What I Feel Jun 19

Sit
and place your hands somewhere you cannot reach.
Breathe
just like each day you've lived and breathed before.
Feel
the tension building up within your spine.
Try
to fill your shaking hands with something new.
Fail
to keep your brittle, breaking will in check.
Run
your fingers through the graveyard on your head.
Fight
the urge that wants to pull you to the edge.
Lose
yourself in treacle truths and bitter tastes.
One.
You find that bare and balding patch of skin.
Ten.
Each pluck removes a tiny piece of sin.
Thirty.
The pain reminds your mind that you're alive.
Forty.
The shame reminds your heart you want to die.
Fifty.
Demonic hungers spur your fingers more.
Sixty.
And hair by hair you carpet wooden floors.
Eighty.
You picture faces of the ones you love.
Ninety.
Your innocence lives like a dying dove.
Hairs
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: http://www.trichotillomania.co.uk/about_trichotillomania/diagnosis.htm
Raquel Butler Dec 2016
#1

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

Ferociously,
quickly,
precisely,
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.
Just
S t o p .

Chameleon Jan 2016

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.

Mikayla Nov 2015

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

Mikayla Nov 2015

when i was young and innocent i became so sad because i didn't have an air vent on the ceiling of my room like my parents did.
today i stand with pills on my nightstand and bags under my eyes, but i'm no longer sad about air vents.

i'm sad about the bald spots on my eyebrows where i've pulled and pulled until huge patches of hair are missing and my skin looks angry.

i'm sad around my ultra-conservative parents when political topics come up. do i speak my mind and tell my parents how i feel or do i keep letting them say how awful illegal immigration is?

i'm sad when i look back through old messages and see how much i worshiped the ground you walked on. you abused me and i didn't even know that the way you were talking to me was wrong until a year later when i was laying on my bathroom floor with tears in my eyes and worthlessness in my heart.

i'm sad when i see bottles and bottles of prozac and i know i'll be taking them until i'm 90. i hate that my life is controlled by orange bottles with blue and white pills inside.

i'm sad when i look down at my body and see scars that i put there myself. i had such a dislike for myself that i took blades from pencil sharpeners and razors.

i'm sad when i look at the clock on saturday and it's 3 pm and i've yet to even get out of bed. i don't feel like doing anything but sleeping forever.

i'm sad when i realize the things that make me sad will never be as simple as air vents again.

11/2/16
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