The ever present rattling in my brain has subsided, only to be replaced by displaced anxiety.

But it does mean that sleep hasn’t evaded me entirely so I’ll take it.

My over-the-phone therapy session really made an impact this week.

She made me realize that the new habit I reluctantly told her I created over the past few weeks is deeply woven with threads of anxiety.

As far back as my mind let’s me remember I have always played with my hair.

I grasp long strands from the top of my head and run them between my thumbnail and underneath my index finger, until I reach the ends of the hair.

Sometimes it ends there. Other times I twirl long strands with my thumb and index finger until knots are created loosely or tightly. Always with my left hand; occasionally the right hand gets in on the action.

To me it’s normal to play with your own hair; I’ve seen many women do it out of boredom or meditation. My sister also plays with her hair.

What took a drastic turn is pulling it out. I can’t explain why I’ve been doing it, so I haven’t really told anyone.

I’ll start from the beginning.

I’ve decided recently to stop coloring my hair. I took advantage of not being around people because of the pandemic to just let my hair be free, and see what it looks like without being shamed.

I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time. My natural is an ashy brown, and since my late teens I’ve had gray hair in the front of my scalp. The gray hairs have peaked in growth over the past several years, to where there’s significant clusters in my bangs and the side of my head.

I love my gray hair. Its unique, and confusing for people to see someone so young with it, even though I’m 33.

Since growing it out, I didn’t realize the texture had changed. Not only is there more gray, but also curly and heavily textured dark brown hairs. So playing with them doesn’t create the same satisfaction.

Its an odd combination of feeling something foreign and wanting to rip it off, but also loving what the body is capable of.

I seek out the textured hair, then pull it out. Feels like the root is ready to let go of my scalp, so I just help it along right?

Wrong. I don’t need to do this.

Unkempt anxious feelings channeled themselves through my hand and into the atmosphere.

I don’t claim to be without faults. I just don’t want to air out my dirty laundry for all to see.

But I committed to being honest with myself so I can heal, and writing honestly in this blog is part of that path.

I don’t believe in seeing the world in black or white; the universe is a myriad of gray tones and beautiful hues not seen by the human eye.

This situation, however, is black or white. There’s no benefit to this habit. I’ll just end up with bald spots.

All I can do for now is do better and be better.

And be realistic, giving myself time and grace to get there.

Join me on my path back to hope~

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