It feels like my hand has a mind of its own, it darts up to my hair and grabs it to pull as naturally as I blink my eyes
It’s a habit, but a different kind of one
Trichotillomania
An invisible monster that takes control of my body and makes my scalp beg to be pulled till I break off the hair or pull it out entirely
A monster in my head that tells me over and over again
It isn’t perfect yet, this hair is crunchy and needs to go anyway, everyone can see this flaw and it’s ****** just one more time and this time it will be right, it will be enough
A voice telling me you’re not worthy makes me duck my eyes from others gaze
My mind manipulates me every time I lift my arm to my head
A deep sense of mistrust is instilled within me because I keep lying to my own mind every time I relapse
The checking in the mirror, the brushes I have tucked in places, the scissors I hide to clip away my imperfections only to hand make my own ugliness,
Creating the image of myself I see in my head even though I deeply don’t want to at the same time,
I’m held captive by this other part of me that won’t let go of my self destruction
I hate it and I like it
I hate that I like it
It feels good but it hurts
I want to disappear when I’m unraveling, my heart burns with shame with every hair I shed
Mar 21
Mar 21, 2026 at 6:31 PM UTC
It feels like my hand has a mind of its own, it darts up to my hair and grabs it to pull as naturally as I blink my eyes
It’s a habit, but a different kind of one
Trichotillomania
An invisible monster that takes control of my body and makes my scalp beg to be pulled till I break off the hair or pull it out entirely
A monster in my head that tells me over and over again
It isn’t perfect yet, this hair is crunchy and needs to go anyway, everyone can see this flaw and it’s ****** just one more time and this time it will be right, it will be enough
A voice telling me you’re not worthy makes me duck my eyes from others gaze
My mind manipulates me every time I lift my arm to my head
A deep sense of mistrust is instilled within me because I keep lying to my own mind every time I relapse
The checking in the mirror, the brushes I have tucked in places, the scissors I hide to clip away my imperfections only to hand make my own ugliness,
Creating the image of myself I see in my head even though I deeply don’t want to at the same time,
I’m held captive by this other part of me that won’t let go of my self destruction
I hate it and I like it
I hate that I like it
It feels good but it hurts
I want to disappear when I’m unraveling, my heart burns with shame with every hair I shed
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