You say,
"Oh, I have OCD too."
The words roll off your tongue with ease.
Meanwhile I try to explain that it's not OCD
that I have.

It's a compulsive disorder on the OCD spectrum
That I have been
diagnosed with.
Over a period of time
The words often trapped in my throat.

You say,
"Oh I just know I'm OCD because
sometimes I like things neat and orderly,
and I prefer things in even numbers."

In my head I want to shake you to your core.

When the Trich Tic
is bad.
When the Trich Tic
is unmedicated.

I want to strand by strand
rip each individual hair
from the depths of the root
and roll it between my fingers
until there is nothing left but
a shadow of where
an eyebrow should be.

An animalistic urge to start in
on the other brow.
Until I stop
and become so embarrassed.
That I cry
when I look in the mirror.

I used to sob in therapy.
Because I couldn't catch myself in the act
soon enough.
Then I would have to start
the rebirth of a new eyebrow
all over again.

I carried fidget spinners
stress balls
down the halls of my college campus.
Hid my "toys" in class
shamefully told each professor
I was sorry if my actions were

My moods were eruptive.
Paranoid someone would see.
The ugly monster I was underneath.
The made up eyebrows
I plastered on my face.
Put in place
of the real thing.

Please tell me again
how you can possibly understand.
How your undiagnosed
non-maddening habits
are the same.
You can't begin to imagine
The shame.
A girl who suffers from Trichotillomania.
What I Feel Sep 2017
This thing I have,
it makes me sick;
I'm tired of life
just drumming on
the same as life
the day before,
my hair receding
more and more,
and nothing stops
this ruthless train
from ploughing down
my tortured brain,
the scars it carves
are deep ingrained,
and split my soul
in sorry halves,
each impulse sparking
shots of shame
that jab my spine
with pricks of pain,
each choking breath
a living death,
a rhythm that
just picks up speed
with every whine,
a whispered threat
that only tortured
ones can heed-


So I will shave my head.


My broken slate will be wiped clean.

This sorry life I'll now grab back

and brand new paths I'll tread.
I am trying my best to overcome my problems now. I just thought it was relevant to write about my demons again.
What I Feel Jun 2017
and place your hands somewhere you cannot reach.
just like each day you've lived and breathed before.
the tension building up within your spine.
to fill your shaking hands with something new.
to keep your brittle, breaking will in check.
your fingers through the graveyard on your head.
the urge that wants to pull you to the edge.
yourself in treacle truths and bitter tastes.
You find that bare and balding patch of skin.
Each pluck removes a tiny piece of sin.
The pain reminds your mind that you're alive.
The shame reminds your heart you want to die.
Demonic hungers spur your fingers more.
And hair by hair you carpet wooden floors.
You picture faces of the ones you love.
Your innocence lives like a dying dove.
in hundreds lie around your pillowcase,
around, not on, your sore and bleeding scalp.
Each time you vow to never pick again,
but Trich plays tricks and makes you take his help.
This poem is about my hair condition Trichotillomania (pronounced trick-o-till-o-may-nee-ah). Whilst I do sometimes pull subconsciously, most of the time it is an extremely compulsive urge, which is what this poem addresses.
Here is a link to give you more information on the condition:
Raquel Butler Dec 2016
He tells me:
" prick yourself with a needle,
   it will have the same effect"

As if I am trying to harm myself.
He does not understand
this does not hurt me,
at least not physically.

It has become a joke now
  - but I'm not laughing.
It isnt funny,
it isnt a joke.
His ignorance sears into me,
he thinks I have forgotten
I have not.
this is a poem about a comment someone made about my trichotillomania.
Chameleon Oct 2016
On Saturday night I didn't go out to dinner with my family because I discovered a new, big bald patch.

Right in the front of my hair line, on the other side of where my bangs used to be.
Except with this one, I can't cover it up.

I kind of jokingly mentioned it to my boyfriend, and he told me I looked fine.
But then my fingers kept attacking the same spot, and my brain began to get mad, and then scared.

Why do I let it get this bad?!
Why can't I just stop?!

I'm going to have to shave my head.
For real this time.

So, I told my boyfriend I was gonna go lie down and take a nap.
I really just couldn't stand being inside my head any longer.

I really scared myself. That was one of the first times I actually lied to my family as to why I couldn't go out. I lied about wanting to take a nap because I was about to take the clippers to my hair.

It was one of the first times I felt this thing really taking over me.
Chameleon Jul 2016
I day dream about standing in front of a mirror and shaving all my hair off.
I can't stand looking at it anymore. I don't even like when it touches me.
And people would think I've gone crazy, and finally someone steps up to take care of me.
I get time off work, my bills are paid, debt gone, food in the fridge, medical marijuana.
And I just get to.. Heal.
Chameleon May 2016
I don't think very many people could fully understand why I would love to shave off my hair.
I don't want to be bald,
just short short short.
I would cry.
I would feel happy.
And free.
The hair that's on my head has made me so unhappy for so long.
My whole life really.
That's why it's been every color, every length.
It's the source of my mental illness and a huge part of my daily struggle.
If it were just gone,
I would feel nothing but liberated.
I could start over.

And you might say, well do it.
But it's not that easy.
It would draw so much negative attention to me.
People might think I've gone crazy, or never stop staring.
And I'm afraid of what they'd think.
Shallow, but true.
I'm a 21 year old girl in 2016 when hair is everything.

But I dream about it. A lot.
Grey Mar 2016
I have no right to feel this way.
Everything is too loud, too much.
I want to cover my ears, but it gives little relief.
I tear at my hair, and the pain gives an anchor.
My patches are hidden, small secrets.
Mors ultima linea rerum,
a constant threat,
the sword above my head.
Not death itself,
but the inability to find peace.
Sleep is similar, but it is not death.
It is similar, Tarkovsky observes,
but it is not permanent.
Sleep is universal,
but so is waking.
The fool, shepherd, wise, and king
rise with the sun.
Mors sceptra ligonibus aequat.
Mors ultima linea rerum,
Chameleon Jan 2016
I am picking at my hair.
Pulling on them from the root.
Sweet, odd, relief.
Followed by devastating guilt.
Why can't I beat this?
Am I really that weak.
S t o p .
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