Guest Contributor: Natalie Tim
Teacher • Writer • Mental Health Advocate •
‘Trichotillomania,
also known as trich, is when someone can’t resist the urge to pull out their
hair. They may pull out the hair on their head or in other places, such as
their eyebrows or eyelashes. Trich is more common in teenagers and young
adults, and tends to affect girls more often than boys.’ (NHS)
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Before it
all began…
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I don’t remember starting it. I only
know that I must have been about 10 years old thanks to my childhood photos -
photos I would look at in pain. There’s a particular one I have ingrained in my
mind: Disneyland, 1995. A photo of me, my sister and Charlie Chaplin wedged in
the middle. There I am on the left. 10-year-old me. I look ill.
The ‘when’ it started probably isn’t
as significant as the ‘why.’ I’ve spent years trying to figure out the ‘why.’
And to be honest, the jury’s still out on that. There are a few factors - could
be one or the other. Or (and most likely) a combination of them all. But it’s
important to talk about these factors because they are jigsaw pieces to the
puzzle that is my understanding of the condition and thus, my eventual self-acceptance.
10 years old. Now, there are
indisputable links between hair pulling and stress and anxiety. (I’m sure
you’ve heard the expression ‘I’m pulling
my hair out,’ uttered by people (often flippantly and not at all literally)
during times of stress.) So, this begs the question: ‘what could a 10-year-old
have to be stressed about?’
In the UK, something very significant
happens at this age: children transition from primary to secondary school. This
was definitely an anxiety-inducing time for me. Pressure was rife as I moved
from a mixed, comprehensive primary school (a place where I was popular, happy
and, more importantly, settled,) to an all girls’, high-powered, private high
school. The unknown.
I’ve always been conscientious and
have only ever wanted to do well. But in that environment, it felt too hard. I
was never a match for the other girls - the girls who had been privately
educated since starting school at 4, the girls much more prepared for what lay
ahead. For what I wasn’t. I struggled and I felt like a failure. And for a
perfectionist, that didn’t sit well. Then, throw into the mix all else that
comes with being a teenage girl at high school: body image, bullying,
competition. I was already at a disadvantage with the lack of eyelashes (and
subsequently eyebrows when the condition ‘spread.’) I was also endowed with
terrible acne, goofy teeth and pale skin. I had no chance. So, yes, perhaps all
of this made me start pulling out my hair.
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On the cusp
of high school
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| – lacking the lashes… |
But it wasn’t just school. Other things
happen around that time - things we can’t ignore. The peak age of onset for Trich
is between 9 and 13. (And not all sufferers worry about moving onto high school
and struggle there for the many reasons I did.) Hormones are all over the place
at this time. Puberty hits and we are thrown into a world of confusion and
frustration. And so maybe that was also a factor: an uncontrollable hormonal
tension within me.
Whichever the above, the fact of the
matter is that I have this condition.
For me, it began as a subconscious
habit - I really didn’t know I was doing it. (It’s different now, though. I
know I’m doing it. I choose to do it. Most people carve out time in their busy
schedules to meditate, read, and exercise. I carve out time to pick out hair
from my body.) I remember the willpower I once had in trying to stop. I would
wake up one day and decide that was it. I’d had enough. And I would work really
hard, each day, to abstain, proudly ticking off each ‘Trich-free’ day in my
diary and revel in the glory of my success. One day would turn into two, two to
three, until, during the more successful periods, I was ticking off week after
week. I lost that willpower at some point. (Which isn’t a bad thing - I’ll come
back to that in a bit.) Because on the days I couldn’t stop myself and ruined
my ‘clean sheet,’ I’d feel awful. A failure, yet again.
But the willpower did exist there for
a while. And it was strong. But that was, ironically, for the wrong reasons.
The Trich took over my life. Every waking moment I spent in a deeply depressive
state because of it. It didn’t occur to me back then, younger, insecure me,
that feeling this way was silly. After all, it was purely cosmetic – there was
nothing physically wrong with me and I was lucky, really. (And whilst I will
never negate the awful way it made me feel and the consequences it had on my
life, I do now count myself very lucky, now that I accept it as a part of me,
that it is purely cosmetic – something that I can cover up if I want to – but
that does not affect me physically. I can appreciate that now, now that it
doesn’t impact me mentally; it doesn’t impact my self-esteem or my self-worth.)
But back then, it made my life a misery. I wouldn’t do the ‘normal’ things a
teenage girl would do. ‘Normal’ would’ve been to go out with friends, socialize
freely and generally participate in conversation with others. I didn’t want to
do any of those things. I was scared. I didn’t want to be noticed. To be
noticed, to be ‘caught out,’ would’ve been the end of the world for me. (I
remember the feeling of my heart quicken - deep, pulsating thumps in my chest -
every time it looked like someone who got too close to me would notice I had no
eyelashes. That fear haunted me constantly.) So, I hid. And, consequently, led
a very lonely childhood.
In the early stages, I was taken to
the doctor. My mum thought my lashes were falling out on their own and there
was some underlying medical issue that needed to be addressed. I think I was
too scared at this point to tell my mum that I was doing this to myself, that I
was self-inflicting this awful pain. The doctor (unsurprisingly) couldn’t find
a physical diagnosis. And it wasn’t until a little later on that I eventually
revealed all to my mum. She was shocked and asked I stop. Willingly, I agreed.
If only it was that easy.
The second trip to the doctor is a
memory I will never forget. It’s one of those bittersweet things: at the time
it wrecked my world; now it reminds me of my strength and determination and my
ability to do whatever I put my mind to, regardless of the odds against me. I
don’t blame this doctor. Back then, information about Trich was sparse,
ignorance rife. After my mum told him what was going on, he looked at me and
asked me what I wanted to be when I was older. A teacher. ‘Well, no-one will employ you as a teacher if you do crazy things like
that.’ (I completed my teaching qualification immediately after my university
degree and have been a successful high school English teacher, as well as an
in-demand private tutor, ever since. Funny how I felt a failure at school – I
had a special skill there all along (we all do) I just hadn’t yet discovered
it…)
Like I said, I don’t blame the
doctor. There was hardly anything out there, information-wise, about Trich.
Rewind twenty-three years and we’re living in a world very different to today.
No mobiles, no internet, no online world. This was all before one quick google
search would present a wealth of information on any desired topic. What did we
have back then? Encarta. A CD that you’d insert into your per-historic computer
which had limited, non-updateable, information on a narrow choice of topics. So
not only did I not understand it, people around me didn’t either. That’s what
made it harder (but what also makes it easier today.)
My solution back then, like I said,
was to hide away. But hiding didn’t always work. Because even if I didn’t make
myself known, I was still there. And it was obvious to the naked eye that
something wasn’t quite right with my face. And so I was the subject of comments
and questions from those around me. ‘What’s
wrong with your eyes?’ ‘Where are your eyelashes?’ ‘Are you ill?’ And
that’s when those thumps in my chest came alive. Worries cramped my mind: if
people found out, they’d think I was weird; no one would want to be my friend;
no one would want to go out with me. And sadly, because of these worries, my
self-worth was none.
The teenage years were probably the
hardest - a time where you become more self-aware and self-conscious. So, as
soon as I could, I wore thick black eyeliner, both to give the illusion of
having eyelashes and to pencil in my eyebrows. A profile view from afar and I
was safe. (And the thumps in my chest temporarily eased.) But get closer or
look at me sideways and I’d be ‘caught out.’ So, I remained introverted and
withdrawn. I never thought anyone would understand or accept this thing about
me – this thing that for me, just felt weird. I felt ashamed and, again, like a
worthless failure; I was doing something I hated and I couldn’t stop. And I
paid the price in other ways. I allowed people who did know about the Trich to
treat me badly. Because in my mind, if they were willing to know me, in spite
of it, that was enough for me. I was lucky. I should be grateful. (Thankfully, the more and more open I became
and the more and more I learnt about it and realized I wasn’t weird and that I
wasn’t ugly and I wasn’t unworthy of good people in my life, that ended.)
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Wearing
thick make-up
|
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| to cover up the Trich… |
Just as I don’t remember starting it,
I don’t remember exactly when I realized it doesn’t define me and does not make
me any less of a person than the next. Quite the opposite, in fact; if
anything, it has made me the open-minded, empathetic and supportive person I am
today. And for that, I’m truly grateful. Before, I said I don’t have the same
willpower I did back then to stop. And that that was a good thing. It is.
Because what motivated me so deeply to stop back then (feelings of ugliness,
desperation to be accepted, wishes that I was normal) no longer exist.
People ask me how I got to here.
Again, jury’s out. And again, a combination of potential factors. I discovered
fake eyelashes and semi-permanent make up and I slowly engaged more in normal
life. People commented again but the comments were different this time: ‘Your eyelashes look lovely.’ ‘Are your eyelashes real?’ ‘Where did you get your eyelashes from?’ And somehow, behind the fake lashes and the
semi-permanent make-up, I found the strength to tell the truth: that I wear
them because I don’t have my own. (Oh and that they’re Cheryl Cole’s!) And when
the reaction was one of understanding and sensitivity, I spoke more openly
about it, even discovering others (people in my very own, albeit distant,
family) also had some experience of the condition themselves – either
personally or through someone they knew.
I no longer rely on my fake lashes
and semi-permanent eyebrows. (I will leave the house now without them and I
feel liberated when I do so.) But they both gave me the confidence I needed
temporarily before I found the confidence without them. I don’t feel the need
to be accepted. I look back on my life and all that I have achieved and now realize I accept myself and anyone else is a bonus. And normal? Well, yes I am
a bit different. Whilst Trich is actually quite common, (which we know now
thanks to the recent spreading of knowledge and information) it’s not something
you come across every day. But being different is cool.
Coming to these realizations has
meant I no longer allow Trich to impact negatively on my life. In fact, I use
it in a positive way. Thanks to google, thanks to social media and thanks to
our world becoming increasingly more open-minded, it’s not a big deal anymore.
I know I’m not alone. Type in the hashtag #trichotillomania onto Instagram and
what comes up? 58,154 posts. (And that’s not including the 33,823 for the
abbreviated version #trich.) Thousands and thousands of people in the world
sharing their stories, documenting their experiences and offering support to
others. Not only without shame, but with pride. And I never in a million years
thought I’d be one of them. But here I am.
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| THEN |
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| and NOW! |
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