Latest posts by Nayab Imtiaz (see all)
- My Dreams Are Bigger Than My Size - March 11, 2017
- Let The Man Rest in Peace, Is It Too Much To Ask? - December 11, 2016
- ”What Happened To Your Hair,” They Ask Me, And I Have No Answer. - December 8, 2016
Restlessness flows through my body and there’s nothing I can do to contain it, except pulling out my hair, literally. I do it and feel anxiety leaving my body with each strand of hair I pull out. It feels good, but I am aware, I am aware of the consequences, I am aware I’m leaving bald patches behind, but I can’t stop.
I feel like screaming, but I can’t stop. My mind screams at me, shakes me, threatens me, but I pull more. I see strands of hair next to me, on my bed, on my clothes, in the empty plate next to me. I feel disgusted, the guilt settles on me, but I realize this is the last bottle of makeup left, and I have to buy more before this one finishes.
”What happened to your hair,” they ask me, and I have no answer. ”Hairfall,” I lie. When I don’t have the energy to lie, I tell them the truth and they ask me, ”do you really pull out your hair?” and I feel like a freak. Yes I do, a lot and I can’t stop. My mind forces me to do it, my thoughts become obsessed until I finally do it just to shut my brain up. There’s a reason why Trichotillomania is categorized under OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder).
I’m avoid bright lights. I don’t let my hair down. I can’t sleep without makeup on my bedside so I grab it first thing in morning. Since last 5 years, every freaking day. I am afraid of water and rain or anything that could expose the bald patches on my head and lack of eyebrows. I want to stop, I really do, but I just can not. I hate every part of it. I’m anxious, I do it, I do it, I feel severely distressed, I’m distressed I pull even more, and the cycle continues, on and on and on. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be pull-free and it terrifies me. It affected my past, it is affecting my present and it will affect my future.
People are insensitive and world is a crappy place. Sometimes, I regret opening up to people because they do not deserve to know me like that. I’m terrified, of my mind, of my own self who’s set on self destruction but I can’t let the world see that. I run and hide behind my trickery, hoping no one would notice, but for how long would they not notice? This is the part that makes me want to crawl under the earth and never surface again.