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!)
