“You’re either like me or not. It took me 20 years to learn how to love yourself. I don’t have time to convince anyone else.” ~ Daniel Franze
Everyone has bad habits, right? Whether it’s a major vice or a small nuisance, we all feel the discomfort of at least some of the actions we don’t have.
I know I have a car that can double as a handy garbage container, like biting nails, turning hair, or procrastinating…
I have committed all of the above sins at some point in my life, but the most impact on me is Trichotyromania or pulling my hair.
If you’re not used to it, “trich” is a condition similar to OCD (although it’s not actually the type of OCD, and often it’s wrong, people experience difficult urges to pull out their hair.
Cases can vary from mild to severe, with some pullers able to manage impulses with strategies and coping tools, and hair removal can be prevented from being detected by casual observers. However, other patients suffer so much from it that they either lack the entire line of eyelashes and eyebrows, or even completely adorized as a result.
You may know someone who has this condition, as many people suffer from shame and silence, but you may not know it. The estimated rate of trich in the US is around 1-4% of the population (although the actual number is probably much higher due to underreporting), and is as common as red hair.
No one knew I had been pulling my hair out for 20 years.
I was 12 when my mother noticed some aldish spots on her head (trich generally starts in puberty). I honestly didn’t know the damage at first. Certainly, I played a lot with my hair and I knew I would pull it out from time to time, but certainly, I wasn’t doing enough to cause aldish spots, right? It was unknown, so I kept quiet as she made an appointment with me to see the doctor about it.
When the initial treatment for fungal infections of the scalp did not bring about improvement, the next step was to meet a dermatologist. By then I knew I was the person causing hair loss, but my shame and confusion prevented me from talking about it. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t stop it.
The dermatologist conducted several tests, including a biopsy, and diagnosed the alopecia aleata, a condition that causes alopecia. Conveniently, around the same time, my granddad developed alopecia Areata (in real case) baldness. And when we were informed that it was a genetic condition, no one really asked me about it.
As a teenager, I needed a lot of effort to style my hair to hide the spots of my hair, and sometimes I had to clean up a pile of secrets of hair between my bed and the wall, but for the most part I lived a normal life. While reading an article in the teen magazine Cosmogirl, I learned in my mid-teens what I did had a name. It was a complicated thing I have never remembered for years, but my first inkling may have been my strange impulse not alone.
I graduated from high school, got an associate degree, got married and had children. I was very embarrassed by the lack of hair, but when it wasn’t hidden, I was relying on my condition, even on my husband, as my trusty excuse.
I was 32 years old and was working towards a master’s degree, sitting in the therapist’s office on campus, when I was first opened up about hair pulling. In addition to the 80 miles of distance between home and school, the confidentiality of the promised treatment helped alleviate my fear that others were only enough for me to experience it.
He was still a new therapist in training. I remember he asked me after revealing my humiliating habit.
“Because I’ve never told anyone before.”
As I answered, I could see the surprise in his face. “Have you ever told anyone?”
I looked at him again before he completed his training and moved me to another, more experienced therapist. Now they both knew the secrets of my life. It’s not an exaggeration to say that this new therapist has led me to life-changing insights, but he still knew nothing about how to treat Trichotyromania. “Let’s focus on everything else first,” he redirected.
A few months later, I gathered enough courage to share my problems again with a close friend who has OCD. I listened to her story with such concerns and care about her daughter, so she felt safe. I then asked her, “Do you think I’m crazy?”
Soon, I pulled my hair to my husband to disclose, and he answered with what I now call “pseudo support.” He wanted me to help, but only if he could become my savior. He was fine as I told a few people in his family, but there was no one there.
I wanted to go to those who learned about national conferences hosted by an organization called TLC and pulled hair and picked skin. My husband agreed that it might be helpful, but I didn’t think I could travel on my own (as I almost certainly get lost at the airport or encounter other tragic calamities), so he offered to come with me.
After I moved and filed for divorce, I attended the meeting alone.
What I experienced at the meeting was incredible. I was surrounded by hundreds of people. I knew that I hadn’t been reviewed a few days ago than I had been in the past.
That evening, at dinner, I sat at a large round table of eight people chatting about my hairstyle and skin picking experience. For the first time I talked about how my hair was pulling freely. The experience was freed so I could feel the shame slowly beginning to melt.
Gradually, I shared Trich with a growing list of people. I began to weave it into casual conversations.
When I started dating again, I decided to tell the man up front to help him “weed” anyone with a problem with it. By then I was cautiously optimistic that I might be worthy of acceptance, and no one who responded with judgment was good for me.
Surprisingly, when I continued to speak out, I found the information to be generally well received. Some people shared that they either have Trich or know someone. Others were curious and asked questions to help them understand it better. In other circumstances, the conversation started to move naturally.
Of course, we met occasionally. There, I felt awkward and misunderstandings, but I continued to move forward to be seen. Over time I realized that I had long stuck to my secrets based on the inaccurate assumption that others would not accept me if they knew…but I was proving myself wrong to every new person I opened up.
Today I found that wigs are the perfect solution for me and that they have become a fun hobby, as many other wigwearers have experienced. The wig secretly sails my hand into my hair and prevents it from pulling. And even when I play with my (buyed) hair, the sensations stay in my hands, rather than tracking it down to my scalp to begin an impulse. I also noticed that the slight pressure on my head from the wig significantly reduces the urge to pull.
When someone praises my hair, I ask why my wig is very open and curious, and I share that I have a confident trich. I understand that I can hold boundaries and refuse to provide explanations, but I choose to take the opportunity to spread awareness.
It wasn’t easy or comfortable to move into radical self-acceptance through my numbing shame, but it was well worth the trip. Through these experiences I have a deeper understanding of shame, confidence, acceptance and myself.
Shame is toxic and I have learned to separate us from truly meaningful connections. When we embrace a part of ourselves in our closest relationship, we tell ourselves that it’s not enough as we are. This perpetuates the belief that we are broken or unworthy, and that we can only accept it if we portray alternative versions of ourselves in the world.
When I gained confidence, I learned that it is best to start with a leap in faith. Change begins with entertaining the idea that if we share our true selves, we may not be rejected, and taking action to test it.
We all learned that it is worth it. As we do, no modifications are required and there is no string attached – and when I accept myself for myself, the others continue together. When I meet someone who expects radically different things to fit my agenda, I choose to limit the energy I put in that relationship.
Most importantly, I learn the power and freedom of being faithful to myself and don’t keep it a secret.
