Trichotillomania and Me (Pt. 1)

I remember the first time I pulled out a hair. I was 10 years old, and my mother and I were reading books on the couch. I was surprised by the way the root looked: cylindrical and white except for the black dot on the very end. My mom told me to stop. I ignored her.

And here we are twelve years later.

What is trich?

Trichotillomania (trich for short) is the fancy word for pulling out your hair. Mental Health America defines it as "...a body-focused repetitive behavior classified as an impulse control disorder... which involves pulling out one's hair. Hair pulling may occur in any region of the body in which hair grows but the most common sites are the scalp, eyebrows, and eyelids."

It usually starts between the ages of 9 and 13, so I'm right on track there. It's often hereditary, affecting several people in one family; however that's not always the case. It also typically affects females although males can be affected as well.

The Beginning

As previously stated, I did not heed my mom's advice. I kept pulling out my hair. Soon enough I had a bald spot the size of a quarter on the top of my head. It quickly became a source of physical annoyance and mostly, shame. I started wearing bandanas a lot to protect it because I sunburn easily and spent a lot of time outside as a kid. That lead my bullies to come up with the obvious but still stinging nickname "Bandana Bum." I never was bothered by the name specifically, but rather by the thought that my source of shame was so close to being discovered and taunted.

A sleepover led to one of my brief lapses in pulling. One of the girls from church was having everyone over for her birthday. I wasn't too close with most of them but was always invited because it would have been too obvious to just leave me out. So here I was: in middle school, vulnerable, and in a situation where I wanted to impress the people around me.

We were just old enough to get flat-irons and straighten our hair, and so everyone was taking turns getting their hair straightened. When my turn arrived, the owner of the flat-iron said tentatively, "Aren't you a little thin on top?"

I don't remember if I got my hair straightened or not.

I don't believe the comment was meant maliciously, but it changed me. After that, I felt no desire to pull out my hair. My hair grew back. My family and close friends were proud and congratulatory.

It was a hollow victory though. I have never completely stopped pulling out of sheer will. I don't have the self-control for that. Every time I have stopped it's because the desire simply wasn't there. Still, this was a marker in my story with trich.

Therapy and Eyelashes

My parents started taking me to therapy for the pulling sometime in middle school. I don't remember much: her (fake) name was Ouida, her office was dark, and I didn't like going because it seemed like a waste of time and I wanted to play outside. She suggested I play with a koosh ball or rubber band. If there was anything revelatory, I can't recall. The therapy helped nothing for me.

At some point (I don't know when), I started pulling out the eyelashes on my top eyelids as well. Perhaps I was in search of a new challenge. Who knows? No matter the reason, a full set of eyelashes ceased to exist for me and has not returned since then. Sometimes they're all gone; usually half are there, but never a full set. Only once in twelve years have I come even remotely close to having them all back. People noticed and asked, but it wasn't enough to make me stop again.

I wouldn't come close to stopping for another ten years.

To be continued.

Articles Referenced:

Trichotillomania (Hair Pulling) on Mental Health America