Had you told me a year ago that I’d be sitting at my dining table at five in the morning, writing down everything on my mind, I wouldn’t have believed you. As I sit here reminiscing about the past, I believe this story of mine will bring me peace.
So what is the story? Simple: the story of my hair-pulling disorder, trichotillomania.
Trichotillomania is the urge to pull out hair, whether it be scalp, eyelash or eyebrows, when dealing with stress, anxiety, negative emotions, boredom, frustration or loneliness. However, I’ve gotten the hang of the disorder over the years by discovering coping strategies like writing. Why? Because no one can judge my physical appearance when I write.
I feel a sense of security knowing I can speak my truth judgment-free. Younger me struggled to explain her hair-pulling to her classmates, friends and family. The hardest part was hearing those close to me say, “stop, this isn’t you.”
As much as I wanted to believe I was in control, it was impossible! Think of it as the equivalent of going to an alcoholic and saying, “stop drinking.” We both know it’s much more complicated.
There isn’t an on and off button. Living with trichotillomania is similar to that of a farmer.
Would you grow a crop for a whole season, plant it, water it, feed it good soil, and watch it daily, but not harvest it? You’re looking at the brightest cherry tomatoes, the bluest of blackberries and the reddest of strawberries, doesn’t it look “perfect?”
Maybe if you take just one, or maybe if you take a second, it wouldn’t hurt. It just tastes too good to resist.
You wonder if anyone will even notice. If I pluck a few hairs, it won’t be that noticeable. Will people notice it’s gone? Can I cover it? Will covering it attract more attention?
I knew having just one fruit would be too good to be true, so I went for seconds until the taste lingered over my tongue, and I couldn’t resist. I grew my hair with patience, and when I lost it, it hurt me more than before.
I’ve cried far too many times that my tears have turned into dust. Now my heart slowly fades until I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Maybe if I had stayed to watch my hair grow a little longer, my overwhelming and intruding thoughts of “perfection” would’ve faded, and I would’ve recovered from this horrifying, prolonged dream. Will the urge to pull hair out ever end? Will I ever get my happy ending? Will I grow to see my crop as tall as the grass?
I’m hoping this story is, to an extent, educational. I want it to be a reminder that people with trichotillomania are completely normal beings and worthy of love. If you’re looking to support someone you love with this condition, act normal around them and do your own research.
Often, our first instinct is to act with compassion and empathy. As sweet as that is, it’s a constant reminder to people with trichotillomania. So my advice is, treat people with this disorder like you would anyone else.
I want my personal experience to be a reminder to care for and be thoughtful of those surrounding you. You don’t know what someone is going through. As much as you want to believe you know a person very well, you only know what they choose to share.
[Photo via Colin Roe/Unsplash]
