Trapped With Trich

Trying for the relationship I wanted,
I copied my father’s moves and emotions.
Genetics helped out, only a little.
Father, What have I done to myself?
Gripping, pulling, plucking, repeat--
On and on, I became my own monster.
"I want to stop. I need to stop but, I cannot."
This gruesome habit I gave myself called addiction
But, oh, the sweet feeling of ecstasy builds so high
That ultimate release of stress and anxiety
Drops the dead weight of crippling shame.
The horror I feel when I look into the mirror
And the same person is no longer standing before me
I’m trapped between this human shell and its new reflection
I gaze at it and I hear the shell say…
"I want to stop. I need to stop but, I cannot."
My initial goal was never met,
And I accidentally created these two demons.
As I fling hatred at the aftermath,
All I see is who I use to be.
Stuck like this for God knows how long.
"I want to stop. I need to stop but, I cannot."



This poem is about the impulse control disorder called Trichotillomania. It is a mental disorder in which the brain chemicals flucctuate a different levels and result in the forced removal of ones own body hair to the point of self harm.

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