Pathophysiology of Trich

When geneticists wanted to know if hair-pulling was genetic or not, they played with the DNA of mice and altered several genes to see if these symptoms would be present.

Mice showed symptoms of hair pulling.

LINK

This link also discusses why Trich is not like OCD and the differences in the brain that back this up. I would suggest a good read.

Marijuana Reduces Urges to Pull

Strangely enough, as I was doing research on the long-term effects of cannabis, a random thought came into my head.

If it is known to help reduce stress and anxiety, could it help with hair-pulling?

Search results sent me to a link of a practitioner, licensed to distribute medical marijuana, who claims that all the patients who had been suffering from hair-pulling felt less urges after smoking marijuana. And not just less, significantly less. 

"My patients explain to me that marijuana relaxes them, reduces their anxiety and reduces their urge to pull their hair out. They still struggle but their symptoms are largely reduced to the point where they see hair growth. They also feel less social anxiety and feel more comfortable in public."

I cannot freely admit that the idea was attractive at first, but after finding out that there are several other ways of using marijuana that do not include smoking (I love my lungs dearly) then I was intrigued. 

After all, if it helps severe trichsters (and I am only moderate) then I suppose it could help me as well. 

"If you are suffering from Trichotillomania, I would recommend giving this treatment approach consideration."

Please keep in mind though, that this is only a temporary relief. Further investigation showed that Trichsters are not cured by this (unless of course you will smoke marijuana everyday until you die). Cannabis helps reduce anxiety symptoms and, as others have claimed, the "subconscious need to pull". Again, this is not a cure and only a temporary relief, so it is suggested that marijuana is used only during times of high stress and anxiety.

The Demon That I Call Trich

I am in a dark, muddy gutter of guilt and self-hatred, digging myself deeper with what's left of my torn and fleshy fingernails. I have no shovel, no rope and my cries are gurgled by the acid rains that keep filling my cradle.

There are heavy chains of wide, gaping links that bind me to the grave I am trying to dig out of. Deep down, I have a Demon, oh yes. He thrives off my hair follicles every time they free the shadows in which he lingers.

His skin is fleshy and shredded, yet he licks his fingers and smiles with a bloody mouth. Droplets of red from the edges of his stained smile. Whispering temptations into my hands in a language I do not speak. 

He sends his seething parasites under my scalp where they scratch from the inside with a dull nail, calling for me to free them.

I had met him once you know. My Demon. 

He appeared from my stomach and came out my mouth. My eyes were swollen and wet. I had dry heaves from trying to get him out of my system, but when we finally did meet, I realized that I was lonelier without his company.

So back I let him into his beautifully furnished penthouse suite. Best view in the house.

That was a few years ago, and he is long overdue for an eviction.

The hardest thing I ever did was admit to myself that I was a hair-puller.

At first I was convinced it was a bad habit, and in a sense, it really was. I told myself I could stop whenever I wanted to. I just didn’t want to badly enough.

Then came the day when I was exhausted. I was tired of being obsessed with being obsessed. Constant checking and checking. Is my hair in place? Did my eyeliner smudge?

I would observe people from a distance and wonder what it felt like to be them. How it felt to rub your eyes when you’re tired, or let your hair down.

I look at people who complain about thick cuticles or a pimple, and wonder what it’s like to be within the extent of those worries. How easy and simple it must be to lead a life where the worst case scenario is a zit on your nose.

Eventually I discovered that there was such a thing as hair-pulling, and it wasn’t just some freakish habit I concocted. I was relieved because I wasn’t as isolated as I thought, but now I had an excuse to do it. I have Trichotillomania. And while grasping a freshly torn hair between my fingernails, I would justify my pulling because now it was a disorder, not just a bad habit.

This was accompanied by a willing sense of weakness. I would like to believe that this is out of my control, and every frock I pull forth is a result of an illness in my mind that is beyond fixing. And I don’t know if it’s the years of failed attempts, or the episodic waves of baldness, but any hopes existing or prior have been drowned out.

A full head of hair and thick eyelashes equate to utter and complete happiness in my world. Forget huge mansions and private jets. How can people not see how easy it is to be content? I can’t even fathom the joy and calmness of rolling out of bed without a second thought. I have never learnt such an emotion.

All the black pencils and eyeliners, the fake lashes, the weird hair-dos. I wake up every morning to change myself; to change what I look like. I am guilty of fooling the world and ashamed that I have to do it. Ashamed that I don’t give myself any other choice.

I am kind and generous. I never judge people and I never put anyone in a position to feel uncomfortable. Yet my face doesn’t reflect any of that. All it shows is a self-infliction of ugliness.

This is not who I am. 

And I don’t understand why this is who I have become.




End Note: This is a blog entry I contributed to Trichster.com for their up-and-coming documentary about Trichotillomania.