I Have Trichotillomania
My trichotillomania has had it's ups and downs. I believe that I started pulling when I was eight or nine years old. I don't recall anything specific that triggered it, but I do remember my parents being distressed at the fact that their child was systematically ripping out her hair strand by strand. Who wouldn't be though? That kind of behavior is abnormal and destructive in anyone's eyes. Having to watch as your young child went down that road could not have been easy.
I pulled from the top of my head primarily and I remember my father taking a picture of the top of my head to show me the damage that I had done to myself. It was shocking, though not shocking enough for me to stop, just enough to realize that I needed to get better at hiding it. Bobby pins and barrettes became my best friends. Sure, it looked weird to have that hair pinned down all the time, but not as weird as a gaping bald spot. During this time, I don't remember specifically what my parents did in an effort to get me to stop. Honestly, I don't remember a ton from this time at all. If we fast forward to high school, that is when I really remember things heating up.
Before I get into that time of my life, let me preface this with the fact that my mother is the most brutally honest person I have ever met. She doesn't mince her words and always speaks her mind. I love her very deeply, but the fact that she tends to dwell on the negative has put strains on our relationship in certain situations. As I entered high school, my mother was obviously concerned about my making friends. I was a shy kid who liked to read and whose hair always looked kind of weird. I was a wallflower. Even though I fell in with a good crowd (some of whom have since become my best friends and my boyfriend), my mother was still concerned about how my pulling would impact those around me. I suppose that after years of trying to get me to stop with multiple methods, she decided to go negative on the matter. She would sit me down and tell me that if I did not stop, I would be a bald headed freak that no one would want to be friends with. I would never have friends, a relationship, children all because I couldn't stop pulling. Apparently my friends and people that our family knew already thought that I was a freak and would soon be asking questions. This went on and on and on. I remember sobbing at what I believed my future held. I prayed that God would grant me the will and the strength to stop. Eventually, it wasn't just her who would tell me these things. I would see the little pile of hair that I had just pulled, or a bald spot in the mirror and tell myself that I was an unlovable, unlikeable freak. It was during this time that I kind of crumpled into myself. My self esteem plummeted as I convinced myself that I wasn't good enough for anything or anyone.
I believe that it was September of my sophomore year of high school that I made a decision. I had had enough of all of it. It was the hardest thing that I have ever done in my life, but I stopped pulling. It took time for all of the hair to grow out, but it did. It was full, dark curly hair. I almost had too much hair. I figured out how to properly style it and was so happy. My mother was beyond thrilled (though she did accuse me of pulling for months after I had already stopped). I wasn't the bald headed freak, I was the girl who got compliments from strangers on how beautiful her hair was. My heart soared.
After I graduated high school, I started to pull again. It was minor and stopped after a couple of months. It felt as though my hair grew in very quickly and I didn't have any troubles again until more recently. I started pulling again a few months ago and I have since realized that it is stress induced. Considering the fact that I work several hours a week and am a full time graduate student at the age of 20, I would say that I tend to get stressed more often than the average 20 year old. It got pretty bad for a while, but I have slowed down and have had many days where I either don't pull at all, or it is only a few hairs. It is growing out again and I still am able to wear it down and get compliments.
While this story may come across as slightly boring to any one else reading it, to me, it is a story of triumph and incredible emotion. I am still unable to talk about my trichotillomania without breaking down in tears. I still struggle with looking in the mirror and finding something positive. I'm a decently good looking person, but often times, it is incredibly difficult to see that and to avoid seeing only the negative. I'm still learning to love myself, but I've definitely come to accept myself. My relationship with my parents has gotten better. I do not take criticism well from them and I get defensive immediately whenever they bring something up. My mother is still as brutally honest as she has always been and has since moved on from my hair to my weight, finances, and religious habits. It isn't as bad though and I'm able to stand it better. We have had several talks about how the way she handled it was completely inappropriate and that I should have seen a therapist long before it got to that point. I understand her reasoning though.
Well, that the story of my hair. Sorry if it is boring to you. It really isn't about you though. This is about me and my coming to accept and love myself. If anyone out there has any questions about my experience with trich, please do not hesitate to ask. I'm pretty much an open book (especially considering it is the internet and you all don't know anything about me except the few facts that I have included in this story).
I pulled from the top of my head primarily and I remember my father taking a picture of the top of my head to show me the damage that I had done to myself. It was shocking, though not shocking enough for me to stop, just enough to realize that I needed to get better at hiding it. Bobby pins and barrettes became my best friends. Sure, it looked weird to have that hair pinned down all the time, but not as weird as a gaping bald spot. During this time, I don't remember specifically what my parents did in an effort to get me to stop. Honestly, I don't remember a ton from this time at all. If we fast forward to high school, that is when I really remember things heating up.
Before I get into that time of my life, let me preface this with the fact that my mother is the most brutally honest person I have ever met. She doesn't mince her words and always speaks her mind. I love her very deeply, but the fact that she tends to dwell on the negative has put strains on our relationship in certain situations. As I entered high school, my mother was obviously concerned about my making friends. I was a shy kid who liked to read and whose hair always looked kind of weird. I was a wallflower. Even though I fell in with a good crowd (some of whom have since become my best friends and my boyfriend), my mother was still concerned about how my pulling would impact those around me. I suppose that after years of trying to get me to stop with multiple methods, she decided to go negative on the matter. She would sit me down and tell me that if I did not stop, I would be a bald headed freak that no one would want to be friends with. I would never have friends, a relationship, children all because I couldn't stop pulling. Apparently my friends and people that our family knew already thought that I was a freak and would soon be asking questions. This went on and on and on. I remember sobbing at what I believed my future held. I prayed that God would grant me the will and the strength to stop. Eventually, it wasn't just her who would tell me these things. I would see the little pile of hair that I had just pulled, or a bald spot in the mirror and tell myself that I was an unlovable, unlikeable freak. It was during this time that I kind of crumpled into myself. My self esteem plummeted as I convinced myself that I wasn't good enough for anything or anyone.
I believe that it was September of my sophomore year of high school that I made a decision. I had had enough of all of it. It was the hardest thing that I have ever done in my life, but I stopped pulling. It took time for all of the hair to grow out, but it did. It was full, dark curly hair. I almost had too much hair. I figured out how to properly style it and was so happy. My mother was beyond thrilled (though she did accuse me of pulling for months after I had already stopped). I wasn't the bald headed freak, I was the girl who got compliments from strangers on how beautiful her hair was. My heart soared.
After I graduated high school, I started to pull again. It was minor and stopped after a couple of months. It felt as though my hair grew in very quickly and I didn't have any troubles again until more recently. I started pulling again a few months ago and I have since realized that it is stress induced. Considering the fact that I work several hours a week and am a full time graduate student at the age of 20, I would say that I tend to get stressed more often than the average 20 year old. It got pretty bad for a while, but I have slowed down and have had many days where I either don't pull at all, or it is only a few hairs. It is growing out again and I still am able to wear it down and get compliments.
While this story may come across as slightly boring to any one else reading it, to me, it is a story of triumph and incredible emotion. I am still unable to talk about my trichotillomania without breaking down in tears. I still struggle with looking in the mirror and finding something positive. I'm a decently good looking person, but often times, it is incredibly difficult to see that and to avoid seeing only the negative. I'm still learning to love myself, but I've definitely come to accept myself. My relationship with my parents has gotten better. I do not take criticism well from them and I get defensive immediately whenever they bring something up. My mother is still as brutally honest as she has always been and has since moved on from my hair to my weight, finances, and religious habits. It isn't as bad though and I'm able to stand it better. We have had several talks about how the way she handled it was completely inappropriate and that I should have seen a therapist long before it got to that point. I understand her reasoning though.
Well, that the story of my hair. Sorry if it is boring to you. It really isn't about you though. This is about me and my coming to accept and love myself. If anyone out there has any questions about my experience with trich, please do not hesitate to ask. I'm pretty much an open book (especially considering it is the internet and you all don't know anything about me except the few facts that I have included in this story).
