#trichotillomania
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
I look up and pluck a daisy,
I pull out the petals, one by one.
There’s pain when the roots hold firm,
But they’ll come free
And I’ll feel a little worse.
Do daisies grow back?
I’m ruining them all,
But one more can’t hurt.
I eat the head-
When I look up
There’s no daisies left.
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 5:45 AM UTC
Eventually my memory
will lament
in daydreams
//:.
that my pride
was dissolving in my bed,
//:.
that my solace
was pacing vehemently in my head,
//:.
that my martyrdom
was telling me I may recover,
//:.
that my return
was murmuring softly,
//:.
that my fury
was invading my hiding door,
//:.
that my frenzy
was stabbing at my scalp,
//:.
and perhaps my memory
will stutter
as always,
//:.
and I can stack my scabs again.
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 9:31 PM UTC
Each hair I pluck from my head feels good; well satisfying at the time.
Until I look at it in my fingers.
I can see where my natural hair color ends and where the blonde begins.
I run it over my fingertips and then drop it off to my side.
Time to find another.
And another.
Until I realize in a panic that I have just pulled out even more of what was left of my bangs.
Perfect.
Let's see if I can figure out how to cover this up, or maybe this time I can't.
What then?
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 5:38 AM UTC
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.
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 2:54 AM UTC
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 ****** 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.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC
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.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
He tells me:
*" ***** 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.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
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.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 4:40 AM UTC
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.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
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.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
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.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
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 .
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
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 ******* 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.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
I have tried to be okay
with being alone,
in this apartment,
for as long as I have.
But it's lonely.
I like company and conversation.
Someone to lay against.
And pull my hands away from my head.
From this hair.
This shredded mess
that I hate so dearly.
It feels like I am losing.
Or maybe, I've already lost.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
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.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
I wish I was brave enough
to share my struggle with
trichotillomania on social media,
because maybe I'd find support.
But I can't get past the feeling of
just complaining or that no one
would care.
Let alone understand.
I've realized that the worst
trigger for me,
is watching shampoo commercials.
Because I know I'll never have hair
like that.
Full, pretty, strong.
It *****
And even as I'm writing this
my hand is in my hair,
tugging away at the short strands
I have left.
I feel hopeless,
because I am losing.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
When my world turns
upside down,
you are the first one in line,
waiting to pull me back up.
My arms to cry in,
and keep me from floating away.
You tell me I'm beautiful
when I'm a mess;
even after I've spent the whole
afternoon pulling out my bangs.
You see what I don't,
but always end up making me
smile.
I don't know how you do it.
I am a tough one to crack.
But I'm thankful.
Because; I love you too.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
Tricho-tillo-mania.
It rolls quite nicely off the tongue
Like the type of disease one with
Deep seated fears and complex facades
Would possess
When did this bad habit begin and form?
Has is always been silently lurking within this body?
Ready to pounce on any destructive opportunity
That would arise from my gut
Tricho-tillooooo-maniaaa.
I can overcome it, I know I can
Wait no, an hour went by and oh
Another pile of discarded hair on the floor
Again. And again.
If this luxurious mane of thick, dark hair is so
Admirable and wanted.
Why can I not stop plucking it from the very
Fibers of my skull’s skin?
Tricho-tillo-mania.
Keep it up and there will be naught
A single strand left on top of this girl’s head
My fingertips are aching and raw
Pleading with me to stop this
Nitpicking of these brown straws
Even as I type my nails
Scratch and burrow into my flesh
Pricking and prodding for what?
I wish I knew so I could tell you.
Trichotillomania.
Maybe my innermost desire
Is to rip this bruised skin and broken hair off my body
Until I am nothing more than a hot, ****** mess
Of congealed, dripping, internal organs
And a new case of polished, refined
Poreless, porcelain skin
and ruby- red sensual lips
Could **** me up and out of it
A perfect stranger would emerge
Free from my vice and sin.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
I decided to put sticky notes
with positive words written on them,
up beside my bed.
In hopes that encouragement can
help me.
I've been stuck inside a negative
purgatory for days,
maybe even weeks,
and I'm done with that.
Or I want to be.
I've done cried,
pulled out almost all of my hair,
let myself be angry,
and then I ran out of complaints.
If I want a positive life,
I have to think positive thoughts.
Please, wish me good luck.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC