Trichotillomania:

The Unspoken Shame Emerges From the Shadows

I'm sitting here at my computer, feeling like a freak. As of this evening, my eyebrows are but a memory---they didn't get singed off, they didn't fall out due to chemotherapy---no, my eyebrows are missing because I sat in my living room and methodically pulled them all out. I did not use eyebrow tweezers, nor did I pluck them in front of a make-up mirror. I used the tips of my short fingernails and just kept pulling and pulling until my brow stung and I began to resemble some sort of bizarre alien from "The X-Files."

I suffer from a particularly severe form of trichotillomania, a multi-syllabic word meaning an obsessive/compulsive urge to pull hair from my body, hair from my eyebrows, eye lashes and from my scalp. I have been caught in this horrific trap since I was fourteen years old. I hid behind dark classes and wore kerchiefs, hats and never took any of them off. I could not let anyone catch onto my secret little nightmare. That would have elicited nasty and cruel comments from my fellow students. My parents would think I was mentally ill and lock me up somewhere. So I hid in my room. I hid and pulled, often so absent-mindedly that I didn't realize what I was doing until each and every eyelash was gone. I looked like one of those old-fashioned China dolls. What could I do about this problem if I was too terrified and mortified to let anybody know about it? Was I the only one on the face of this earth who engaged in this twisted method of self-mutilation? Oh, God, I thought. Was I just a pathetic freak of nature that would someday wind up in a circus sideshow?

Sometimes I hoped to die and be released from this behaviour. I just wanted to fade out of existence with my ugly brows, eyelash-less eyes and bald spots on the sides of my head. What if someone found out???

Does this sound familiar to anyone out there? If so, you have come to the right place. I am in the process of creating a website for fellow sufferers of trichotillomaia. Welcome, all who have come here for answers, for companionship and, most importantly, for help and compassion from one who still struggles with this disorder and who is just now facing the problem head-on.

I will tell you some of what you can expect from this site in the not-too-distant future: I am writing poems, stories and articles to post here, including a novel entitled, "China Doll." It is my hope that, in helping to bring trichotillomania out of the dark, obscuring closet in which it has been trapped for so many years, I can not only help myself overcome the disorder, but will be able to pass on to you what I have learned. I have far to go. I still pull, particularly after the tragic events of September 11th. As a matter of fact, my eyelashes had almost grown in completely and I was preparing to celebrate. When the terrorists attacked the World Trade Center, I lost all of the freshly-grown lashes in a matter of a few days. Back to square one.

You know, until I saw a segment on "Dateline NBC" about trichotillomania, I thought I was the only person who had ever done these self-destructive things. After the show aired, I wept with relief that it was a known condition and that information could be obtained that might help all of us. I suddenly felt less hopeless and less alone. It was a wonderful revellation.

Freak

I am a freak of nature
Facing the world hairless,
Hopeless and ashamed.

Welcome to my seething, brutal nightmare.

Holding the Mirror

How can I possibly stop?
It serves me well, as it always has.
My face is the canvas on which I can paint
A stark testament to my hollow loneliness.

People stare at my ravaged eyelashes and brows.
Some are repulsed; others snicker and move on.
I am forever trapped in my self-constructed hell.
If pulling is my salvation, then why do I cry?

Standing On the Precipice

Mama, you raised me as well as you could.
My problems are certainly not of your making.
We looked alike once, but not anymore.
Hell, I could be the offspring of an otherworldly entity.

Mama, I'm going away--far from every last crumb of my pain.
Don't hate me for leaving you--please understand
I've outstayed my welcome and caused you much grief.
I love you and so I must give you release.

What Pulling Does For Me

I can actually feel the saliva forming in my mouth and the more I pull, examine and eat, the more intense this warm, comfortable release. There's no more pain, no more self-hatred and no more craving for chocolate or desire for sex. Who needs those things when pulling is my constant companion. My hands shake as I pull, slowly at first and then faster, faster and ever faster, whipped into a frenzy while my mind remains in neutral. I think of nothing or no-one. There's just me and my pulling, sitting on the bathroom floor and glancing at the hair that could easily be woven into a strange, human afgan.

Then, the pulling stops. As my lashes are but a distant memory, I am deluged with shame, remorse and sadness. I must confront the world tomorrow with no eyebrows. The lashes warbled their swan song earlier last week. There was just the eyebrows. Now it will have to be scalp hair because I cannot give up my friend. My pulling friend. My friend that is actually my enemy in disguise. The high is gone. The warmth is gone. And the sexual release is gone. There's just me, a circle of discarded hair keeping me prisoner on that cold, tile floor.

So I cry, I berage myself harshly and then I try to move on. I make an attempt to justify my actions: Well, Julius, my beloved cat, swallows fur---maybe I'm part cat. My mom thinks I am because they all adore me. I love cats more than just about anything.

....except pulling. There's just nothing with which to replace it.

This is a picture of an isolation cell at a maximum security prison. That's what pulling is REALLY doing for me: Keeping me prisoner, alone in my mightmare. I'm sure there are many of you out there who feel the same way and my heart goes out to you all.

Here's some vintage pictures of Michael Stipe, Peter Buck and Mike Mills, the three remaining members of my favourite band of all time, R.E.M. I'll be posting some related stuff with them, including pictures. We all need a pleasant diversion now and again.

Here is the first in a series of short stories concerning people who struggle with trichotillomania. The second part will be posted tomorrow.