Background--Part 3
I thought it was the end of the world.
I thought going to see a shrink was like admitting to everyone that I was a failure, a freak, a misfit. I cried and cried and cried as we drove to my first session. I was drowning in my humiliation. When had I become this weak, helpless, pathetic thing? My parents marched me inside the clinic, wanting to be anywhere but there, stiff with embarrassment at having to tell some strangers that their daughter was so fucked up that she needed to pay loads of money just to find someone who would be willing to listen to her psychobabble.
It was awful.
Things got better.
I was overcome with shame each time I stepped into the clinic. Every time I met someone's eyes, I imagined him or her judging me for being there. The sessions themselves weren't too bad, though. For the first time in my life, I had a place to go to where I could talk about what I was thinking and feeling without feeling guilty. Until then, I don't think I had ever really talked about myself much to others. I was always the person that everyone came to for help and support; they didn't provide either of these things for me. In fact, I always felt that they resented when I tried to disclose more information about myself. In my mind, I could see a giant thought bubble hovering over their heads saying, "Why is she still talking? Is she done yet? I don't give a shit what she has to say. Can she shut up so I can go back to talking about myself and my problems?" The sessions provided me with an opportunity to talk about everything.
Well, not everything.
I carefully censored what I said because I knew my parents could access these records if they wished. I had trouble openly speaking about trichotillomania. It was something so scarring in my life--it had cast such a huge shadow over me for the past several years--that I had preferred to repress it instead of thoroughly exploring my thoughts and feelings associated with it to get a better understanding of what, how and why I did it. Thus, when I was questioned about my behavior, I had nothing to say.
"I don't know."
Eventually, I was overcome with frustration. These sessions weren't stopping my pulling. I was wasting almost a hundred dollars per session, and none of it was doing anything--something which my parents kindly pointed out to me every time they discovered strands of discarded hair in the house. After a while, I refused to go. I didn't see the point. My parents gave feeble mumbles of protests, then dropped it.
As for me--I went through some phases where I didn't pull. The longest I went without pulling was a couple of months. I grew my hair out from a buzz cut to a respectable pixie cut. Then, in just a matter of days, I pulled out most of what had taken me months to grow out. I was so ashamed. I thought I had overcome trichotillomania. I was in despair again, and I couldn't get myself out. Each time I had a relapse, I buried myself a little further in my hole. It got harder to get me out. I panicked. I thought about how my parents would react when they saw the damage I had done. I tried to find extension clips, wigs, anything, by myself. I was unsuccessful.
Eventually, I lost all the hair on top of my head. I had chin-length hair from the side, and short hair at the back. Basically, I was hideous. It took hours for me to get ready in the morning. I would wear a hair band and apply mascara everywhere to try to cover up the bald spots. I went through several tubes of mascara in a week or so. It became a struggle to get out of bed in the morning. I didn't want to go to school. I didn't want to go outside. I didn't want to see anyone. I just wanted to stay in my bed and sleep and not wake up.
Then, one day, I snapped.
After a bad weekend of compulsive pulling, I woke up in the morning and I knew I couldn't go to school. There was no way. When my father pounded on the door for me to get up, I couldn't do it. I hid under the covers, wrapped around in layers of blankets. I told him I was sick, but he yelled at me to get up and go to school anyway. Eventually, I broke down. I told my mother how I was feeling, what I was going through, how I didn't want to go to school because of my hair. She tried to coax me into going, and when that didn't work, she got angry. She hung up on me, and as I sat in my room desperately trying to cover up my baldness, I honestly wanted to die.
Then, a miracle happened. Mom called one of her friends to ask for help. Her friend told her, "Listen, if your daughter really doesn't want to go to school, don't make her. That will just destroy her. Be supportive and get her a wig or something." Afterwards, mom told me I could stay at home. She told me that she would help me buy a wig. I was allowed to skip school for two days, since the wig store didn't open on Mondays. Although my dad glared and screamed at me that whole day, calling me all sorts of names, I felt a trifle relieved. I didn't much like the idea of getting a wig, but what other choice did I have?
It was the end of an era.
(Part 4 Later)
I thought going to see a shrink was like admitting to everyone that I was a failure, a freak, a misfit. I cried and cried and cried as we drove to my first session. I was drowning in my humiliation. When had I become this weak, helpless, pathetic thing? My parents marched me inside the clinic, wanting to be anywhere but there, stiff with embarrassment at having to tell some strangers that their daughter was so fucked up that she needed to pay loads of money just to find someone who would be willing to listen to her psychobabble.
It was awful.
Things got better.
I was overcome with shame each time I stepped into the clinic. Every time I met someone's eyes, I imagined him or her judging me for being there. The sessions themselves weren't too bad, though. For the first time in my life, I had a place to go to where I could talk about what I was thinking and feeling without feeling guilty. Until then, I don't think I had ever really talked about myself much to others. I was always the person that everyone came to for help and support; they didn't provide either of these things for me. In fact, I always felt that they resented when I tried to disclose more information about myself. In my mind, I could see a giant thought bubble hovering over their heads saying, "Why is she still talking? Is she done yet? I don't give a shit what she has to say. Can she shut up so I can go back to talking about myself and my problems?" The sessions provided me with an opportunity to talk about everything.
Well, not everything.
I carefully censored what I said because I knew my parents could access these records if they wished. I had trouble openly speaking about trichotillomania. It was something so scarring in my life--it had cast such a huge shadow over me for the past several years--that I had preferred to repress it instead of thoroughly exploring my thoughts and feelings associated with it to get a better understanding of what, how and why I did it. Thus, when I was questioned about my behavior, I had nothing to say.
"I don't know."
Eventually, I was overcome with frustration. These sessions weren't stopping my pulling. I was wasting almost a hundred dollars per session, and none of it was doing anything--something which my parents kindly pointed out to me every time they discovered strands of discarded hair in the house. After a while, I refused to go. I didn't see the point. My parents gave feeble mumbles of protests, then dropped it.
As for me--I went through some phases where I didn't pull. The longest I went without pulling was a couple of months. I grew my hair out from a buzz cut to a respectable pixie cut. Then, in just a matter of days, I pulled out most of what had taken me months to grow out. I was so ashamed. I thought I had overcome trichotillomania. I was in despair again, and I couldn't get myself out. Each time I had a relapse, I buried myself a little further in my hole. It got harder to get me out. I panicked. I thought about how my parents would react when they saw the damage I had done. I tried to find extension clips, wigs, anything, by myself. I was unsuccessful.
Eventually, I lost all the hair on top of my head. I had chin-length hair from the side, and short hair at the back. Basically, I was hideous. It took hours for me to get ready in the morning. I would wear a hair band and apply mascara everywhere to try to cover up the bald spots. I went through several tubes of mascara in a week or so. It became a struggle to get out of bed in the morning. I didn't want to go to school. I didn't want to go outside. I didn't want to see anyone. I just wanted to stay in my bed and sleep and not wake up.
Then, one day, I snapped.
After a bad weekend of compulsive pulling, I woke up in the morning and I knew I couldn't go to school. There was no way. When my father pounded on the door for me to get up, I couldn't do it. I hid under the covers, wrapped around in layers of blankets. I told him I was sick, but he yelled at me to get up and go to school anyway. Eventually, I broke down. I told my mother how I was feeling, what I was going through, how I didn't want to go to school because of my hair. She tried to coax me into going, and when that didn't work, she got angry. She hung up on me, and as I sat in my room desperately trying to cover up my baldness, I honestly wanted to die.
Then, a miracle happened. Mom called one of her friends to ask for help. Her friend told her, "Listen, if your daughter really doesn't want to go to school, don't make her. That will just destroy her. Be supportive and get her a wig or something." Afterwards, mom told me I could stay at home. She told me that she would help me buy a wig. I was allowed to skip school for two days, since the wig store didn't open on Mondays. Although my dad glared and screamed at me that whole day, calling me all sorts of names, I felt a trifle relieved. I didn't much like the idea of getting a wig, but what other choice did I have?
It was the end of an era.
(Part 4 Later)
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