I am a teenage trichster. This is my blog.

So basically, I haven’t updated this thing in forever.

Why, you ask? Because I’ve gotten myself an LJ and have been posting there. Yup.

I’ve been busy, which in turn has been keeping my hands busy. A lot less pulling, hell yes. Let’s hope it stays that way. :D

So, I just realized that I haven’t pulled a single freakin’ hair in two days.

:D

I haven’t updated this thing in forever. I guess it just hasn’t been on my mind (wow I say that often, don’t I?). I’ve been getting by, I guess. The boredom and insomnia that has taken hold over me this summer has almost been unbearable, but I’m surviving through it. I almost can’t wait until school starts up again to get my hands on something else to do.

In other news, Blink x FOB x PATD x some other crappy dude next freaking week!

(I’m stoked. :P)

So, it’s been awhile. I apologize, but I guess this wasn’t the first thing on my mind. Last Sunday night, a week after my grandfather died, my other grandfather (my dad’s father) had a heart attack. He’s doing okay, though, which is awesome. He’s already had so many heart attacks that the doctors have lost count. Some have went undiagnosed. Hopefully, he finally changes his diet.

As predicted, I’ve been quite trichy lately, which is not good.

I’ve been quite addicted to the song “The Walk” by Imogen Heap (I’ll post it tomorrow after I download it) and it’s lyrics really stuck with me, so I wrote. And here’s what came out of it (The chunks of italics are lyrics from the song):

It’s not meant to be like this—not what I planned at all.
I don’t want to feel like this, so that makes it all your fault.

Tossing and turning, squirming and clutching sheets, I lie awake, plagued with insomnia. Tomorrow I will feel narcoleptic, but for now, that doesn’t matter. What matters now is that I control myself, but stay calm and relaxed, to allow my body to finally shut down and go to sleep. Millions of thoughts run through my mind and as much as I try, I cannot calm it.

Inside out, upside-down, twisting beside myself.
Stop that now.

I feel my fingers grasp at my hair and I quickly pull my hand away, grimacing and disgusted with myself. Every night is the same thing, and every night, I’m sick with hatred for myself. Something’s wrong with me, but that’s now how I see it. I see a lack of control, a lack of discipline. I see a masochistic, selfish excuse for a human being. What I see is a coward. I hide behind a disguise every single day. No one knows the real me.

It’s not safe in here. I feel a weakness coming on.

By the time I feel my hand in my hair again, it’s too late. The voice of my thoughts, my own voice, acts as the devil on my shoulder. “Just twirl it, Kacie,” it whispers. “It won’t hurt to just twirl it.”

If there was supposed to be an angel on the other side, he had gone missing, nowhere to be found.

“Just one,” my own evil voice whispers. “No one will notice just one.”

I pull it. I go against my better judgment and listen to the masochistic side of me. And it feels good. That itch had been bothering me for so long and now that I have scratched it, I want more.

Oh, I was doing so well. I feel a weakness coming on.

I feel tears stinging my eyes as my conscious returns, telling me to stop, telling me what I wanted to do all along. I want to be able to stop this. I never wanted to harm myself. I just couldn’t help it. But even I don’t believe that. With another glance at my alarm clock and the groan that followed, I reach over the side of my bed and grab a pair of gloves that I had placed there.

I wipe my eyes, take a deep breath and slide my fingers into the gloves. I curl up in my blankets again, keeping my hands as far from my head as I possibly can.

Inside out, upside-down, twisting beside myself.
Stop that now.
You’re as close as it gets without touching me.
Don’t make it harder than it already is.
I feel a weakness coming on.

The squirming continues, now the heat from the gloves almost unbearable. I contemplate taking them off, but the once missing angel takes a stand. I put my hands under me and close my eyes, willing myself to go to sleep.

I think about other things. I think about my new favorite song, the movie that I watched with my family before bed, the prospect of what tomorrow will bring. I become lost in my own thoughts, not falling asleep, but going into a trance of sorts. The quiet and still of my room provide no distraction and soon enough, I feel myself dozing off.

I bolt awake again, my now gloveless hands in my hair again, grasping, clutching, and pulling. The tears come back, but this time, I let it out.

Big trouble—losing control.
Primary resistance at a critical low.

The disgust I feel for myself raises, rising nausea as well, almost enough to make me dart for the bathroom. I lay in my bed, wrapped in my blankets, crying and now giving up on sleep. There’s no use trying anymore. The sun’s coming up and I’m even less calm than before. I take deep breaths and attempt to relax.

No response on any level, red alert, this vessel’s under siege,
Total overload, all systems down, they’ve got control.
There’s no way out, we are surrounded.

My alarm rings and I groan as I smack the button to turn it off.

Freeze, awake here forever. I feel a weakness coming on.

I force myself to get out of bed and put on my disguise for another day to hide yet again from judging eyes. I put my hair up in a tight bun, making sure there are no loose strands to tempt me.

I look in the mirror and what I see isn’t me. I don’t even know who I really am anymore.

It’s not meant to be like this—not what I planned at all.
Why make me feel like this? It’s definitely all your fault.

Not so good.

I’ve been really trichy lately, but it’s about to get worse.

My parents came and picked me up from Brother’s house and gave us both some terrible news. My grandpa had a heart attack and passed away today.

Let me tell you a story about my grandpa. He was my mom’s step-dad, so when I was little, I had three grandpas. I thought this was so cool! He’s from Michigan and Ohio, and he talked differently than we PAians did. When I was learning how to talk, he tried to help me. He pointed to his shoe and said, “Tennis shoe.”

Well, I had already learned the word for that, so I looked him in the eye and said, “No. SNEAKER.”

“Tennis shoe,” he said again.

“SNEAKER!” I said louder.

This went on for a good while until he gave up (I’m quite stubborn sometimes). Do you know how little kids often give random nicknames to their relatives because they don’t know how to or what to call them? For example, my older brother gave my mother’s biological father the nickname “Grandpa Fuzzy” because he gave fuzzy kisses because of his huge beard.

Well I named this grandpa “Grandpa Tennis-Shoes.”

Sixty-one years old, but you were still too young to go. Grandpa Tennis-Shoes, I love you and miss you already. Rest in peace.

Back at Brother’s house with the pooch! Man, I love this dog. He’s sleeping right beside me. Unf. So adorable.

My brother turned into one excellent dude. He was a rebel growing up; shouting matches were the norm for him and my dad (his step-dad). He could be a real jerk, but he grew up. It’s about time!…he’s twenty-five. haha

His friend Eric (who was his best friend in high school) just transferred to Florida for college. Brother offered to drive him down, so he and his girlfriend left last night for Florida. They’re going to have a few hours on the beach before they hit the road and come back. They’re hoping to be home sometime tomorrow in the early evening. So I’m here until then.

My parents dropped me off here after my aunt’s 4th of July party. That was fun. There was swimming and BBQing and lots of Guitar Hero (one of my cousins got me to beat a bunch of songs for him :P). It was a good time.

That’s all for now. I’ve got my bi-monthly migraine, so Imma join the pooch and take a nap. :)

—TeenageTrichster

Today, we went to the pool. I was rather worried about today. I kept my hair in a pony the entire time (which was a hard thing to do) to keep my bald patch covered. I was worried that I’d lose the ponytail holder and then have my hair part in just the right way to show it off to the world (because my luck is just that awesome), reminding Mother that yes, I do have “a problem.”

I don’t remember the last time we talked about my trich. I think it was when I was fourteen or fifteen (wow, it’s been five years since then?) when my grandmother was taking me and Sister to Denver to visit our seldom seen relatives. Two weeks before the trip, Mother pulled me aside and said, “Kacie, if I see some growth on your eyelids by the time you leave, I will give you a little extra spending money.” Then, when I got home from the trip (which was like two weeks), we were at the pool on one of her days off. Sister was off swimming and I was lying on my towel, attempting to even out my softball tan (my knees are permanently browned from all those years on the field—really, you should see it). She looked over at me and said, “I see your eyelashes are growing back.”

And that was it. When my family would bring up “the issue,” I never knew what to say. It was always so awkward for me. I know that they were trying to help, but really, all I wanted to do was blend into the background and have as little people notice it as possible. They put me on the spotlight at the dinner table in front of my three siblings, or in front of the whole family at a Memorial Day picnic (earning lots of “why would you do that?!!?” “you pull out your eyelashes?!” “you’re insane!”). And I’d just make myself as small as I could and throw the excuses at them. Said excuses have become second nature now. Isn’t that sad?

So there I was. Poor, little, eyelashless me. Metaphorically huddled in the metaphorical corner, out of sight and out of mind. If they couldn’t see the problem, then it wouldn’t be problematic, right?

This is why my favorite book is The Perks of Being A Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky (I think that’s his name). I read it a few weeks ago (I may have mentioned it before…) and I can just relate to the kid. I’m the kind of girl that sits back and watches everything happen like you would something on the television. I seldom become involved, and when I do, it’s a very minor role.

Maybe I should follow the advice of Charlie’s teacher in the book and “participate.”

Hmm…

Ever since that beckie0 trichotillomania video that I posted, I kind of want to do something like that. Maybe that’s how I can “participate.” Step one of ridding myself of the shame (or some of it) is to let people know that I’ve got it.

Now, that is a scary thought. “Hello, family/friend/someone I know! I have trichotillomania. I pull out my hair.” I couldn’t do that. But, the internet always has some level of anonymity. Even if my face is out there, only those who search for it can find it. I wouldn’t be putting it in the faces of my family.

So, I kind of want to do a video blog. A “vlog” if you will. I’m slowly coming out of my shell. You might see my face. (Hell, you just saw my name a few paragraphs up *gasp!*)

I don’t know if anyone reads this from time to time. I don’t have a site meter to keep tabs on lurkers, but if you do happen to come across my blog and take the time to read it, thank you. The few comments that I received have made me smile, because even though I assume that no one is out there like me, you’re a reminder that I’m not alone. And even though I’m terrible at frequenting/commenting other blogs, I support you so much.

—TeenageTrichster (who now has a name!)