Trichotillomania or Compulsive Hair Pulling

To me, the word “trichotillomania” or TTM, sounds like a newly discovered STD. It’s long, hard to pronounce, and up until just recently, meant absolutely nothing to me. It’s the type of disorder that you only see on TV- vague, impossible to fathom, and would never happen to you… until it does. What is TTM? Trichotillomania is currently defined as an impulse control disorder (for now- more research is still needed) that causes people to pull hair from their scalp, eyelashes, eyebrows, pubic area, underarms, beard, chest, legs or other parts of the body. Most of my research on my disorder started after I had already lost most of my hair. I had asked my doctor about it, and instead of giving it a name, she simply said, “It’s part of an anxiety disorder”. She prescribed me Zoloft, an antidepressant, and told me that it would help with both the anxiety and depression that I was experiencing. For two months, I religiously took the Zoloft, praying that I would get some kind of relief. Instead, my days consisted of sitting on my couch, pulling and inspecting each strand until it was time to pick up my kids from daycare. I was a complete zombie. Yes, the Zoloft did decrease the number of crying episodes that I would have each day, but I felt numb inside. I could function, but I had lost the passion for my plight and experienced very little emotional variety whatsoever. I had as many facial expressions as Kristen Stewart from Twilight. I stopped answering the phone, going to the grocery store, and pretty much became a hermit. As a mom, it’s very scary to know that you could care less about the safety and happiness of your children. It made me feel like a sociopath, thus initiating my quest to find a better treatment for what was happening to me. The best resource for TTM research that I have found is http://www.trich.org. It is a very thorough site that is dedicated to helping sufferers of TTM find answers and support. My first site visit lasted hours- literally. I was stoked to learn that there were others like me. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel like such a freak. Most of my friends and family had never heard of the disorder and a few had even suggested that I was doing it on purpose. I was incredibly hurt by the suggestion. Who in the hell would choose to feel like an outcast? As a woman, there are a few parts of my body that I feel visibly represent my feminism. For me, those would be my boobs and my hair. Both are clearly visible to the outside world and say, “Hey, I’m not a dude”. Being called “Sir” in the drive-thru at Tim Hortons is not exactly an experience I’d like to relive. It’s devastating to have your gender not only questioned, but actually mistaken. The little bit of self-esteem I had left was now gone and I was left feeling like Quasimodo from the Hunchback of Notre dame. The hardest part of all this was finding out how dependent my relationship with my now ex-fiance was on the length of my hair. I met Mitch when I was 15. He was a little older than me, 17, and we met at McDonald’s where we both worked. It was obvious to friends and coworkers that Mitch and I ran in completely different social circles. He in a floor-length trench coat listening to ACDC and I belting out Britney Spears’ Toxic while driving around town with my closest friends. Despite his 6’2” 350 lbs exterior, I was attracted to Mitch because he was super attentive and was always a gentleman. He always bent over backwards to see me smile and his generosity was admirable. He was literally that guy that would give you the shirt off of his back and buy you dinner on top of it. Three years into our relationship I decided to cut my hair. It was a chin-length bob that was better in theory than in practice. Mitch hated it and made me swear that I would never cut it short again. I hated it, too, and eagerly agreed. Fast forward six years. My hair was down to my bra strap and thicker than you could imagine… until the picking started. By the time I got on the right medication to help me stop picking (more on that later), the bald spot on my head was larger than a silver dollar. With a watchful eye and a ton of hairspray, though, it was still possible to cover my dirty, little secret. Close friends and family knew, but to the rest of the world I was just another average woman sporting an almost-too-long ponytail. Mitch was supportive about it in the beginning. He would alert me to my picking whenever he saw my hand on my head and was still very loving and affectionate despite my obsessive allegiance to my cause. Both of us are firm believers in the saying, “When there’s a will, there’s a way”-or at least that was the case. If trichotillomania has taught me anything, it’s that anxiety and compulsions are very real and require immediate medical attention. I used to gawk at the idea of anxiety. All anxiety was to me was a reason for lazy and trashy people to get SSD benefits. And compulsions? That only happened to people on TV, and I was convinced that most people were lying. Once again- until it happened to me. One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do is try and explain that I can’t help the picking and that most of the time, I’m not even aware that I’m doing it. People would ask, “Doesn’t it hurt?”, and the answer is, “Well…no”. To be completely honest, I felt better after I picked. Hard to believe? It was for me, too, because I’m that person who bases opinions on science. Science tells us that we have pain receptors or nociceptors, and that when we pull our hair, it hurts. And for good reason- when we experience pain, we are wired to remove ourselves or protect ourselves from the stimulus that is causing us pain. Right now I am getting at least some kind of treatment. That being said, my treatment is not adequate and has not completely fixed the damage. Anafranil has helped me to pick less, but I don’t want to pick less… I want to stop picking.