Trichotillomania: the urge or desire to pull out one’s body hair.

Although this is how you define trichotillomania, it is not how you define me. I began this self-destructive and horrifying disease my freshman year of high school. I hadn’t even noticed I had done it, and I definitely didn’t realize I had done it enough to leave a blinding bald spot on the top of my head. But I had, and my classmates were the ones to discover it and tell me. Comforting, right? I took my phone into the school bathroom to check the situation further. The next day, I was sent to the guidance counselor by my English teacher. He pressed me on the subject, not necessarily in a bad way, making me understand what I was doing to myself. I figured I could stop, it never once occurred to me I couldn’t. I didn’t realize I was subconsciously doing it, so once I did, I could stop. Right? Six years later, I am still trying to crack the code on how to stop this self-destruction.

When I went home that day and showed my mom, her hands flew over her mouth and her eyes widened with fear. It was one of the most disheartening moments of my life. She was freaked out by me, my own mother. I ran to my room, locked the door, cried and continue to do it. The battle had just begun. Little did I know over the next six years, many moments like this were to come.

Like that summer, when my dad told me my hair was “so pretty, I shouldn’t be pulling it out”. Or two years later, when one of my classmates suggested in front of an entire cafeteria that I should “put some miracle grow on the bald spot on the back of your head (bitch)”. Nice. Or the hundreds of nights I sat in front of my mirror, phone in hand, checking the different angles of my head and their situations. And crying. And cursing myself. And truly, fucking hating myself. I wore six clips in my hair at once just to keep the newly growing hair tamed. People then poked fun at me for the clips. It was a never ending cycle of self-hatred.

Trichotillomania is described as an anxiety induced obsessive compulsive disorder. The worst thing of having this disorder is not feeling badly about yourself and lack of self-control, it’s not the feeling of being a freak, it’s the visibility. Everybody can see when you have trich. Piles of hair used to collect on the floor next to my desk in high school. Everybody knew. My classmates watched me hurt myself, every day. And I couldn’t stop it. I need to take a moment in this article to thank the kids I went to high school with, to thank my best friends. They made this bearable for me. My best friend Courtney did my hair for every. single. occasion. No matter how difficult it was to tame the peach fuzz, to cover the lacking spots. She tried for hours. She understood, she made it a priority to make sure I felt good about myself and my hair. Even if it were homecoming and she still had her own god damned hair to do. My girlfriends didn't complain when I insisted we get ready at my house, with my own hair tools and strategies to cover the spots. My teammates softly took my hand away from my head when they saw me do it. Senior year, my hair grew enough to wear a ponytail - a huge success for me. I felt beautiful walking into Rocco's, even if I still had to wear an obnoxious headband to keep the flyaways down. A girl in the grade above me stopped by our booth, "El, your hair looks really good!" I almost went to the bathroom to hide my tears. These moments meant the world to me.

Self-harm is an extremely hard thing to understand if you have never, well, harmed yourself. I remember one of the jackasses in my high school asking my boyfriend at the time if he “pulled my hair out, because I was probably into that shit”. I am a strong girl. I have always been one to ignore the toxic things people said, or really just not care. But these things killed me on a different level. And what hurt the most was that people didn’t understand. I often got irritated with my friends and family when they urged me to stop. Because I could, for forty seconds. Until my hand wandered up to my head again. And their encouragement just made me feel more of a failure.

They say trichotillomania is a result of depression, anxiety. But it’s hard for me to believe that. I am a genuinely happy person, and even during the happiest times of my life, I pulled. I can’t describe to you how fucking good it feels. And if you don’t do it, you won’t understand, and I am happy for you for that. But I am really over trying to figure out what trichotillomania is, what influences it, causes it, because that just makes me feel worse. But what trich has taught me six years later, at the age of twenty, is to love myself. Luckily, I had amazing people who made it possible for me to live life outside of my disorder. I went to parties, I played sports. I still became captain of the field hockey team, I still became president of our athletic club (trivial/subtle brag, let me have this one.) I still took AP classes. I still made out with boys. I didn’t let trichotillomania take my life over the way it took over my scalp. And that was a choice I made for myself.

We are a society obsessed with appearance. A girl’s hair is one of her most favorite and feminine features, and it certainly was mine. Still is. Because the patches of fuzzy hair on my head don’t show failure, they show strength. Every hair on my head is one I have not touched yet. And hopefully, soon, I will have so many of these hairs nobody will notice they were missing in the first place. My patchy spots are signs of survival, battle, struggle. Although I am trying to quit, this may be something I always battle with. But that’s okay. Because I no longer hate myself for things I can’t control. And I understand the power of addiction way better now. I don’t break my mirrors, wear my hair in buns, or explain myself anymore. Because I am who I am, and trich isn’t who I am. It’s just a bad, bad addiction I try to shake every day. I used to curse myself for that; I now commend myself for it.

For those who struggle with self-harm, know it is not who you are. I’ve learned that everybody has their ticks. Some people have trouble sleeping, some people eat an entire box of chocolates uncontrollably, some people cut themselves. Some people pull their hair out. The world is so fucked, can you blame us for inevitably finding solace in pain? I think we all do in some way. If you know someone dealing with self-harm, don’t pass judgement. Think about the things you dislike about yourself, but can’t help. Are they really so different? At fourteen, I was a scared, insecure little girl who hated herself. Who was constantly reminded of how much she hated herself by loose hairs, weird stares, hair ties, hair spray, headbands. Pictures, oh, pictures were the worst. Now? I am a 20-year-old young woman, who has seen pain and addiction take its most powerful forms, and who rises above it. I love myself for all the things I have done right, not the small things I’ve done wrong. I am a girl who by not judging herself, neglects to judge others. What other people think of me is not my business, and vice versa. What I know is trichotillomania has not made me a weak, self destructive person. It has made me a blooming, accepting, and understanding human being.

For that, I am forever grateful. But I will always try to break this cycle.

One day at a time.