Background--Part 2
I went through phases when I stopped pulling. I’m not really sure how or why. I would grow out my hair long enough to look normal—and then I would pull it all out. I would stop and let it grow out again—then destroy it all over again, in a matter of days.
People stared at my hair when I talked to them--and made no pretense of hiding what they were doing. I always wanted to sink to the floor without a ripple or trace whenever this happened. Did they really think I didn't notice? Did they really not see that every disgusted glance they threw my way was like a knife sticking into me? Once, the mother of a fellow student asked me to take off my hat and show her my hair. I mumbled some excuse and ran off, my heart burning with the realization that people talked about me behind my back when I wasn't around. I found out that my sister would casually talk about my condition with her friends and boyfriends--as if it didn't kill me every day to have to live with this. As if it was something funny. When I confronted her about it and told her how upset I was that she had revealed something so personal about me to people I barely even knew, she said, "What's the big deal?" She conveniently forgot that she herself freaked out whenever she thought I was talking about her to other people. I hated her. Mostly, I hated myself.
Eventually, it got to a point where I was really, really bald. I had some wisps of longer hair here and there, alongside areas where there were strands of hair only a couple centimeters long. I hated going to school, where people would stare as I walked down the hall--where teachers would scream at students for wearing bandannas or hats. I wanted to hide away from the world. I wanted to fold into myself and cease to exist. I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want to struggle aimlessly, day after day, to try to stop something that I felt I had no control over. I didn't want to hear my parents tell me that I had let them down for the umpteenth time. I didn't want to look in the mirror and hate myself for what I saw.
I was desperate.
And I still couldn’t stop.
I tried anything and everything. I tried taping my fingers. I tried wearing bandannas and hats at home. I fiddled with hacky sacks. I even tried to cut open my fingers once, in the hopes that it would make it impossible for me to grab a strand of hair and pull. It was harder to do than it sounded —I couldn’t press down the blade enough to do any actual damage.
I began applying mascara to areas that were deficient of hair in an attempt to disguise the bald spots. I dreaded the wind and water. Gym was hell. Then, I started cutting my hair off in an attempt to stop the urges. Pretty soon, I had cut away most of my hair. It was even in length—all barely a few centimeters long. I kept all of this from my parents by wearing bandannas non-stop at home. I refused to let them see me without my head covered. Of course, at school, I had no choice but to walk around drowning in my shame, suffocating in the tangles of hair that looped around my throat. I knew that sooner or later, my parents would issue an ultimatum, or make an unequivocal demand, ordering me to show them my hair. Eventually, I pretended to go to a hair salon to get my hair cut. I borrowed money from my parents and locked myself in a restroom in the apartment complex that we lived in. I slathered mascara all over my head to try to make the regrowth look thicker and fuller. I then went home and pretended that I had gotten a buzz cut at the salon.
Things were better, sort of. I didn’t have long enough hair to be able to pull. That’s when I became obsessed with the evenness of my hair. It seems that I had to fixate on my hair in some way. If I couldn’t pull my hair, well—I could cut it. I used scissors. I used razors. I cut away little snippets of hair from areas where I felt the urge to pull, or where I thought the hair was growing back in an unruly manner.
During three weeks of summer camp, I alarmed everyone there by first showing up looking like a boy, and then by going around obsessively cutting away the little hair that I had left. I later found out that some student had complained to a counselor about it. I learned that the counselors thought I was insane; they even considered informing the director of the camp, who was my piano teacher. When I first heard all this, I thought I would die of humiliation and embarrassment. My heart pounded in my chest and I felt the blood rush up to my face. It felt like someone had delivered a very well-aimed kick to my stomach. I think I always assumed that no one knew what I did when I pulled my hair—a little piece of fiction that I probably came up with as an act of denial. I didn’t want people to know, so I imagined that they didn’t know.
That was the summer of my 9th grade.
With careful maintenance from my parents, I managed to grow out my hair a little bit more. By the time 10th grade started, my hair was probably several inches long.
And I couldn’t leave well enough alone.
I started sneaking little moments to cut my hair. I hid it from my parents the best I could, sweeping the area clean afterwards and flushing the evidence down the toilet. I was obsessed with having even-length hair everywhere. I was convinced that if I just cut a little more, my hair would look perfect.
Eventually, my parents got wind of what I was doing. They had several “talks” with me, telling me to leave my hair alone. I didn’t listen. I couldn’t. I continued to cut away. Whenever they confronted me, asking if I had cut my hair that day, I always said no—much like how I always denied pulling my hair out back when I had hair long enough to pull. They called me a liar. They asked me how they could possibly trust me when I continually lied and let them down.
I didn’t have the answers.
I wanted to scream and cry and shout at them—I wanted to make them feel as terrible as they made me feel. I wanted to tell them, “Why do you think I don’t tell you? Why do you think I lie? Maybe if you didn’t react the way you always did, I would feel comfortable enough to admit what I did and get help and support from you.”
Eventually, my parents decided they had had enough. They declared that I was going to get counseling.
I was going to have to see a shrink.
(Part 3 later)
People stared at my hair when I talked to them--and made no pretense of hiding what they were doing. I always wanted to sink to the floor without a ripple or trace whenever this happened. Did they really think I didn't notice? Did they really not see that every disgusted glance they threw my way was like a knife sticking into me? Once, the mother of a fellow student asked me to take off my hat and show her my hair. I mumbled some excuse and ran off, my heart burning with the realization that people talked about me behind my back when I wasn't around. I found out that my sister would casually talk about my condition with her friends and boyfriends--as if it didn't kill me every day to have to live with this. As if it was something funny. When I confronted her about it and told her how upset I was that she had revealed something so personal about me to people I barely even knew, she said, "What's the big deal?" She conveniently forgot that she herself freaked out whenever she thought I was talking about her to other people. I hated her. Mostly, I hated myself.
Eventually, it got to a point where I was really, really bald. I had some wisps of longer hair here and there, alongside areas where there were strands of hair only a couple centimeters long. I hated going to school, where people would stare as I walked down the hall--where teachers would scream at students for wearing bandannas or hats. I wanted to hide away from the world. I wanted to fold into myself and cease to exist. I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want to struggle aimlessly, day after day, to try to stop something that I felt I had no control over. I didn't want to hear my parents tell me that I had let them down for the umpteenth time. I didn't want to look in the mirror and hate myself for what I saw.
I was desperate.
And I still couldn’t stop.
I tried anything and everything. I tried taping my fingers. I tried wearing bandannas and hats at home. I fiddled with hacky sacks. I even tried to cut open my fingers once, in the hopes that it would make it impossible for me to grab a strand of hair and pull. It was harder to do than it sounded —I couldn’t press down the blade enough to do any actual damage.
I began applying mascara to areas that were deficient of hair in an attempt to disguise the bald spots. I dreaded the wind and water. Gym was hell. Then, I started cutting my hair off in an attempt to stop the urges. Pretty soon, I had cut away most of my hair. It was even in length—all barely a few centimeters long. I kept all of this from my parents by wearing bandannas non-stop at home. I refused to let them see me without my head covered. Of course, at school, I had no choice but to walk around drowning in my shame, suffocating in the tangles of hair that looped around my throat. I knew that sooner or later, my parents would issue an ultimatum, or make an unequivocal demand, ordering me to show them my hair. Eventually, I pretended to go to a hair salon to get my hair cut. I borrowed money from my parents and locked myself in a restroom in the apartment complex that we lived in. I slathered mascara all over my head to try to make the regrowth look thicker and fuller. I then went home and pretended that I had gotten a buzz cut at the salon.
Things were better, sort of. I didn’t have long enough hair to be able to pull. That’s when I became obsessed with the evenness of my hair. It seems that I had to fixate on my hair in some way. If I couldn’t pull my hair, well—I could cut it. I used scissors. I used razors. I cut away little snippets of hair from areas where I felt the urge to pull, or where I thought the hair was growing back in an unruly manner.
During three weeks of summer camp, I alarmed everyone there by first showing up looking like a boy, and then by going around obsessively cutting away the little hair that I had left. I later found out that some student had complained to a counselor about it. I learned that the counselors thought I was insane; they even considered informing the director of the camp, who was my piano teacher. When I first heard all this, I thought I would die of humiliation and embarrassment. My heart pounded in my chest and I felt the blood rush up to my face. It felt like someone had delivered a very well-aimed kick to my stomach. I think I always assumed that no one knew what I did when I pulled my hair—a little piece of fiction that I probably came up with as an act of denial. I didn’t want people to know, so I imagined that they didn’t know.
That was the summer of my 9th grade.
With careful maintenance from my parents, I managed to grow out my hair a little bit more. By the time 10th grade started, my hair was probably several inches long.
And I couldn’t leave well enough alone.
I started sneaking little moments to cut my hair. I hid it from my parents the best I could, sweeping the area clean afterwards and flushing the evidence down the toilet. I was obsessed with having even-length hair everywhere. I was convinced that if I just cut a little more, my hair would look perfect.
Eventually, my parents got wind of what I was doing. They had several “talks” with me, telling me to leave my hair alone. I didn’t listen. I couldn’t. I continued to cut away. Whenever they confronted me, asking if I had cut my hair that day, I always said no—much like how I always denied pulling my hair out back when I had hair long enough to pull. They called me a liar. They asked me how they could possibly trust me when I continually lied and let them down.
I didn’t have the answers.
I wanted to scream and cry and shout at them—I wanted to make them feel as terrible as they made me feel. I wanted to tell them, “Why do you think I don’t tell you? Why do you think I lie? Maybe if you didn’t react the way you always did, I would feel comfortable enough to admit what I did and get help and support from you.”
Eventually, my parents decided they had had enough. They declared that I was going to get counseling.
I was going to have to see a shrink.
(Part 3 later)
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