I walk into the salon, guilty. I know what I've done, but I hope that she won't notice. I sit down, and she begins to wet my hair to prepare for its trimming.

“Hmm. Your hair is at all different lengths. Did I give you layers at your last appointment?”

No, it’s worse.

I began pulling my hair out when I was a toddler – I’ve used it as a coping mechanism for as long as I can remember. It’s a condition called trichotillomania. Along with my generalized anxiety disorder, the two are a pretty deadly combo.

I spiral. Before the AP World History exam, I lost my mind about if there was anything that I didn’t explicitly remember. Did Stalin call it communism or socialism? Was Dien Bien Phu in Korea or Vietnam? Did the American Revolution influence the French or the Haitian, or was it French, American, Haitian—

Questions like these flood my mind, my fingers subconsciously move to my hair, and then—

Pluck.

Unlike OCD, I don't do this compulsion because of a specific fear. I mean, sure, I'm stressed, but I don't pull my hair out because I think it will prevent something bad from happening. It makes me feel even worse about myself. I'm idly watching as I concede space in my head to anxiety and compulsion – I’m in the passenger seat, watching an invisible driver steer me straight into a ditch.

I've done all of the things. Therapy, walks, anxiety medication – and it's helped, a little. But it can only help so much when you're still afraid to confront your own emotions. Part of what drove me away from therapy was the fact that I would have to do just that – whenever I would talk about pulling out my hair or my anxiety, I would start crying. But I didn't want to seem vulnerable and weak, or like I was a mess, even if I really was.

I had to express a part of myself that even I didn't fully understand.

You might think that I'm a freak, but I don't care. I've never tried to hide my disorder – other people have nervous habits like nail-biting, so why should I feel the need to conceal mine? Over time, I have come to the conclusion that it’s only possible to overcome mental health issues if I recognize how they negatively affect me, not how it alters others’ perceptions of me, and that's my primary motivation to continue to fight my compulsions.

The one thing that I'm supposed to be able to control in my life is my own actions. But if I can't even manage my brain, what am I?

I'm powerless.

Or at least it can feel that way. Then I take the reins, break the habit for a few weeks and have a positive outlook on my struggles. All until one stressful day knocks me all the way back down to step one. I'm left again feeling trapped by my own thoughts and impulses.

While my story doesn't have a particularly happy ending right now, I have a lot of hope for my future. The fact that I'm writing this is proof that I have some control over my thoughts and habits – I'm able to identify that I need to stop. I know that I'm not powerless, because to be truly powerless is to lose faith in yourself. But for now, I'll recover, relapse, repeat.

Recover, relapse, repeat.

Recover, relapse, repeat.

Repeat.