"trichotillomania" poems
Must I admit: that
being with you was like
pulling out a single
strand of hair, daily.
Look—-
this fleshy white
button ferally crowning
To begin: with the scraping
of my own scalp off
lining brainwashed
finger nails as a reminder
to my heart still beating
upon this earth
so that you may take
the bottom piece to split
my split ends in half
leaving broken off
eyelashes underneath
the talons. Were they your
keepsake to search a shine
when combing foreign
locks? Your reminder
in the strangeness of
other bloodstained
women?
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 5:56 PM 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
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 wish the girl sitting next
to me at work would
stop playing with her hair.
It's triggering me so badly.
Unless you have
Trichotillomania,
then you have no idea what it's
like to live with it.
I'm not feeling sorry for
myself, I'm just being honest.
I'm already constantly
thinking about pulling,
and my bald spot,
so when I see someone else
bring their hands up to
their head,
it's like a reflex.
I do it too.
The most frustrating thing,
is that I can't even say anything.
They wouldn't know what it
is anyway.
They'd say,
Oh, it's just a nervous tick.
Just stop doing that.
Those words have become the
most annoying words in
the English dictionary.
Because I'm NOT nervous!!
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
Why do I feel compelled
To describe you as imprinted
On the bone face of my skull?
Am I in there, rattling
Around with each curt nod
When you offer me your time?
Hurled against the stretches of the mind
The head's own incubator
Some Palaeolithic cave
Where the only inexperienced scrawlings
Are your portrait
In this cave I have invented film
Starting with a rickety old Zoetrope
Of the first smile; lips bracketing
The teeth, enabling
The tongue, to churn out
The voice, your nuclear voice
Hanging my Nagaskian heart by a hair
I haven't needed irradiation
Like the hand-canter of a harp player
I have been plucking my scalp
Hardly Lilith but perhaps
Deforesting Eden
Will tempt you from Eve.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
One by one they go
I watched them as they went
By my hand the damage done
But yet unmanned by me.
So finally, I looked (as one should never do)
The spaces that had grown for months
Were worse than I had feared
But no one says a word
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 10:59 PM 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
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
a little girl, perhaps 5-6, sits in the meadow and picks flowers. she picks the flowers slowly, meticulously. she looks up and sees a beautiful teenaged girl, with a long flowing dress and short hair with splotches missing. the teenager sits with the little girl. "what happened to your hair?" the little one asks.
**"once upon a time,
I picked flowers just like you.
but I picked them all."**
the young girl listens and keeps picking her flowers.
**"I met a boy who
promised I was beautiful
and made me feel so."**
the teenager begin taking the flowers and winding them together. she grabs her knitting needles out of her handmade purse and continues working on a hat to keep her hands busy.
**"he always told me
that my head was too pretty
for me to be sad."**
"Did he love you?" the little girl asks, playing with her hands.
**"perhaps he did, but
he never said that he did.
he never told me."**
**"after I ran out
of flowers, I began pull-
ing my long hair out."**
"please don't end up like me." the teenager says, handing the girl the hat.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:53 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 used to pass love notes to the knuckles that cracked against my jaw.
I tucked inside my locket the bruises I thought no one else saw.
You see when your first love is pain,
Being covered in blood
Replaces kissing in the rain.
The last time a lover hit me I was 11,
So by 12 I had started dreaming up ways to get to heaven.
Depression is just a side effect of wanting to die,
But when you're in love with toxicity,
It can be hard to say goodbye.
I'm an addict,
To everything that hurts:
Bruises,
And bulimia,
Men who chase teenage skirts,
But hating myself was the only obsession
That lasted long enough to work.
You see I don't always want to die anymore,
Yet now I feel like I finally lost my mind.
Desperately seeking new ways to pass the time:
Anorexia holds my attention
Until trichotillomania comes
And then moves along,
And once again I'm boring and bored,
But I always swore
a genuine smile was something I'd want.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 1:46 AM UTC
.
.
.
Hello ex-Hubby,
I meant the handsome dystopian boy,
currently, I'm writing you the sin
I remembered that craved the most,
when I dared to
penetrate my colorful virtue spot again.
to ride the last whole night car with you
in a hurry,
and forget about the evil you,
hating women, dressed in your dark flurry.
I embraced those tiny white palms in my head.
when they refused to touch me back and ride ahead.
instead of losing interest
and forget about reverence you physically,
I kept my fingers crossed secretly,
under the car seat,
next to the prestigious scent of yours.
Your North African amber eyes
that refused to match mine,
to get lost between their depressed universes and shine.
I prayed along this magnificent time,
to God so he could with his 99 mercies
make you fully mine.
The lava that burst divinely
out of your Tunisian delicate betrayed my senses
and lit the full hungriness towards your beguilement.
I encouraged my half stability
to make it through
a little bit far from you,
my hallowed brew
with every single meter that we've passed
I fluctuate amid the idea of capturing you devilishly or sacredly, between making some blood contracts with the devil itself,
or donate as much money as I could,
for the sake of being together,
burring ourselves on an old bookshelf.
trichotillomania; the colorless ferocious ogre,
that used to assault my bright aesthetic soul,
as a tight fatal choker
to remind it chastely,
of the imperfection portrait of mine.
and pursue its pride with a fiery scourge,
matted with brine
when I started to rise my jaded fingers
to covet those golden cheeks.
I failed!
the deficiency is capturing me
The keloid I hated the most
as I carry my dramatic havoc away,
a little bit away,
from your inner fray
pathetically, I turned my whole feelings
against my well ignoring the idea of
love Subliminal and its spell
facing the windscreen
that harshly afford me a great frustration
trying to cover my hope with trash sack and provocation.
I failed,
escaping the life blackmail,
convincing me to practically disbelief on you.
But I kept myself as holy as I dared to.
despite of my Viscera's beating,
crumbling and shrinking.
I kept my grin harmfully, blinking.
under your realm seeking for a light of your anger that will
console me again. and bring me home.
Happy Birthday!
.
.
.
Apr 12, 2024
Apr 12, 2024 at 12:03 AM UTC
I can't help but hate my actions
There I stood, heart open and filling it with everything you did
When I saw you
My heart seized with joy
When you spoke my name or said Hi
...
I would almost die from loss of breath.
My best friend was better friends and when you guys laughed!!!
My heart would commence with the Trichotillomania...
No
the best friend left and the chance was mine!
But take it I didn't.
WHY!!
At the moment to jump you SANK
At the moment to fly you FELL
You choked
Gurgling on the fear of rejection.
And now the cycles started again. And this time
the one he laughs with isn't a friend!
Why couldn't you make him bust a gut God WHY!
He's no longer yours
never was but
but whatever!
Anger directed at him, you ignore cause you can't handle your feelings and in the end
all you ever wanted to do was to love him.
And be loved back.
.
but don't forget
.
.
.
.
.
you did this
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
I remember the first
time I was made aware
of what I am doing.
I was a senior in high school,
having a sleep over at my
friend's house.
She had just got done
doing my twin sister's hair.
It was really pretty.
Long, blonde, and curled.
Cam said,
I could do the same for you.
And she smiled.
So I sat in front of her,
and she started messing
with my much shorter hair.
Suddenly, she stops,
and breathes out.
Then slowly she said,
What happened to your hair?
Of course I asked her what she meant.
Then she showed me.
It was missing, gone.
I was bald.
I just sat there,
frozen by my own reflection.
What was happening?!
I tried laughing it off,
but as I laughed,
tears started colliding
onto my legs.
Was I crazy?
When did I do that?!
As soon as I got home
I googled,
why am I pulling out my hair?
What I found.
Trichotillomania.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
There are some things that
I would like to change.
About myself.
To become a happier, healthier me.
Eat healthier. Cut fast food from
my diet.
Stop biting my nails,
stop feeling guilty, and
stop trying to make things okay with people from my past who don't deserve my effort.
I want to start dressing the way I want to without worrying about being judged by someone.
Do something good for someone at least once a day.
Work harder,
study harder,
sleep more.
Spend more time with my family, and my mom.
Find a way to start saving money.
Get Health insurance.
Write something every day on here.
And finally,
get my trichotillomania under control. I want to start keeping a diary, and keeping track of when and what causes me to pull. Learn ways to stop, or substitute the pulling with something else.. like reading, drawing, writing, painting, SOMETHING!
Oh, and to smile, every
day.
:)
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
Pluck from the front,
Pluck from the back
Give in to your addiction
That glues your head to a hat
You want to wear your hair down in curly waves?
Or fishtail braid it,
Or twist it to the side someday?
You can't even part it down the middle,
Without revealing a bald spot
That is the size of your face
You feel the stress, so you pluck it all away
Black out; keep plucking and
Forget about the time
See the hairs on the floor and mourn over what once was mine
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
You're back but you are not welcome, such a familiar feeling to have you consume me entirely once again. Trichotillomania, trich for short, a big word with a simple meaning. I. Pull. My. Hair. Eyelashes....pressure....have to pull...needs to be out...can't focus...can't speak...can't move...hair...pressure....eyelash....get out....leave me alone...don't do it....too late....its bad....how bad...bad....I did it. It's out. The pressure is gone, for now. I can breathe again. But then I see myself for what trich has done to me and I hate what I am, I hate how I look. Why do I do this to myself? Why trich? Why do you let me do this?
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
What would my life be like without trichotillomania?
It wouldn't take me 30 minutes to put my hair in a ponytail because I always hate the way it looks.
I could have bangs.
I wouldn't instinctively look into every mirror or reflective surface I pass by.
I might not have depression, which means I wouldn't constantly worry.
I wouldn't feel like I'm not good enough.
I might be able to see this "beautiful girl" that lives in my body that I've heard about.
I might be happier.
It's a big question, and I'll never know what life would actually be like for me. But. I like to imagine.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 12:48 AM UTC
Stretch...
Snap!
Elastic flap
They don’t understand,
This flesh is made of marvelous bubblegum
Tic-tic
Tension,
scratch and lick
Trichotillomania turned titillation
They’ve come to learn to like it rough
-Tock-
-Tock-
Impale her with that wretched rubber _-_-_-_
Couldn’t seem to accept her...
Ostracized in her own god-given home
Chastised for sins she never did commit
**** her
Just maybe,
In time she’ll learn to like it too
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC