Background--Part 1
I can't remember a life without trich.
I'm not exactly sure when I started pulling. My parents are firmly convinced that it started when I was in 8th grade. I was struggling through some issues at the time, and I think it makes them feel better to be able to associate my hair pulling with a concrete event in my life. It affords them a kind of an explanation for my "abnormal" behavior.
It's been a pretty horrible journey. I've been pulling for around 6 years, counting from 8th grade. It's hard to condense all of that into a single journal entry, but I'll try my best.
At first, it was just a source of annoyance to those around me. My parents and sister were irritated that I kept messing with my hair. I remember them telling me to stop, which would only increase my desire to pull. It was almost an act of defiance or rebelliousness when I pulled back then.
And then it turned into something more.
I used to have shoulder-length, thick hair. As I continued to pull, my part became wider. It started to drive my family crazy. My father, in a fit of rage, told me that I was "psycho" and a "freak." He threatened to lock me up in a mental hospital if I didn't stop. They told me they were disappointed in me. They asked me why I couldn't stop. Why wasn't I trying hard enough? It was just a bad habit. Why couldn't I break out of it? Why was I being so silly? Why couldn't I fix it? WHY? WHY? I was disappointing them. I was letting them down. Every day, they would scan the floor of the house and pick up any strands of hair they found. They would shove it in front of my face and ask what was wrong with me.
I didn't have the answers. I tried to stop. I just couldn't.
The summer after 8th grade, my mom took me to get my hair chopped off. I emerged with chin-length hair and bangs. I thought it would be all okay. It was a new beginning.
I entered high school. People began to ask me strange questions: Did I have cancer? They told me they didn't like my haircut. I wondered why--until I stood in the bathroom one day with my back to the mirror and held up another mirror to see what my head looked like from behind.
There were bald spots everywhere. Before, because I could feel the prickly new hair growing out from spots I had pulled weeks ago, I had assumed that I didn't have any bald areas. I was wrong.
I threw myself on my bed and cried. I cried for my hair. I cried for myself. I cried for my parents. Mostly, I cried because I was in despair. No one understood what was going on--not even I. I had no answers. Everyone around me was ashamed of me. I had no one to turn to--no one who offered me kind words or encouragement or who tried to understand what I was going through. I felt myself beginning to crack. After everything I had gone through, everything I had dealt with, this self-destructive act was going to be the thing that made me break! I went to pieces bit by bit. I was like a sheet of ice that had been stepped on by too many people. For years, I accepted and bore the weight. For years, I was okay. I wasn't fine, but I was okay.
And then, suddenly, I cracked. I wished I could go to sleep and not wake up. I was horribly depressed. I spent a lot of time wishing that it would all just go away--that the pain and stress and suffering would end. All my life, I had always been the one that people went to for comfort. I was always the one that cared about everyone--the one that heard everyone's problems and tried to help them solve it. I was always the middle man. And I was the one everyone blamed when things went wrong.
I was there for everyone.
Who was there for me?
I wanted someone who would hug me, tell me it would all be okay, tell me the things I told them--"I love you. I'm so proud of you. You've been doing so well. You can overcome this. I have faith in you. I love you unconditionally."
Instead, I had people who condemned me for my failures. People who told me I was crazy, insane, psycho.
And I kept losing hair.
(Part 2 Later)
I'm not exactly sure when I started pulling. My parents are firmly convinced that it started when I was in 8th grade. I was struggling through some issues at the time, and I think it makes them feel better to be able to associate my hair pulling with a concrete event in my life. It affords them a kind of an explanation for my "abnormal" behavior.
It's been a pretty horrible journey. I've been pulling for around 6 years, counting from 8th grade. It's hard to condense all of that into a single journal entry, but I'll try my best.
At first, it was just a source of annoyance to those around me. My parents and sister were irritated that I kept messing with my hair. I remember them telling me to stop, which would only increase my desire to pull. It was almost an act of defiance or rebelliousness when I pulled back then.
And then it turned into something more.
I used to have shoulder-length, thick hair. As I continued to pull, my part became wider. It started to drive my family crazy. My father, in a fit of rage, told me that I was "psycho" and a "freak." He threatened to lock me up in a mental hospital if I didn't stop. They told me they were disappointed in me. They asked me why I couldn't stop. Why wasn't I trying hard enough? It was just a bad habit. Why couldn't I break out of it? Why was I being so silly? Why couldn't I fix it? WHY? WHY? I was disappointing them. I was letting them down. Every day, they would scan the floor of the house and pick up any strands of hair they found. They would shove it in front of my face and ask what was wrong with me.
I didn't have the answers. I tried to stop. I just couldn't.
The summer after 8th grade, my mom took me to get my hair chopped off. I emerged with chin-length hair and bangs. I thought it would be all okay. It was a new beginning.
I entered high school. People began to ask me strange questions: Did I have cancer? They told me they didn't like my haircut. I wondered why--until I stood in the bathroom one day with my back to the mirror and held up another mirror to see what my head looked like from behind.
There were bald spots everywhere. Before, because I could feel the prickly new hair growing out from spots I had pulled weeks ago, I had assumed that I didn't have any bald areas. I was wrong.
I threw myself on my bed and cried. I cried for my hair. I cried for myself. I cried for my parents. Mostly, I cried because I was in despair. No one understood what was going on--not even I. I had no answers. Everyone around me was ashamed of me. I had no one to turn to--no one who offered me kind words or encouragement or who tried to understand what I was going through. I felt myself beginning to crack. After everything I had gone through, everything I had dealt with, this self-destructive act was going to be the thing that made me break! I went to pieces bit by bit. I was like a sheet of ice that had been stepped on by too many people. For years, I accepted and bore the weight. For years, I was okay. I wasn't fine, but I was okay.
And then, suddenly, I cracked. I wished I could go to sleep and not wake up. I was horribly depressed. I spent a lot of time wishing that it would all just go away--that the pain and stress and suffering would end. All my life, I had always been the one that people went to for comfort. I was always the one that cared about everyone--the one that heard everyone's problems and tried to help them solve it. I was always the middle man. And I was the one everyone blamed when things went wrong.
I was there for everyone.
Who was there for me?
I wanted someone who would hug me, tell me it would all be okay, tell me the things I told them--"I love you. I'm so proud of you. You've been doing so well. You can overcome this. I have faith in you. I love you unconditionally."
Instead, I had people who condemned me for my failures. People who told me I was crazy, insane, psycho.
And I kept losing hair.
(Part 2 Later)
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