The first time I encountered this you had already rung me for help. In your room full of old bedding dirty plates and the smell of scalp, I cut through the towelling cord of your dressing gown with a knife. More like a tourniquet than a noose, not very effective.
Whatever you thought you wanted, your body disagreed. You asked too much of your hands; hoped they could see the task through, that their grip would endure, hold tight in spite of themselves. Still, these things are trial and error.