The ironic title of a Trichotillomaniac is one not filled with pride,

More like anxiety 

Which is the quite ironic part considering the fact that 

That is all that the disorder is 

Is unmanageable anxiety that results in the pulling of hair or hairs to feel content 

But the irony in this, 

Is that it brings nothing but sorrow.

Stresses of life and self hatred are two of the largest components 

While self hatred stands the brightest and 

Wins the unwinnable battle, taking self esteem as prisoner.

Battling the mirror since age nine, I still haven't won, but only found ways to temporarily put the

Opponent out of business.

People saying things like "I am so angry, I could just rip my hair out!"

Still, to this day makes me cringe.

Eye contact was a negative, and my face wore no expression because the eyebrows on my face were

Only color, no hair. 

I never could tell anyone about this war that I have batteled with myself, because some might not see it. 

Perfectionisim is my utmost enemy which is followed by the lack of belief in this war at all. 

Keeping this a secret made it harder to tell someone what was going on inside my head. 

The irony of being a Trichotillomaniac is this: 

You cannot wage a war with yourself based on what you look like on the outside, because 

In the end, everything falls away anyway, leaving you to stop where you had begun. 

Obsession is inevitable; It will consume your life. 

Trichotillomania is a word that is still unfamiliar and new; 

It's unthinkable that someone would be anxious in everything that they do.

Just when you think that it has been overcome, 

When you think that it is the end of this disorder 

It strikes again, taking another form of another snake.