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.
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.
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