Trichotillimania II-My Story

The following post is one of a series about a hairpulling disorder I have struggled with. The first post can be found here.

When I was ten years old, I would play Doctor with my brothers. I was usually the doctor, and would perform all of the really important doctorly duties--you know, take a good look at the earwax, clean out the belly button lint, like I said: all the crucial things a good doctor does. This list grew to include checking for loose eyelashes (because nobody wants to have an eyelash get in their eye-ouch!). Soon I was checking for my own loose eyelashes on a regular basis. I would hold my lashes between my fingertips and gently tug to see if any were on the verge of falling out. One day during school I had looked down to see five eyelashes on my desk. "Wow!" I thought "Good thing I'm checking for these, because I have a lot of loose ones!" It became an obsession. Soon I was pulling more fiercely.

I tried to devise a reward system with my mom to help myself stop. Lifesavers if I didn't pull for a week. A big mickey mouse T-shirt that I had seen in the mall if I could go a whole month. I don't think she realized the intensity of the mental battle I was trying to fight. She may have even thought I was milking the situation to see what I could get out of it. I love my mom to death, and I know that if she had realized at the time the effect that this little problem would have on my life, she would have done everything she could to help me in that moment. So we settled on a maybe for the T-shirt after a month. That was just too long for my little brain to be able to sustain. And so I kept pulling. I pulled out my eyelashes through grade school, Jr. High, and High School. I also picked a lot at my face and skin.

Just before my 18th birthday, I moved away from all my family and friends to go to college. It was a very stressful, overwhelming time for me. Along with my previous picking, I started chewing ice and pulling out hair on the top of my head. I would run my fingers through my hair, again looking for any loose ones to discard (no one likes to have loose hair dangling from their shirt, right?), and searching for hairs that weren't straight, or had more texture than the others. These I would remove. The problem would ebb and flow; sometimes I would have to chew ice every ten minutes; I was destroying my molars. Sometimes I wouldn't pull out my head hair for a few weeks, but the eyelash pulling would be worse.

Weeks before I met my wonderful husband-to-be, I went through a really bad spell. Possibly the ending of a serious relationship and my father's death contributed. I pulled every single eyelash on my left eye, and all but four or five on my right. As a single young adult this was devastating. Nobody was ever going to want do date me. I looked like a freak. Everyday I would have to get up early and spend an hour putting on little clumps of fake eyelashes until they looked almost real. On the days I overslept, I layered on the eyeliner 1/4 inch thick. My guess is most people couldn't really tell I had no eyelashes, something just looked a little 'off', and like I really needed a lesson in cosmetology. My day on campus consisted of continuous runs to the bathroom to make sure my fake eyelashes weren't falling off, or that my eye liner hadn't smeared to leave a gaping hole where my lashes were suppose to be.

Luckily, men are not as observant as we sometimes hope they are. When the Mr. and I first struck up a relationship, I thought for sure he had noticed. He hadn't. One day I was sitting on my hands as I read a textbook next to him in the library. He asked why I was, and I broke the news: If I don't I'll pull out my hair.
"What?" I showed him the stubble that was finally starting to grow on the tips of my eyelids. I watched his face, wondering if I should have waited a few more weeks to tell him something so intense. But, it was a part of my life, and he needed to know. I was afraid he wouldn't want anything to do with someone who obviously had serious 'issues.' I should ask him what he was really thinking that day. He handled it so well. He asked me questions about it, and then the subject changed. And our relationship progressed. And I began to realize something: I am not trichotillomania.


To be continued...