Am I Beautiful Yet?

A poem about trichotillomania

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“Quit attacking”
“Stop picking”
“Leave it alone”
12 year old me could never have known
Just how bad this habit could be.
Or how much I’d give just to be free
From this disgusting shame I carry with me.

“Stop pulling”
“Drop it”
“Quit making it worse”
God I’d do anything to reverse this curse.
I feel like the world sees me as a freak;
Or even worse: as someone who’s weak,
For these are the demons I cannot beat.

“Quit pulling”
“Just stop”
“You could if you’d try”
All anyone wants to know is why.
Why do I cause myself so much pain?
Why do I continue, despite the shame?
I know to the world, I must seem insane.

I can’t stop.
I do try.
And although it seems wrong
In the moment I feel like I’m fixing my flaws.
That hair is too coarse, it doesn’t feel right;
That one has to go just because it’s white.
I need these imperfections out of my sight.

I’m weary.
I’m hopeless.
I’m tired of trying.
This is a mountain I’m tired of climbing.
Each day there’s less and less hair on my head.
Every morning I look in the mirror with dread
And I ask myself: “Am I beautiful yet?”

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