I was 12, and it was summer when I started pulling out my hair—not massive clumps, just a strand at a time, tearing my scalp until it bled. It’s not the first time I remember so much as my mother remarking, “You’ll have to get that sorted before you go back to school”.
Trichotillomania is formally classified as an Obsessive Compulsive-Anxiety Disorder, resulting in damage to the body. It most commonly manifests in the early teens, and people experiencing Trich can find themselves repetitively pulling at their hair, eyebrows or eyelashes.
It’s not regarded as self-harm, rather as a repeated, familiar control mechanism.
Of course, I didn’t know that at 12. I didn’t even know that what I was doing was a recognized condition until I was 19 and finally found the courage to Google ‘why am I pulling my hair out.’
Hair pulling is often categorized alongside depression, anxiety, panic and eating disorders, but when I eventually went to find answers about Trichotillomania, I found incredibly little.
Although I read a report claiming that two in 50 people deal with Trich in their lifetime, I haven’t met another person who has experienced the condition.
Acknowledging Trichotillomania
Recently, I read a study on coping with hair pulling that mentioned feelings of deep shame. Growing up I never spoke about what I was doing because I honestly thought I was going insane.
My parents repeatedly confronted me about it, worried about the cuts on my scalp, but it was such a huge source of embarrassment and confusion to me that I always just shouted at them and told them that they didn’t understand.
It was me who didn’t understand, and that frightened me more than anything I’ve ever experienced. My childhood was trauma free, I have always had a close group of loving friends and I’ve been fortunate in so many other ways. Why was I doing this to myself?
Until last year, I had never talked to anyone openly about experiencing Trichotillomania. I remember sitting on a swing in the local park one evening when I was about 14.
A boy standing behind me noticed the tears in my scalp and said, “Oh my god, what happened your head?” I can still feel the rush of blood to my cheeks and the hot pricks of embarrassment, terrified that someone had seen what I was doing to myself.
I mumbled something about burning my head accidentally with a straightener and swiftly changed the conversation.
For many years I couldn’t bring myself to tell my friends. Logically I knew they would have done anything to help me, but the irrational voice inside my head was telling me this is not normal, this is wrong, this is something you should hide and be ashamed of forever.
I lived with hair pulling, just me and the voice of shame, for seven years before maturity caught me and helped me to look for answers.
Because there has been relatively little conclusive research done into Trichotillomania, those living with it can feel isolated and strange. I still don’t know why I started, and I don’t know why I stopped (for the most part).
Anxiety and obsession
I’ve always been particular about my eyebrows, but until recently I never made the connection between this obsessive compulsion and Trichotillomania.
My friends will tell you that going on holiday, my checklist goes: passport, phone, money, tweezers. I’ve never pulled my eyelashes, but even imagining a stray hair around my eyebrows used to drive me into a state of anxiety. I was not a fun person to be around if I couldn’t find my tweezers.
One summer before I went on holiday, I shaved my underarms twice a day for about two weeks and gave myself an infection. The most ridiculous point of my hair compulsion came one morning in the middle of an inter-railing trip in Croatia.
It was 6am, I had just spent almost 24 hours on a train and our accommodation was closed. The rational decision was made to go to the beach until our accommodation opened, but I couldn’t.
I was surrounded by some of the most beautiful ocean in the world, and the only thing I could think of was that I hadn’t shaved my legs that day.
It was all in my head, my own imagination consuming me, but I couldn’t bring myself to go anywhere until I had completed my ritual of hair removal, and I didn’t care who I had to shout at or annoy to get my way. So, we sat in silence until the shops opened at 9:30, and I shaved my legs in a public bathroom.
Living with Trichotillomania
I can’t end this piece with an easy, five-step solution for how to cure Trichotillomania because I don’t know why I stopped myself. I spent last summer living in America with my friends, and when I came home, I realized one day that I hadn’t pulled at my hair in weeks.
I wasn’t riddled with anxiety because I’d mislaid the tweezers. I felt okay in the knowledge that I hadn’t shaved my legs the previous day.
I think my attitude towards myself has changed in the last three years. I find it easier to be alone with my own thoughts these days. I gradually told the people closest to me about my journey with Trichotillomania, and it doesn’t seem so scary or weird anymore.
I’ve accepted that it will always be a part of my life or (hopefully) just my past.
If I could speak to a room of young people living with Trichotillomania, I would tell them that they are okay. I would tell them that just because their condition is less discussed in the media compared to other anxiety and OCD issues, they are no less important and they are not alone.
I would tell them that even now, from time to time when I’m stressed, I feel my hand twirling my hair, toying with the idea to pull it out—and that’s okay, too.
Everything I’ve read about hair pulling talks about the struggle with Trichotillomania, the suffering that people endure. We all have our demons, but whatever you are experiencing in life, you will learn to live with it or it will pass.
My experience with Trichotillomania has not been a struggle; it has been a journey.
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