I’ve been anxious for as long as I can remember.
I was a smart kid, I was a sad kid.
I knew the world wasn’t fair, but it still felt like my fault.
Sitting in desks made my skin crawl. My fingers doodled and picked and eventually started stripping the ends of my hair.
My beautiful hair, I started to destroy. Homework, sports, my peers, my family - it was all overwhelming and out of my control. But my hair - that, I could control. That, I could pick and strip and pull. That, I could focus on.
The ends of my hair became dry and thin. My sisters noticed. I was embarrassed that they were even looking at hair in the first place. Being noticed when you’re 16? Mortifying.
So I pulled. I pulled out the hair from my head. I made sure to get the root - it hurt more.
Roots piled up underneath my desk.
Roots sprinkled my bedroom floor.
Roots fell besides car seats, and on my lap.
Roots that I pinched between my fingers were missing from my head - and you could tell.
Bald spots creeped from the back of my head to the front of my head. I was 16 years old with bald spots.
Do you remember high school? How it felt to walk those halls, to know you’re constantly submitting yourself to judgment? To not be sure if you’re too nerdy, too fat, trying too hard, or not trying hard enough?
I couldn’t stop. I was half bald by graduation. I couldn’t throw my cap.
It’s been 6 years. I still pull out my hair.
I hold the white roots that I yanked from my head and I fucking hate myself for it.
They are my lack of self control, my anxiety and my dysfunction.
Would I still be me without them?