It was 5:23 PM on Friday, October 13th, 2023.
I was sitting on the bathroom floor, my knees pulled to my chest, staring at a blood-spotted towel I'd just pressed against the back of my head.
I was supposed to be getting ready for my daughter Megan's college graduation dinner. She'd just finished top of her class at Georgetown. The entire family was flying in. I'd bought a new dress three weeks ago — navy blue, because I hadn't worn dark colors in years.
Instead, I was sitting in my underwear, crying, pulling crusted scales off my scalp with trembling fingers and watching tiny spots of blood appear where each plaque tore away.
'I can't do this,' I said to the empty room. 'I can't even sit through a dinner without reaching up to scratch. The burning. The scales rebuilding hours after I wash. My scalp feels like it's being eaten alive from the inside out.'
On the bathroom counter sat three different prescription bottles. A tube of coal tar paste that smelled like an oil refinery. A steroid solution that had thinned the skin around my temples so badly I could see veins through the tissue. A medicated shampoo that cost $47 per bottle and stripped every molecule of moisture from my hair.
My hair appointment — the blowout I'd booked specifically for Megan's graduation photos — was already canceled. I couldn't stomach the idea of a stylist's hands parting my hair and discovering the archipelago of angry, crusted lesions underneath.
That was the third event I'd sabotaged in two months.