The most misunderstood aspect of it though, even by sufferers themselves, is the shame associated with it. It is so consuming. I think that it is the worst part of hair pulling. If I could just walk around with my ugly hair and have self-esteem... but it debilitates me. The shame is what causes being anti-social, uncommunicative, depressed, anxious.
I have best friends who I haven't talked to about trichotillomania, or anything about my hair for that matter. Not that they don't have any clue, but they don't go there. It's pretty obvious that I'd rather pretend that no one knows.
Not to mention that when I first found out about the diagnosis, and the condition was becoming pretty extreme, I began telling those around me and received some pretty hurtful or embarrassing words.
My highschool boyfriend asked why I don't just pull from down south, that way I pull but it wouldn't affect my scalp. Boy, that was brilliant. I know some people do that, but it's not a matter of choice for me. I have no desire to pull anywhere but my scalp other than sometimes my eyelashes. That is my compulsion. Not skin picking or pulling from anywhere else, even though it's all related technically. Not for me.
My husband once said, after I told him I had been pulling again after the 10 month hiatus, that "I need to just stop."
I'm pretty open with my husband, there was a time when I couldn't talk about the hair pulling with him. Now though I am an open book with him and can tell him when it's a difficult day or where my bare spots are forming. Though I haven't shown him the recent ones. Anyways, that's why it bothered me so much that he said that, he should have known better. He's read more books on this than I have. He's great support and by far the most understanding and patient person I know. And he told me I just need to stop it.
The worst though was when I told my mother. We have always had a horrible relationship. We just don't like each other, if you can imagine. She really doesn't like me. She's proud of me, loves me, blah blah blah. But she can't stand being around me and we just don't get along. The feeling is completely mutual.
So, as you can imagine, the teenage years were tough. I didn't live with her. But before I left, when the situation was getting really bad, so was the hair pulling, I printed out probably a dozen pages of info on Trichotillomania and told her that I can't stop it and I'm losing my hair.
She got mad at me. She told me that my Aunt was going through chemo for breast cancer and was losing her hair without choice. Here I was doing it to myself, how could I be so selfish? My hair used to be so pretty, I just want attention.
I don't remember being surprised by her. But it still hurt.
I can understand her being sad that her daughter was losing her beautiful hair, it was the part of me that she took most pride in. It was always long and very thick and had a nice shine to the golden brown color. She was always getting compliments on it when I was smaller. And now it was littering her living room floor and her daughter was ugly.
My daughter has beautiful hair, it's long for a two year old. It has big curls but still reaches her mid back. It's soft and fine and shiny golden brown. I imagine that I'd mourn the loss of her hair should she ever lose it for any reason. The child is already showing some serious OCD tendencies, and it scares me. Not that she'll pull, but that she'll suffer from the world of anxiety like I have. I know what it does to friendships and relationships and jobs and concentration and self-esteem.
My husband asked me if I'm ever jealous of her hair. I love that he asks deep questions like that, and that I could be completely honest with him should the answer be a bad one, and I know I wouldn't be judged. But I'm not jealous. Not of her, I want the world for her. I'm jealous of the shampoo commercials, and girls I see that can let their hair down and flip it into the wind. In fact, seeing it and playing with it and doing it for her inspires and motivates me. Her hair is the most natural kind of beautiful there is. Her hair has never been touched by a curling or straightening iron, it's never been colored or highlighted. It's hardly even had a trim. Anyways, I could understand my mother's sadness, and I could even understand her utter lack of support and compassion/understanding. But it definitely played a role into what I would become in regards to my trich. Alone. Ashamed.
So yesterday... I pulled 6 hairs. 2 were on complete accident, but 4 were a result of me playing with my hair and the strand just kind of slipping out without a lot of effort on my part. But it was my fault. The 2 accidents I could forgive and still call it "day two", but the 4 I can't ignore. Huge successes throughout the day though, and I also can't ignore those. I have to celebrate those. So many times I found one that needed to get out, and I left it. So many times I resisted. That is a huge deal! It may not have been 'day two', but it was a good day.
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