You're back but you are not welcome, such a familiar feeling to have you consume me entirely once again. Trichotillomania, trich for short, a big word with a simple meaning. I. Pull. My. Hair. Eyelashes....pressure....have to pull...needs to be out...can't focus...can't speak...can't move...hair...pressure....eyelash....get out....leave me alone...don't do it....too late....its bad....how bad...bad....I did it. It's out. The pressure is gone, for now. I can breathe again. But then I see myself for what trich has done to me and I hate what I am, I hate how I look. Why do I do this to myself? Why trich? Why do you let me do this?

I am crumpling.
Deteriorating.
In every way my mind and body can handle, I am falling apart.
I am sick, and I am not going to heal. It is too late. I am too far gone.

I sleep. I wake up. I don't eat. I take pills. I sleep again. Repeat.

My eyes are heavy, my head is light. I am in pain. I can't move. More pills.

I dream I see him in my room. I wake up. He is not there because he is dead. He killed himself. More pills.

I think about her smile. She can't smile anymore because she is dead. She was killed in a car accident. More pills.

I miss him. But I will never see him again because he is dead. Cancer stole his life before he could see me grow up. More pills.

I long to meet him. But I never will because he is dead. Before he even took a breath on his own, his body gave up. More pills.

I swallow pills with grief.
I numb my mind like I numb the pain.
It goes away for a while, and life seems normal. Then the bandage falls off.

I am weak again.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
Am I sad? Am I depressed? Am I angry? Maybe. I am sick. And I've seen too many people die. And I am not going to heal.