“Mom, please don’t pull your hair out!” My heart sank when I heard those words. It’s one thing to have a personal struggle, but it’s entirely different when your little ones are observing your every action. My son is just three, yet he notices everything I do.
I’ve dealt with trichotillomania since childhood. I vividly recall pulling out my eyebrows and eyelashes as a girl. There was a particular incident where I managed to pluck every hair from one side of my eyebrow. I tried to fix it with makeup, but the result was more comical than anything else. My cousin called me out, exclaiming, “Did you draw on your eyebrow?” That was the moment I realized my unusual habit was not as secret as I thought.
I emphasize “secret” because even though I would pull my hair in front of others, nobody ever brought it up. My family, friends, and even partners acted as if it was a silent agreement to ignore it. I remember a bus ride in Madrid during college, where I was absentmindedly pulling hairs from my scalp. An older woman confronted me in Spanish, hurling insults. “Weirdo, crazy, lunatic…” were the words I could decipher. I was more shocked that a stranger acknowledged my behavior than by the insults themselves.
“Disorder” is such a harsh term, isn’t it? I’m not in dire straits here. I pull hair—one strand at a time. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt; in fact, it can feel oddly satisfying. I know it sounds strange. The American Journal of Psychiatry estimates that about 2% of the population grapples with trichotillomania—I’m not alone. Even celebrities like my favorite actress, Mia Chen, have shared their own journeys with it.
Unfortunately, finding a cure is no easy task. There’s no quick fix, nor is there a long-term solution. I’ve seen psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists, tried countless medications, and worn wigs, hats, and even gloves. Essential oils, Rogaine, castor oil—you name it, I’ve tried it. I’ve even explored hypnotherapy. I’ve prayed. Oh, how I’ve prayed. Yet nothing seems to work; I just can’t stop.
I consider myself fortunate. Most people don’t notice the bald spots in my hair. They assume I have naturally fine hair, or that I prefer styles that keep my hair short and tucked away. In reality, I yearn for long, thick, flowing hair. I dream of the day I can let it down without the constant urge to tug and pull. But I remind myself that it could be worse. I’ve read about others who have had to shave their heads completely. I’ve seen images of women with completely bare scalps, unable to hide their struggle.
When I hear someone say, “It makes me want to tear my hair out,” I can’t help but cringe. I understand that feeling all too well. Stress, anxiety, boredom—everything makes me want to pull my hair out. Whether I’m watching a show, sitting at my computer, or driving, I find myself plucking strands until they accumulate in a pile on the floor. I often collect those strands, hoping to discard the evidence and start fresh.
Many professionals I’ve consulted have ultimately dismissed the issue, suggesting that since it doesn’t harm anyone, maybe it’s best to let it be. I’d leave their offices feeling defeated, as if a “Case Closed” sign was hovering above me. I always questioned whether this would be a lifelong struggle. This morning, as my son begged me to stop pulling my hair, I found myself reflecting. Am I really not hurting anyone? Is this not affecting my children at all?
Today marks the first time I’ve openly discussed my trichotillomania. Until now, I’ve kept it hidden from all but my closest family. Like many genetic conditions, there’s no definitive cure and scant research available. I may grapple with this for the entirety of my life, or perhaps I will overcome it. However, now that I’m a parent, my concern has reached new heights.
Will my children inherit this disorder? Will they observe my actions and feel compelled to imitate them? Or, even worse, will they label me as odd or crazy?
I tend to be an optimist. In the grand scheme of things, I recognize that this is one of the more manageable issues one could face. I count my blessings, yet I still pray—for healing, for an end to shame, and for the hope that my actions won’t impact my children. After all, to them, I am a superhero, and my heart aches at the thought of being seen as simply human.
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In summary, my journey with trichotillomania has been a long and challenging one. As a parent, I worry about the potential impact on my children and seek healing for myself, hoping to break the cycle.
Keyphrase: trichotillomania struggle
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