Self Inflicted Blues
This day I grow tired
and so incredibly weary.
My heart holds only dreams
of a Life unfullfilled
A Life not nurtured,
yet barely a glimmer
of the spirit that once was.
I do have memories of some things good
-not all bad,
But the fear that I am alone
is Like a fingerprint on my Life.
Shadowing, waiting to pounce,
always there, unshakeable.
It's the mirrors that hold me accountable
to my actions.
Proof positive that where ever I go
there I am,
Naked, vulnerable, and yes
still alone.
As I try to allay this fear,
one Lonely and painful pluck at a time,
It becomes crystal clear, that I alone
am damaging my soul to the very core
with each stroke of my hand.
I steal one Last Look in the mirror
and know that I alone
have self inflicted these blues
Leaves me to ponder one question:
Will I ever allow myself the strength and grace
it will surely take to heal my scarred soul?
This poem was written in hopes of begining the healing process for my self. I
have a disease called trichiotillamania. It is an obsessive and manic urge to pull
one's own hair until baldness occurs. I'm a 48 year old woman, married(with kids
& grand kids)and have been doing this since the age of 5. It coincided with the
begining of my stepfather raping and torturing me which lasted until the age of
thirteen. This disease has me trapped and is NEVER letting me go. There are
two inflictions in regards to my hair pulling in this poem, one must know about
my disease in order to understand this poem.
Copyright © Christine Wessels | Year Posted 2007
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