So, let's just go ahead and admit it:
We're all a little fucked up.
I have this thing called trichotillomania.
It's hard to explain.
Basically, I pull out my hair.
It's kind of like OCD,
in that, if I don't pull,
something will happen,
then someone will die.
You can't help it.
You're trapped.
No way out.
You can't stop.
I've tried stress balls,
tying my fingers together,
no use.
It happens,
even if you don't want it to.
You try to pull your hand away,
but an invisible force overpowers you.
You lose control.
Well, I finally cut all my hair off.
And as of January 28th,
I haven't pulled in a year.
Before I make it seem easy,
It wasn't.
It took everything I had
And everything all the people around me had,
But I did it.
This poem is about a scare I had in AP bio.
We were doing a unit on DNA,
And I was almost forced to pull a piece of hair
To look at the root.
Luckily, it didn't happen.
Anyways, here's the poem.
__________________
With a trembling voice,
She crossed to the window,
trying to calm herself down.
Nobody saw,
or at least she hoped.
Holding back tears.
Fighting her shoulders,
Then arms,
Wrists,
Hands.
The tears flowed silently
As she fought what she knew would happen next.
Calloused, worn, bloody her fingers rose;
"Why," she thought, "Why are you doing this to me?"
They wrapped themselves around a flyaway piece,
alone and coarse.
She let it slide through her fingers,
Orgasmic.
But before it escaped,
She stopped it.
Digging back down to the root,
She held it,
Harder this time,
Not letting go.
Streaming now, the tears were.
She stared out the window.
People were whispering.
She knew they saw.
She tried,
Used every ounce of willpower she could muster,
And then
"Emily, just do it!"
She pulled.
-Emily Ann
