“Mommy, please don’t pull your hair out!”
When my daughter uttered those words, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Having a personal habit is one thing, but having little eyes watching your every move is another world entirely. My daughter might just be 4 years old, but she’s keenly aware of my actions.
Trichotillomania has been my unwanted companion since childhood. I can vividly recall the days of plucking my eyebrows and eyelashes. There was that one memorable incident when I accidentally yanked out all the hairs from one side of my brow. I attempted to fix it with makeup, and let me tell you, the result was nothing short of a disaster. My cousin caught on immediately, “Did you draw your eyebrow on?” she exclaimed, and that was my wake-up call. People were starting to notice my peculiar secret.
And I stress the word secret, because even though I would pull my hair in plain sight, no one ever spoke of it. It was like a taboo subject in my family, friends, and even at work. I remember being on a crowded bus in Barcelona during college, mindlessly tugging at my hair when an elderly woman approached me, launching into a furious rant in Spanish. “Weirdo, crazy woman…” were the few words I could decipher. I was more taken aback by her boldness than the insults themselves; it was the only time a stranger confronted me about my condition.
“Disorder” is such an ugly term, isn’t it? I mean, I’m not exactly on the brink of death here. I’m just a girl pulling at her hair one strand at a time. It doesn’t hurt; in fact, it feels oddly satisfying. I know how strange that sounds, but I’m not alone. The American Journal of Psychiatry estimates that around 2% of the population grapples with trichotillomania. Even Olivia Munn, my ultimate woman crush, has opened up about her experiences.
Unfortunately, there’s no quick solution or even a long-term remedy. I’ve consulted psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists. I’ve tried every medication under the sun—well, it feels that way anyway. Wigs? Check! Hats? Yup! Gloves? Of course! I’ve lathered my scalp with essential oils, Rogaine, and castor oil. I even dabbled in hypnotherapy. I’ve begged and prayed, oh how I’ve prayed. Yet, nothing seems to work; the urge is simply unshakeable.
I consider myself fortunate. Most people don’t notice the sparse patches in my hair. They assume my fine hair is just a natural trait or that I prefer the short, ponytail look. Spoiler alert: I don’t! I long for thick, luscious locks and daydream about letting my hair flow freely, without the incessant compulsion to tug and pull. But I remind myself that it could be worse—so many others have it far more challenging. I’ve read stories of individuals forced to shave their heads and seen images of women with bare scalps, unable to conceal their struggle.
When someone says, “It makes me want to tear my hair out,” I can’t help but cringe. I know that feeling all too well. Anxiety, boredom, stress—everything seems to trigger it. Whether I’m binging a show, staring at a computer screen, or driving, I find myself plucking hairs one by one until they collect into a little pile on the floor. Often, I gather those strands, hoping to dispose of the evidence, yearning for a fresh start.
Many of the specialists I’ve seen eventually dismissed my issue. “It’s not hurting anyone,” they’d say, leaving me feeling hopeless with a heavy “Case Closed” sign hanging over my head. I often wonder if this is a lifelong battle. Just this morning, when I heard my daughter plead with me to stop pulling my hair in the car, I questioned whether I was truly not affecting anyone or if my actions would have consequences for my children.
Today marks the first time I’m openly addressing my trichotillomania. Until now, I’ve kept this struggle hidden from everyone except my closest family members. Like many genetic disorders, there’s no definitive cure, and research is scant. Perhaps I will grapple with this issue for the rest of my days, or maybe I will overcome it. But as a mother, my worries have intensified.
Will my kids be susceptible to this disorder? Will they absorb my habits and feel compelled to replicate them? Or worse, will they label me as “weird” or “crazy”?
I’m generally an optimistic person. I recognize that in the grand scheme of things, this is a relatively manageable issue compared to what others face. I count my blessings, yet I still pray—for healing, for an end to the shame and self-hatred, and most importantly, that my actions won’t influence my children. Right now, I’m their superhero, and my heart aches at the thought of one day being reduced to just “mom.”
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Summary:
Navigating life with trichotillomania has been a secret struggle for me, especially now that I’m a mom. The journey of self-discovery and healing has led me to consider the impact of my habits on my children, while also seeking understanding and support from resources available to those dealing with similar challenges.