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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
Sometimes I look at my hair and think,
oh it could be worse. I'm doing better.
And then sometimes I look in the mirror and feel that same horror as the first time I ever noticed what I was doing.
Nothing helps and nobody cares.
And I'm just stuck living with this every day, & it's really fucking hard.
I'm never going to beat trichotillomania.
Some day soon probably,
I'm gonna have to shave off all of this hair that I do have,
that took so long to grow.
Why can't I just stop.
i can hide my lack of eyelashes with eyeliner.
i can hide the bald spots in my eyebrows
with an eyebrow pencil.
i can hide the scars on my thighs with pants.
i can hide my tears by quickly rubbing my face with shaky hands.
i can hide my nervousness by staring at my phone pretending to text.
i can hide my empty razors by flushing them down the toilet.
i can hide my true feelings within the pages of a journal.
i can hide the dark circles under my eyes with concealer.
but no matter how hard i try, i can’t just hide my depression with a smile.
my depression is screaming inside of me, like a inmate who just wants to get out of the sick prison he’s inside of.
i try to bury the prisoner, i just want him to be quiet and to stop screaming.
no matter how much dirt i try to pile on top of him, the prisoner keeps screaming and screaming and i hear him in my sleep.
the prisoner can’t escape the pain that fills the air around him.
no matter how much effort he puts forth, he cannot crawl out of his prison.
he will be incarcerated forever.
i am the inmate and depression is the prison