I know you want to,
I know you need to,
Catch and pull again,
Catch and pull again,
I'm telling you-
Everything's gonna be alright.
Just draw another line
Above the eye,
Again,
Catch and pull again,
Scratch and pull again,
Brown pencil smeared-...
A threat,
To the norms of beauty.

Whyever did you do it?

A fear they're gonna see you as you are,
Is part of the morning routine.
Does the pillow have
What the face should hold in?
And do eyelashes grow
From one magic roll of woven hair,
And does it ever end,
And will I know it?

I am afraid...

Is this the part when,
I go to the mirror and say,
The most genuine "sorry"?

I might as well just save it,
What a glory!
Hot mess with dark circles,
With patches,
Best,
Just save your breath,
I know you're phony.

I am myself's
Worst **** girlfriend,
Cheating and then saying I'm sorry...
Just to fall again.
I have lost faith.
In what I say.
Oh, what a story...

I have to buy more eyeliner,
And brown eyebrow pencil.

Mental note:

One day you'll be above it.

When I weep I remember
Unplucked eyelashes
Arms free from scars
Boxes full of bandages
Bottles full of pills

I remember
Unbitten nails
The skin on my
Elbows
Knees
Lips

When I weep
I mourn the pieces of me
My past poisoned

Today is the day
National mental health day
One of the many days I regret

I should speak out
I want to
But my mental illness has me chained
So instead I pull
Pull my way closer
But the chains keep me back

Closer to the truth
Closer to the hesitation

For me, pulling is my release
I read online that the rough ones-
With black bulbs were bad ones
The “wicked witch” ones
So I started

Pulling out my fears,
Doubts,
Insecurities
From my head- one by one

Until I laid there helpless
In a cloud of my mistakes
Somehow seeing all my worries in front of me didn’t make them go away

Instead, I became more aware
More aware of my failures
For the unknown future that lies in store
One by one

October 23, 2016
I kept the receipts
A friend- not a close one, more of those friends of friends
She chose me to tell her story to
She was *****
By a guy we all knew and trusted
A “good guy”
I lent her an ear, or rather a willing text
I thanked her for her bravery
For allowing me to be a small fraction of her story of overcoming
I might be one of twenty she told, or maybe just two

I don’t know. I may never know.
But what she may not know is that night
She became my one
Someone I knew almost nothing about
I told her my story and asked how she told her first

I hoped of getting some of her strength through some sort of Twitter DM telepathy
Alas you can’t gift strength like that
Oh God, I wish you could
I go back and read those messages all the time trying

I read my TimeHop every day
Sometimes for the memories
But more often than not they bring back the nightmares
I do it for the relief
The streak number tick ticking higher
Counting the days that have gone by
Or the hairs I’ve pulled

Tomorrow is National Coming Out Day
Is there a day like this for those who came out to their loved ones about their mental illness?
I will also not be participating.
My mental illness is keeping me from doing so
I am buried deep in my closet, hiding under clothes and forgotten tags
My fingers raking through the carpet
Finding that momentary release
The glorious relief lasting a moment
I run my fingers through the rough fibers searching for more

My family doesn’t know
Or if they do, they don’t want to break our perfect mold
I pull discretely
Around my head, just a receding hairline, no bald patches
Yet

I never get my haircut
At least, by a professional
The last time I went, my stylist said it was new growth
Not my past coming to haunt me.
She pulls at them showing me, calling them baby hairs
How do I tell her that each one represents shame, frustration, guilt
Each one represents one party, one good time with friends I’ve missed
Hiding behind those fears, covered in guilt
Back in my closeted mind

Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I cut myself open
Would blood run out or the words I meant to say?
When it’s a bad day, I pull at large sections of my hair
Wondering what it would be like to rip it all out in two sections
It makes me cry in pain, but the voices tell me about the sweet relief it may bring
I almost give in

What hurts me the most is noticing the people around me who have it
Does the girl sitting in front of me know
One day she may have to get surgery
To remove the hairball in her stomach from eating at her hair?
I see her run it through her lips, feeling the same texture.

Does the boy, scratching away at his knuckles
Understand what’s underneath his skin?
I wonder what his blood would say
Would it tell my story?
Would it tell ours?

Lost control...
Urges like
pins and needles
pierce and numb
First finger and thumb
move with misplaced
        enthusiasm

Lately I find myself
wanting to talk about my
trichotillomania.
I think I want to find someone else
that knows what I'm going through.
I have never talked about it
on social media except one time.
And someone thought I had an
STD simply because they were
uninformed.
Embarrassed and ashamed
I quickly deleted it.
I shouldn't be ashamed.
Or embarrassed.
It's relevant. And real.

So, pretty much if you have trich
or just want someone to talk to
about it,
please comment or message me.
I know that isn't what this website is for,
But I feel most comfortable here.
And you can too.

When did I get this way?
Was it my first lapse in judgement?
Was it the first time I was so terrified of going to school
I had a panic attack?
Was it the first time I pulled?
Was it on any of the numerous nights I broke down
alone and afraid of who I was?
When did I get this way?
It scares me to know I've been this way forever.

You wonder why I won't stop,
But do you wonder why I ever started?
Do you ever wonder how I feel?
Do you ever wonder if I have tried?
Do you ever wonder that I have cried?
Do you ever wonder that I almost have died?
Do you ever wonder why I have survived?
Do you ever for a second wonder that I can't?
Do you ever wonder?
You wonder not.

When you leave
I fear I will pluck each strand of hair
From my entire head
And produce so many tears
That I dry up like desert sand
And blow away in the arid breeze.
I am nothing.
Until you come back,
And take the time
To braid the hairs together,
And collect each grain of sand.
Nutella-sticky fingers glue me all into one piece
With squeezey hugs and blanket fort cuddles.
And I'll forget you ever even left.