I tried, I really did. But I couldn’t stop. The urge to tug at my hair and rip it all out was too strong, so I gave in and sat on the edge of my bed, tearing and dropping it onto the floor. Tear. Drop. Tear. Drop. Tear. Drop. A teardrop fell from my eye.

Soon, I could feel the pile of hair from the floor brush against my feet. I didn’t like the feeling. It felt like spiderwebs. I kicked it away and carried on. Tear. Drop. Tear. Drop.

I ran my fingers along the back of my head. No, I had to continue. But it could easily become a bald spot too large to hide in a moment. So I tried my best to pull at different spots on my head, but somehow my hand always found its way to the back. I gave up again.

Then I remembered the elastic and the promises I’d made to stop. I flicked the elastic against my wrist. Hard. Over and over again. It stung. Little red lines marked themselves along my wrist. I stopped, feeling my hand fly back up to my hair.

No. I was supposed to stop. I said I’d stop.

I kept at it. Nobody could know. Except they did. Only a few people, but none who were with me. None who could help. I spread the growing pile of hair across the floor, so that if someone were to walk in, it would be unnoticeable. I’d hoover afterwards.

The dark thoughts tugged at my mind with the same rhythm that I tugged at my hair. Fast. Unpredictable. Awful. Urgent.

I heard my parents shout at my brother. It wasn’t me, it was my brother. They weren’t telling me off, it was my brother.

It was still shouting. I gripped my hair tighter.

I stood up. It had been too long, there were too many hairs scattered on the floor. I had to stop. I had to stop.

I couldn’t stop.

I paced about my room, grabbing my hair in small handfuls from my head. It barely hurt, but when it did, I liked the pain. I tried the elastic again, knowing I should stop. I flinched at every snap against my wrist, deciding to go back to ripping my hair out instead of feeling the sting of the rubber hit my wrist. I preferred the other pain.

Usually, I hardly noticed. I never tried to stop in the moment. I convinced myself that it did me no harm, I’d figure it out later. Now that I’d told people, I heard their voices in my head.

“Noooo! Please, Ciel, you can do it” said B.

“Find something else to distract you, to stop,” said A.

“Tu es capable,” said the respondent from the helpline.

“STOP!” screamed a small part of me, gasping for air, yelling with all its power.

“NEVER!” screamed the rest of me, too large, yelling with ease, overpowering the other voices.

Maybe their real voices would help. I picked up the phone in one hand while my other strayed back to my head.

I sent messages to B, knowing that A probably wouldn’t reply so I couldn’t tell her, and that I was too scared to tell the helpline for the moment. I wasn’t sure if I should tell, though. I was a burden. The issues were too real, too serious, too disgusting to speak about. I was too real, too serious, too disgusting to think about. I sent the messages anyway.

No reply. Oh well, I was strong. Hopefully. I could work things out. I could do it.

An hour passed.

It was too much. I’d lost too much. Panic set in as I realised what I’d done. I gathered up the hair, put it in the bin. I set about finding those fidget toys that were supposed to help. I lay them out on my bed in a perfect line and took one at a time, figuring out how to use them.

I was grateful for the tangled slinky, which helped me keep both of my hands down as I spent a long time untangling it. I got to my yoyo from the Christmas cracker last year, remembering how I’d never bothered to learn.

I kept myself happily distracted for 15 minutes or so with that yoyo, then carried along the line to complete it.

I’d finished the short line when I found a puzzle type toy. This kept me occupied and completely sidetracked my brain from any thoughts of hair-pulling, because it was so hard! I eventually gave up and had a genius idea. I’d paint my nails! That way, it would be impossible to touch my head.

After painting my nails, I discovered that the urge to rip my hair out had finally, finally gone! Relieved, I settled down to read. My hands never left the pages. I had resisted. (Mostly. Well. Not very much, but it was a start.)

Later that night,

As I lay in bed,

My hands drifted upwards to my head.

I forgot to resist

At the hairs my hands kissed

And pulled so many more,

I was ruined, for sure.

Teardrops filled my eyes,

As I remembered with dread.

How much I’d torn and dropped.

How many hairs were dead.