You take one glance at me, and you most likely wouldn’t notice. You just see what you would assume of being errant hairs. But buried there is a secret I’m hiding.

I was diagnosed with trichtillomania at fifteen, just months before my offical bi-polar diagnosis. While it’s not as debilitating as the bipolar, trich has done a number on me. I refuse to wear my hair completely down. I’m scared the hair will move wrong and someone will notice. Even partly up freaks me out a little. It’s really sad, because everyone tells me my hair looks better down. Every day I feel the increasing urge to pull. It’s like a burning sensation in my hands sometimes. I’m likely to rip your head off if you comment on me about it, if I’m in the middle of pulling. It can be a single strand at a time, or large chunks.

The saddest thing of all of it is that it undermines me, my self-esteem, and my self-confidence is doing things. If I can’t stop pulling, how can I expect to be a good mom, a good girlfriend/wife, a good daughter, sister, friend? Seeing the piles, and yes, some places have piles, makes me want to either cry non-stop, or just end it all. I hate feeling like this, and I hate the stigma I’m putting on my children. Ethan’s already starting to imitate, and that just breaks my heart. I don’t want that pain to be on him. He deserves so much more.

To those that read my journal, this is something very big for me, to admit it, out in the open, that I’ve got this problem. The first step is admitting. Maybe now, I can find a way of dealing with it, and helping to keep myself from doing it. Behind the “cut” are pictures of what I’m talking about.

Basic view of me.

The top of my head, what’s usually being hidden. The white spots are my scalp, meaning bald spots