I vividly recall the moment I first recognized that I was different from my classmates. I was around eight years old when I revealed to a friend a small white box filled with the eyelashes I had pulled out. “That’s not normal,” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with disbelief. While I had begun to notice my eyelash pulling as a peculiar behavior, I hadn’t yet grasped that it was anything outside the realm of ordinary. It would take me another six years to learn that my actions had a name: trichotillomania—a hair-pulling disorder marked by the compulsive pulling of one’s hair.
Though often linked to obsessive-compulsive disorders, trichotillomania is categorized as an impulse control disorder. The areas of the body impacted can differ widely among individuals; for me, eyelash pulling began at the age of seven or eight, followed by eyebrow pulling around age eleven or twelve. According to the TLC Foundation for Body-Focused Repetitive Behaviors, approximately 1 in 50 people will experience trichotillomania at some point in their lives.
Having dealt with this condition for over 24 years, I struggle to recall a time when trichotillomania wasn’t a part of my life. As I matured, I grew to accept my situation, though living with trichotillomania has often been challenging. Early on, I learned how harsh and judgmental people can be toward what they don’t understand. I faced bullying and name-calling from peers, along with disapproval from family and friends.
For as long as I can remember, the goal of “stopping the pulling” has topped every list of aspirations I’ve created. My self-worth became intertwined with this objective, leading me to believe I couldn’t be whole or successful without achieving it. This mindset was reinforced by the common remarks I frequently heard, like “Just stop pulling” or “You need more willpower.”
When my partner and I began trying for our first child, I vowed to stop pulling for the umpteenth time. I feared that my disorder would impede my ability to be a good mother. Hair pulling consumed a significant portion of my time and energy, and I couldn’t picture being a caring, mentally stable mom while also grappling with this habit. Shame, one of the first emotions I associated with trichotillomania, led me to believe my future children deserved a “normal” mother who didn’t pull out her facial hair. It’s amusing now to reflect on what I thought a “normal” mom should be; I realize now that there’s no such thing.
When I became pregnant with my son, Lucas, my eyebrows were sparse, but I was managing my pulling. I had a vision of being completely pull-free by the time he arrived. However, the stress of pregnancy quickly revealed that this goal was more challenging than anticipated. After Lucas was born, I had managed to regrow most of my eyebrows and eyelashes, but my pulling resumed in full swing shortly thereafter. It started innocently during long breastfeeding sessions, but before long, I found myself back to square one—completely lacking both eyebrows and eyelashes.
One evening, I broke down to my partner, Max, expressing my shame and frustration over not being able to control my pulling for Lucas’s sake. I had naively thought that my love for him would serve as the ultimate motivation. In that moment, Max asked, “Why do you want to stop pulling now that you’re a mom?”
I started listing my reasons: I didn’t want my kids to see me pull, I feared they’d think I was weak, and I worried they’d feel embarrassed by me. Max then asked me if I was concerned about other kids teasing Lucas. This question made me pause. I realized I wasn’t worried at all about other children mocking Lucas because of my appearance. In today’s world, with trends like microblading and bold makeup, a mother drawing on her eyebrows is hardly shocking. What if I could turn my hair pulling into a teaching moment for my children, shaping my own narrative around it? Just because I had associated shame with my disorder didn’t mean I had to pass that on to my kids.
Suddenly, I felt a surge of motivation—not to stop pulling, but to use my experiences as lessons for my children. I want to instill values of inclusiveness, acceptance, and compassion in them. My son is still young, approaching three, so I have time before he starts asking questions about my lack of eyebrows and eyelashes. When that day comes, I want to share with him that everyone is unique and has their own struggles. It’s important to me that he understands that true beauty transcends appearance. I want him to know that I love myself despite my imperfections and that he will always be cherished for who he is.
For more insights on navigating motherhood and personal challenges, check out our post about effective home insemination techniques on Home Insemination Kit. Additionally, if you’re exploring options for starting a family, Make A Mom offers valuable resources on self-insemination. Lastly, for those interested in fertility services, Johns Hopkins Medicine provides excellent guidance on intrauterine insemination.
In summary, living with trichotillomania has been a journey of self-acceptance and redefining what it means to be a “normal” parent. I aim to teach my children about the importance of self-love and acceptance while embracing our unique differences.
Keyphrase: Living with trichotillomania
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