Of all the things that come along with having mental illnesses, the shame that comes with trichotillomania has been the most unexpected and many times the worst. My anxiety and ADHD objectively affect my life more, but somehow trich feels so much more personal. I canāt control my brain; itās not my fault that the chemicals it makes are all out of whack. But my hands? I canāt even control my fucking hands, no matter how simple and easy it seems like it should be. And no matter how hard I try, that still feels like my fault. My failure.Ā
I donāt have nice hair. Other people think I doāthey admire my loose curls and say itās so long and looks soft and how well this color suits meābut all I can see is the damage. The thin and bald spots Iāve carefully arranged my part to cover up. The frizz that looks like breakage but is actually because so much of my hair is growing out at different lengths. The effort I have to put into doing my makeup to cover the bare patches in my eyebrows and eyelashes.
The way Iāve been paranoid all day that someone will notice, or that they did and just didnāt say anything.Ā
And when itās not the damage, itās the action itself. I have no idea what I look like to other people when I sit playing with the ends of my hair or obsessively run my fingers through it. I donāt know how noticeable it is when I just go back and forth, back and forth, head to floor, pulling out strand after strand. I know my roommate sometimes notices when I have to collect the pile afterwards and throw it in the trash.
There is so. Much. Shame.
The shame of seeing myself in the mirror after a bad relapse, with my eyelashes or eyebrows gone again after Iād been so good for months and theyād finally all been grown back in.
The shame the last time I cut my hair and realized just how much thinner it was on one side, because I usually pull with my non-writing hand.
The shame of having to wear hats and gloves even just sitting at home, partially to hide the damage and partially as barriers so I wonāt cause it.
The shame when I look at pictures from a few years ago, when my hair was actually full and grown out and beautiful, and wonder if Iāll ever get to that point again.
The mingled shame and embarrassment and relief when one of my few trusted friends notices me pulling and tells me to stop and I have to ask them to hold my hand because otherwise I canāt.
So many times I just canāt, even though Iāve got gloves and mindfulness exercises and a whole bag of fidget toys that Iād only need to stop for a second to grab.Ā
There are times when I literally sit crying in front of the mirror, pulling my hair out, telling myself to stop and watching myself not stop.
I donāt know how to stop, and honestly I know Iāll never be able to. This is just something to live with and try my best to manage. But my best seems so, so pathetic.
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