Some things are trichy...

I hate my hair. I hate hate hate hate hate it. Sometimes i want to shave it all off so there is nothing left to pull or break, no more headaches or sore spots on my skull. no more people looking at me funny or telling me to stop. I want people to be gentle, to understand that I really can't stop. Don't you think I would if I could? I ask for people to help me stop and they give my pitying looks and their voices steadily grow more nagging. At least it's not like seventh grade, when I asked people to hit me if I started twisting. Trich is a form of self-injury, like cutting and burning and poisoning. Not as serious, of course, I'll be the first to admit that this is absolutely silly. But I don't cut or burn or poison myself, those aren't my personal battles. Ripping out my hair is. That's what's difficult, that's what's hard, that is what hurts me everyday. I'm wearing a hat to bed to keep me from twisting tonight, but laying here, I feel so unresolved, my hands are practically twitching. I want to cry. I know no relief will come from twisting (rather the opposite, I will feel worse about myself) but I'm certainly not happy here. If you see me twisting, please don't chastise me. Give me an alternative, a note to write, a song to dance to, a hand to hold. Please help me. I just need this to end. Nearly ten years and counting... I don't want it to be eleven.