a pigsty.
As she bends down, she wraps her arms snuggly around her clothes and lifts them, catching clothes falling from her arms onto her feet as she turns her head to the side, exhaling only through her nose in disbelief that Sam or more specifically her clothes, could emit such an odor. She carelessly tosses it into the laundry basket in her closet, sliding the door closed with her foot.
She hesitantly lifts Sam's pillow from the couch, sliding the dirty and greasy case from it and tossing it to the side before lifting the pillow, expecting to find dried rib bones, and a stain from her red sauce ruining the snowy wide fabric of it. But what Carly found rather horrified her. Beneath the pillow and squeezed between the cushions on the back of the couch, a small bag with light blonde hairs all bundles into a dust bunny like ball lay crumpled inside.
"What the jack?!" Carly exclaims, looking around to see if Sam had returned, and when the coast was clear, she rearranged Sam's bed and took the bag with her, stuffing it secretly under her pillow for later inspection and questioning. Despite Sam's pleas for Carly not to intervene, Carly had to show a therapist.
'Again, maybe I shouldn't...' Carly decides, realizing the embarrassment it could induce.
Carly takes the bag back out for further inspection, sliding her laptop open and searching every possible phrase she could to find somewhat of an answer that matched Sam's peculiar new obsession.
'Why do I pull my hair when i'm bored?' She types from the viewpoint of Sam, beginning to scroll through the search page.
"Nothing…" She sighs exasperated, backspacing to clear the search.
Carly clicks her tongue, thinking of what to type as she restlessly taps her fingers on the keys, lightly enough so not to make random letter appear in the search.
'Rubbing pulled hair from my scalp on my lips…' She tries again, only to fail.
'Hair pulling habits/disorders.' She types confidently before becoming pleased with some of the results.
"Overcoming Trichotillo-wait, what?" Carly reads aloud before clicking.
'Trichotillomania, (Trick-o-Tillo-Mania) is a compulsive cognitive behavior disorder of pulling one's hair out, including from the scalp, arms, legs, and other areas in which hair may grow. Individuals tend to inspect the hair or search for the "Perfect" hair to pull, and may feel relief from pulling the hair. They may also rub the hair on their lips, taste the hair, look for and pull the cuticles, and potentially eat the hair, causing possible gastrointestinal discomfort…'
"...Caused or usually triggered by anxiety." Carly finishes reading aloud, feeling guilty for her lack of understanding.
"Carly?" Freddie knocks on her door, startling her from her research.
"Nothing!" She calls suspiciously, earning a curious look from the eager brown haired boy, coming to check on her before the show.
Freddie smirks with suspicion, smiling at Carly with amusement as he sat next to her on her bed, sliding her laptop to his lap, and opening it back up.
"What is that?!" He exclaims in horror of the images that appear.
"I'm doing this for Sam and I knew that's how you'd react so of course I didn't want you to know." She sighs.
"What do balding people have to do with anything?"
"It's called Trichotillo-something. It's where people have the compulsion to pull out their hair."
"Why would she, let alone anyone want to do that? Wouldn't it hurt?"
"It says here that individuals don't feel pain because they're used to the feeling. She apparently likes how it feels or something. She's not addicted to the just the satisfaction she receives, but the feeling of a certain texture. She pulls the ones she deems 'imperfect.'." Carly informs him, scrolling through the page.
"But what's gonna happen when it goes too far?" Freddie asks in disbelief of such a habit.
"I'm sure she feels guilt and shame over it, that's why it's important that we don't point it out aloud or scold her, just give her gentle reminders not to pull. Give her something to keep her hands busy. We don't want to embarrass her, we want her to open up."
"Not a word to her?" Freddie reassures.
"Not a word. She needs encouragement, not discouragement." She exclaims a little too harshly.
Carly tosses the bag of hair back under the pillow as to make it appear undisturbed, fear of how Sam would feel if she knew that it had been tampered with. It hurt Carly to see how much she had actually lost, but it killed her knowing that Sam was fighting this alone, too embarrassed or ashamed to even mention it, and everything clicked as Carly soon realized that Sam's ponytails and buns weren't results of her being too lazy to comb it, but a weak attempt to hide her balding spots.
-XXX-
"Sam, what happened?" Carly exclaims as she flies through Principal Franklin's office door, a look of concern on her face.
"Sam," He turns to her, "Do you care to explain why you're face looks like that?"
"I'd rather not." Sam cowers bitterly, avoiding eye contact with an overly concerned Carly.
Principal Franklin impatiently taps her fingers along the edge of the desk, stirring the pencils in his cup holder with his other hand until Sam snaps, sideswiping with the back of her left hand and watching as the gray-glittery, hand-made cup flew off the desk and hit the floor, bouncing once before rolling around on the floor, making Sam thankful that it was only plastic.
"Well?" Carly snaps, losing patience.
"I'm not sharing what happened with either of you." Sam responds defiantly.
"Sam, please don't make this difficult. It's here, or at the Dr. Meyer's." Carly insists with warning.
Sam blows air into her cheeks, pressing her palms against them and pushing the air out, swinging her feet back and forth, watching as they swept the ground, dust bunnies and old scraps clinging to the bottom of her sneaker. She reaches her hand down, brushing off the dust, and continues sweeping her feet as she reaches over, and pumps some sanitizer onto her hands.
"Thanks Ted." Sam mumbles, avoiding eye contact.
"Sam, we're going to get to the bottom of this! What if we talk to Mrs. MacSweeney? You can go alone and she could relay the message to Principal Franklin, and at least you'll be in less trouble if you did something. And no one will overhear." Carly persistently pleads, reaching over to place her hands on Sam's folded arms.
With hesitation but no argument, Sam groans and hops to her feet, shuffling out the door with Carly behind her, flinging Sam's abandoned backpack over her shoulder, and followed her down the hall to Mrs. MacSweeney, excited to see her office for the first time.
"Wait here," Sam shoves her phone toward Carly, her clammy hands reaching for the handle outside of the Library door.
Carly watches without an argument, as Sam nervously looks around the library, watching her every move through the glass window before sighing, and going inside to take a seat in one of the cushioned seats, scrolling through her phone as she listens to the office door close, and the blinds snap shut, and only seeing the shadow of Sam moving around made Carly curious enough to want to go over and knock.
"Hey Sam! What's up? It definitely has been feeling lonely around here since you haven't visited in awhile!" Mrs. MacSweeney glances over the top of her computer before sliding her chair to her desk, getting a better and more full view of the blonde.
Sam bursts into tears, suddenly feeling her body quiver out of control as she struggles to find any of the words that could possibly and appropriately describe how she was feeling in that moment. She had felt as if her whole body had just shut down, her brain turned off the the outside world, oblivious to the fact that Mrs. MacSweeney was watching her inquisitively, concern painted on her face.
"Sam, I'm not able to read your mind. Can you try and tell me what's wrong, or would you rather write it out?" She coaxes her gently, waiting patiently for a response.
"I'd rather slam my tongue in a car door than be humiliated any further." Sam snaps, mutter her bitter words through the tears.
Mrs. MacSweeney slides out her chair, walking around her desk to occupy the seat next to Sam's, on the opposite side of the wooden toy table taking up empty corner in the room. It was then, when she tucked her right leg under her left, her dangling legs boot heel brushing against the carpet, that Sam had a true indication of how short Mrs. M was. Sam looked at her with sudden curiosity, wondering how anyone could possibly be so calm and patient, so helpful without being pushy or annoying. Sam felt in her place in this old, nearly windowless, white bricked office, comforted by the young and gentle face, her dark brown hair tied into a bun resembling an unleavened piece of bread, and her big, bold, brown eyes that looked intently at her.
"Sam?" She tries again, almost in a whisper.
"This! This stupid strand of hair started it all, tempting me with it's coarse and wavy texture, calling me just to pull it and rub it on my lips!" Sam exclaims furiously, picking a hair from her head and eying it so intensely that she nearly goes cross-eyed.
"What about pulling your hair makes you the most angry?"
"The fact that I can't control the impulses, and it makes me look like some freak when I'm rubbing it across my lips, zoning out as i'm doing it, and nearly startled when anyone catches me! And they aren't quite all that nice about it either."
Sam's entire body shakes in fury, as she gasps back her tears, trying to calm herself down. Mrs. MacSweeney grabs a tissue from her desk, handing it to Sam who snatches it from her fingers, blowing her nose dramatically into it.
"Sam, when you cry or retaliate, you're showing you're bullies that's they're getting to you, and that's exactly what they want."
"This isn't about the bully; Not only, at least." She whispers the last part, feeling as if part of her was broken.
Courage Sam, have courage; That's the only way this can ever get better. Have courage and trust in the lord.
Sam heard her mother's voice in her head, remembering of the second time she heard that as a child, the same day they had walked out of church hand in hand, her bible tucked under her mama's arm, and Sam distinctly remembers the warm spring breeze blowing back her frizzy and untamed blonde, curly hair. Her mother pushed it back and smiled back at her, her mother's resembling and uncanny blues sinking deeply into despair as she prepared her child for the worst.
"Sammy, you're only broken if you say you are, but it's never really true. If you choose to fight this battle we call life head first, nothing can break you. It's you that gives up on you before anyone truly else does. God will never leave or forsake us."
"You can fight a battle that's not worth fighting for a long time, and mentally you're stronger than you think. Your body is the one that gets physically tired before your mind does, so keep telling yourself to never give up. We all fight battles that aren't worth fighting, but in the end make us stronger. " Sam repeats her mother's words, drawing a curious look from Mrs. M.
"That's very wise, you know that?" Mrs. MacSweeney smiled.
"My mother's seen her good days before she hopped in the looney bin." Sam offers a small laugh, darting her eyes away from sight, staring blankly at the floor, her mouth never moving.
"I'm sorry you're going through this Samantha." Mrs. M offers, Sam feeling her words as a you would a warm hug, comforting and meaningful, all sincerity in her voice.
"My mother told me if God brings you to it, he'll bring you through it." Sam remembers aloud, and Mrs. MacSweeney nods, smiling as she reaches over set a caring hand on hers.
"We'll work through this, but nothing will change with the wrong attitude. Please promise me that you'll slap no-one with a piece of pizza you found on the floor again?" She teases and Sam sheepishly laughs.
"No promises." She teases back.
