TRICHOTILLOMANIA - THE BUNNY TAYLOR MEMOIRS

Rumours

2010-04-28T21:37:00.004+01:00

A lot of people know mother. Some of these people don’t like her; some of these people positively hate her. Many people comment that I look just like mother. I think this may be the reason why they sometimes direct their hatred towards me.
I had one friend at high school, she was my best friend. She came from a nice regular family which consisted of a mother, father and brother. I loved going round to their house as I loved seeing her parents together and I craved the atmosphere that her family generated. However my friend’s parents never really approved of me and they made it quite clear that their reasons for this disapproval stemmed from who my mother was. I was tarred with the same brush as mother and because of this was considered to be a bad influence and generally no good. Mother would never give me a reason when I asked her why my friends family thought so badly of her, her response was always to make derogatory comments about my friend and her family.
My friend’s parents were not alone in their disapproval of mother. Daddy’s sister (once my step-aunt) told me that no one knew who my real father was. She said daddy had told her that mother had said to him that he was either a soldier from the local barracks or an Irish man. Daddy’s new wife told me that no one knew who it was, that it was either the soldier, the Irishman or a cousin! All these comments left me feeling very confused, disorientated and angry. I remembered my doubts following the initial telephone call with my so called father and these comments reinforced my confusion.
I tried to talk to mother about it. I told her the things people were saying. For the first time I tell her about that first phone call at grandmothers. I beg mother to tell me the truth. But she won’t, Mother tells me that as I think she is a slut (I haven’t said that!) she really can’t answer any of my questions. The arguments get heated and I am sent to live with daddy for a while, where I have to listen to daddy’s new wife repeatedly telling me how bad mother is and how no one knows who my father is. After a short while I’m sent back to mothers to live.
My head is full of questions, I want answers. I keep asking mother to tell me the truth. Mother gives the same answer every time, if I think she’s a slut then she can’t answer my questions. She is never sad when she shouts these words, she’s laughing. The arguments get more and more heated as I’m desperate for an answer and I get very angry. I shut myself away in my room or in the bathroom and pull my hair out by the roots and cry and rock my body to try to comfort myself. I tell no one about this.
One day during one of these monumental arguments when I’m asking mother to tell me the truth about who my father is she starts her laughing at me again, but this time she actually laughs right in my face. Her eyes look hateful but her mouth is laughing and I can feel her breath and spittle on my face. I can’t stand it. I lash out, striking mother. We are at the top of the stairs. Mother almost falls down the stairs but I catch by the arm, just in time. Mother screams and says I have hurt her arm and she runs down the stairs to the telephone and phones her friend who lives in the same road as us. I’ve been brought up to call this woman aunt; she’s not really my aunt, just another pseudo aunt. The aunt comes round and she and Mother go into another room to talk. I am left alone and I am crying. I’m afraid of what may happen to me. Mother and the aunt come out to the hallway; I can see them from the top of the stairs where I’m sitting. The aunt encourages Mother to make a phone call. Mother does, she telephone’s the social services and tells on me. A social worker comes to the house I am being taken away to be put into what they call care. I don’t want to go am terrified. I want to stay where I am. I want my father, whoever and wherever he may be. I am sent to London for one week to my alleged father’s after which I have been told that I am being sent to a Foster home. My alleged father cries when I tell him.

Number 3 Is Dead

2009-12-30T21:09:00.003Z

He is dead. Number 3 is dead. We are asked by mother if we want to go and see him in the coffin. I say yes.
I want to make sure he is dead.
It is really creepy at the undertakers. Number 3’s sister is there having travelled down from Essex. She is really crying and wailing, she is hanging on to the open coffin and she keeps throwing her upper body across it which makes the coffin shake. In my head I imagine that she will pull the coffin over and that number 3 will fall out onto the floor. I wonder to myself if I will laugh out loud if this does happen. But it does not, and so I just stand staring at number 3. He really is dead. Number 3 is dead.
There is a lot of tension at the funeral as number 3’s ex wife has turned up, and even though she is standing discreetly at the back of the church mother is not pleased with this.
In the evening it hits me. I have seen a dead body. The dead body is number 3. At bedtime I am frightened as I think the ghost of number 3 will come and get me whilst I’m sleeping. I wonder if my brother and sister are also frightened as they have said nothing. I want mother to stay with us but she does not because there is someone knocking on the front door. Mother goes to answer it, it is the Life Insurance man, and mother gets her coat and goes out with him to the pub. I lay in bed wondering how she can leave us alone at a time like this. But my mind is clouded by thoughts of a ghostly number 3 and so I cover myself completely with the duvet and remind myself that this time number 3 has really gone. Number 3 is dead.

In My Fathers' House

2009-12-30T19:53:00.003Z

Their place is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. They have an amazing cooker, it’s called an AGA, and I’ve never seen one before. They have a piano and really nice furniture. The whole place is a little bit messy but this just adds to the appeal. My stomach is still churning with nerves. The wife is lovely. She is very pretty, really trendy, she has really nice clothes and shoes. But above all this I can tell immediately that she is a really good mother. The two girls, (my half sisters?) really love their mother and, I notice, their mother is always talking to them and cuddling and kissing them. Father is really handsome and funny. The two girls call him daddy and they clearly really adore him. He has a sports car, his own business, and a villa in Spain. Really, for the 15 year old girl I am he is my dream father. We all go to Petticoat Lane market. I am given chestnuts and latkas and pomegranates to eat on the street whilst we’re walking in the market. I have never even seen these things before, let alone tasted them. I find them delicious. We stay at their place for a couple of days. I feel like I’m in a whirlwind, everything is so exciting yet at the same time a little scary. I have not forgotten the initial doubtful telephone call to grandmothers; it is continually in my mind. But I do not want think about the possibility of this man not being my father. Everything is too perfect and I want to be part of it. They seem to have accepted me. I want to be perfect for them; I want them to really want me and to really love me.
I am very careful with my appearance, I mean my hair. I spend a lot of time making sure the bald patches are covered up. I don’t want them to find out what I have done and what I continue to do. They can’t find out that I pull my hair out; it has to remain a secret. They definitely wouldn’t want me if they knew.
All too soon the trip is over and my sister and I return to our home city and mother. Upon our return mother has taken to her bed with a mystery illness that has no symptoms except for the bad mood she is in. Mother refuses to see the gifts that father had brought for me and she does not want to hear anything about the visit. She does not voice her disapproval but makes it felt by her stony silence and the way she continually pulls the blankets up around her. Finally, as I turn to leave the room she speaks. Mother reminds me that I must never tell Daddy about any trips to London. When I ask her why not? Mother again replies “Just don’t, it would break his heart”. I don’t understand this but I do as I am told and keep this secret tucked away with my other secret.

Hello Father

2009-12-29T20:33:00.002Z

January 1st 1982. I travel by train with my sister to London to meet my father. I’m really excited but also really nervous. My sister won’t talk to me about him, all she will tell me he is he is married again with two children, both girls. Throughout the journey I keep thinking about the first phone call that took place at grandmothers. I wonder if he is my real father. I tell myself he must be, why else would I be sent to him? We arrive at Victoria station. I’ve never seen so many people, the station is packed. My sister tells me that we have been told to go to the taxi rank where we shall be met by them. But when we get there no one is waiting for us. We wait and wait but nobody comes. My sister tries to telephone them but there is no answer. In my head I am convinced that they have come and are hidden in the crowds of people that are milling about. I’m convinced that they have seen me, that this man who I am told is my father has seen me and decided that he does not like the look of me so has decided to run away. To disappear into the crowds. My sister does not seem at all worried, but I am really scared. My sister telephone’s mother and tells her that no one has come to meet us. Mother says we must return home. I can’t believe this is happening. I want to meet him. I want to see my father. Unbeknown to us mother has telephoned the station. We hear our names being called out over the tannoy system. We’re being asked to hurry to the gate to board the last train home to our city. We are running, my sister and I towards the departure gate. We reach the gate, the train still there. All the time I am thinking that they have seen me, my father and his family, and they don’t like the look of me. They hate me, they don’t want me. I’m still running toward the train when I become aware that I cannot hear or feel my sister running by my side. I stand still and turn round. I can’t see my sister at first, I am terrified, and I think I must have lost her in the crowds. Suddenly I do see her, in the distance, back by the departure gate. My sister is being hugged by a man and a woman and two smaller girls. They are all happy, embracing and kissing each other. I remain on the spot where I have stopped running, standing still, watching. This is how I meet the man they call my father. Is he my father? Is this my father? I walk towards them, my stomach churning with nerves. Then they greet me and embrace me, and we head off to their place. I am aware of feeling nothing at this point. I am just numb.

Lost Innocence

2009-10-23T20:39:00.001+01:00

I have a boyfriend now. I am 14. He is seven years older than me. I have never had sex before and I am glad because I don’t want anyone to get too close to me. I don’t want anyone to touch my hair, to try to run their fingers through it, as to do so would expose me, expose my bald patches and questions would surely be asked. I definitely don’t want anyone to see me naked, to see that I have no hair between my legs and sore patches from where I have been picking at myself.
Mother has always had men, either husbands or boyfriends. I often hear noises coming from Mothers bedroom when she is in there with a man. The noises come from her and whatever man she happens to have at the time. I believe that these are the sounds and noises of sex. I believe that girls must have sex with men, that sex is the most important part to having a man and that girls are nothing without a man.
Mother has lots of books about sex. I have looked at these books, I have plenty of opportunity to do so as Mothers works at night and there is no one to look after me and my siblings,so we are left on our own all night.
My boyfriend really wants to have sex. I am really scared but think that I must do it as it is what girls are expected to do, so one night I let him. I don’t want to get undressed, so I leave my clothes on and just push my underwear to one side.
We do it. We have sex on the couch. I hate it. It is so painful.
I make all the sort of noises that I have heard Mother make. This pleases my boyfriend. He is very pleased with himself. He thinks that I like it.
But I am just pretending.
I hate it.

The Return Of Number 3

2009-10-22T10:42:00.001+01:00

Number 3 has come back to live with us. Mother has asked him to. He is dying. He has cancer. Mother fusses around number 3. I don’t understand her behaviour as she had separated from him and had other boyfriends since he had been gone. But Mother loves a drama. Special nurses come to the house to see to Number 3 and special meals are delivered for him.
My sister and brother avoid Number 3. I help Mother with him, she expects me to. I heat up the special meals over a pan of boiling water, sometimes I give Number 3 rice pudding. He can’t eat very much and he is very thin, weak and frail. He looks like he is dying. As I feed the rice pudding into Number 3’s shrivelled mouth I realise that I am no longer afraid of him.
I think about going to meet my Father in London. Mother tells me that I must never tell Daddy about any trips I may take to see my Father. When I ask her why not, she tells me that it would break his heart to know. I ask her why? Mother replies that it just would ,adding that I should keep my mouth shut.
I know how to keep my mouth shut, to keep a secret.
After all no one knows my secret. That I pull my hair out by the roots.

Telephone Call

2009-10-06T16:31:00.003+01:00

At weekends I travel by train to the next town to meet school friends and hang out. When I return I always ring Mother to say that I am back in our city and am walking the short distance home. One weekend during this routine phone call Mother tells me that I must go to my Grandmother’s house before coming home, to meet up with my sister, and wait for a call from my Father. I think that she means Daddy is ringing and I do not understand why he would be ringing me at Grandmothers instead of home. When I ask why, Mother sounds angry and says I must go because grandmother is expecting a call from my father, my real Father!!!
I am beyond excited. This is a moment I have dreamt of for a long time. I can feel my heart beating so fast that I think it may burst in my chest. I reach Grandmothers house and see that my sister is already there waiting for the call, she is very calm. I am not. As I am begging Grandmother to let me talk first the call comes. Instead of answering the telephone immediately Grandmother turns to me and tells me that I must wait in the other room whilst she talks first. I don’t understand why she is making me do this but I am so anxious that the telephone will stop ringing that I do as I am told and leave the room. My sister is allowed to stay with Grandmother and the ringing telephone. I don’t go into the other room where I have been told to wait; instead I listen outside the door with the ringing telephone, Grandmother and my sister. The ringing stops and for a brief moment I think that Grandmother has not answered the call, but then I hear her talking. She is talking to my Father!!! I am so excited but I keep quiet so Grandmother does not hear me listening at the door. I hear her talk about my sister, but not me. I cannot hear her talking about me. I can only hear Grandmother’s end of the conversation but from what I can hear it is obvious that he is asking to talk to my sister as I hear her say that she has something to tell him before he can do that. I hear Grandmother tell him that he has another daughter, me. Again, from Grandmother’s end of the conversation it is obvious that there is a dispute going on about me. It is obvious that he knows nothing about me. He does not even know that I exist. Grandmother continues to argue and I hear her tell him that he can speak to both of us, my sister and me or else he will not be allowed to speak to my sister at all.
I am crushed. I feel tears pricking at my eyes and my cheeks flush with the embarrassment of the shame of my existence as I move away from the door and enter the next room where I had been told to wait.
After what feels like an eternity Grandmother comes to me to tell me that I am to go and speak on the telephone, that it is my turn now. She can see that I have been crying but she does not ask me what is wrong, I think that she must just think that I am over excited. She has no idea that I listened at the door. Inside my stomach feels like it is in knots but I do as I am told and pick the telephone up and talk to the man at the other end, the man who I am told is my Father.
Because of what I heard whilst listening at the door I feel weird and uncomfortable, I'm so embarrassed that he did not know about me that when a visit is set up I don’t go, I am not brave enough, so my sister travels alone. I think that I shall ask my sister all about him, Father, on her return, but she refuses to tell me anything. I have so many doubts because of what I heard at the door. Is he really my Father? I tell myself that surely he must be, why else would I be sent to him?
Other than telling me to go to Grandmother’s in the first instance Mother makes absolutely no comment nor does she ask any questions regarding the phone call. When I try to talk to her about it she just looks at me blankly and either walks away from me or changes the subject.
I decide that I shall be on the next visit.

Searching

2009-09-10T10:24:00.001+01:00

I am 14.Mother and grandmother are huddled together writing a letter. I can hear them discussing the contents of the letter. They are writing to the Salvation Army in an attempt to find Father. I hear them discuss that they want him found in time for my sisters 18th birthday so that she can meet him and I hear them decide to sign the letter as if it is from my sister.
Even though I have been told by Grandmother that Mother went away and when she came back she was heavily pregnant with me I have also always been told that I have the same Father as my sister.
I am beyond excited hearing them put the letter together but become confused on hearing that they are to sign the letter from my sister only and I want to know why I am not included. When I ask them they look at each other and then become cross with me, they tell me not to listen at doors to business that does not concern me, but I am too excited at the prospect of meeting my Father and tell them that they must sign the letter from me too. Again they look at each other and after a pause Mother says that the letter will be from me too and that I am to go away, mind my own business and leave them in piece to finish the letter. So I do and that is the last I hear of the letter writing, my sister never mentions it to me and neither does anyone else.
I hope that the letter has been posted and, in my mind, I constantly fantasise about my Father. I imagine him to be perfect in every way and to be relieved to have been found. I imagine him telling me that he has been searching for me too, that he has always loved me and that he lost me through no fault of his own.

Now I am 13

2009-09-10T10:19:00.001+01:00

Now I am 13.We have moved to a new house only 5 minutes away from our old house but according to Mother and Number 3 this house is in a better area. We all have to be very quiet when Number 3 is around. If I am in the lounge and Number 3 enters the room I always want to run away but I become paralysed with fear and stay where I am. In the mornings Number 3 wears a dressing gown as he takes his coffee in the lounge. Number 3 calls this dressing gown his robe. It is very short and as he sits down he always crosses his legs which cause his robe to ride up and expose his private parts which dangle down his leg. As he puffs on his cigarettes I feel sure Number 3 knows that he is exposing himself but he never makes any attempt to cover himself up. At first I am really terrified at the sight of his private parts but as this happens every day I sort of become accustomed to it and in addition to the fear the sight of him makes me cringe. I don’t tell anyone about this. A few months after the move Mother and Number 3 separate, I don’t know why .It is a relief to be no longer living under his iron rule and an even bigger relief to not have to look at his private parts every day.

The Onset Of Trichotillomania

2009-08-22T19:36:00.002+01:00

It’s 1977. I am 10 years old and everything has changed again. Daddy has married his lady friend and moved to a new house and Mother, Number 3, my sister and myself have moved into the house that Daddy has just vacated; our old house. This time round Daddy does not keep my brother and so he stays with us.
This feels really weird for me as I am now back in my old bedroom in the house that I never wanted to leave. But I am unhappy as the set up is very different with Number 3 in the house and all I want is Daddy. Mother says I have a new father now, but he is not my father he is Number 3 and he rules the house with a rod of iron and his own particular brand of terror. I often hear Number 3 telling Mother that he does not like this house, that it is in a rough area full of rough people.
I have a degree of happiness as I am now also back in my old school and am able to reunite with my best friend who I have missed. But my happiness is short lived as I only have 1 school year left until I leave to go to High School. My best friend is not going to the same High School as I am and I am very unhappy about this. I tell Mother that I want to go to the same school as my friend but I am not allowed to as the school only accepts children who attend church and Mother has never taken any of us to church.
I spend most of the summer holiday, my last from junior school with my best friend and her parents, walking the mile to their house and back again practically every day. I am always happy when I am at her house, her parents are always around and her Mother is always baking cakes and smiling. But I know we are going to be separated soon through our schooling and the holiday passes quickly.
I feel so very sad and by the time September arrives my secret has begun.

Pennies From Hell

2009-08-08T16:24:00.003+01:00

It’ so hot and the school summer holiday is long and unsupervised. Mother and Number 3 both work in the next city. There is no one to look after my sister and me so we are just left on our own all day. I spend the days roaming the beach and the sand dunes with my sister; there is nothing else to do. We take pennies from mother’s money box, half-pence’s and one and two pence pieces and spend them at the Penny Arcade. There is nothing else to do all day long. Mother has no idea about the pennies. Then the counting day comes when she adds all the coins together and puts them in special bags for the bank. She does this every now and then. Mother is furious, my sister and I are in trouble. Mother shouts and tells me to go to my room and remove all of my clothes and when I have done so, to stand in the hall and wait to be called into her and Number 3’s bedroom.
I’m standing in the hall. I am completely naked. I’m so frightened I am crying and running on the spot
Mother calls me. I think I might wet myself .I am terrified.
I obey her and enter her room. I’m shaking and crying. Mother instructs me to lay my body across her lap. I’m screaming and crying now but I obey.
I am thrashed repeatedly on my naked body for what feels like an eternity by Mother's bare hands. It is a struggle because I am trying to escape but Mother is so much stronger than I am. I am screaming out in pain as my flesh feels as if it is burning from the impact of Mother's strong hands.Mother's breathing sounds strange and she sounds like she is panting from all the effort she is putting into my thrashing. Mother tells me to shut up she says she does not want the neighbours to hear. I think that this is because if they do hear then they will hate me too, as much as Mother does. I think that all children experience this type of punishment and so it is normal. I have no idea that Mother wants me to be silent so that she won’t be found out because what she is doing is wrong.
Finally the thrashing stops and Mother orders me to stand up straight and face her .As I do I can see that her eyes look wild and are glinting and she has a thin smile on her lips as she orders me to my bedroom, adding that I am to stay there until she tells me that I can come out. I obey and am glad to be in my bedroom away from Mother. I no longer feel the terror and pain of the thrashing; my bed sheets feel cool against my burning skin.
I tell no one.
Thirty years will pass before another person sees me naked.

Punishment.

2009-08-08T15:24:00.001+01:00

I make lots of mistakes, all sorts of mistakes. I forget what to do and use the wrong fork or talk with my mouth full. Often I am told that I have too much food on my fork and I must cut it smaller. Sometimes I spill gravy on the tablecloth. At the table, Number 3 sees everything and there is always a punishment. The punishment is always the same. I am sent away from the table to the corner of the room where I have to face the wall whilst standing on one leg. This is hard to do because I am frightened and because I don’t know how long I have to stay like this. From time to time I wobble and Number 3 shouts at me to keep my leg off of the ground. I am crying and he shouts at me to be quiet. I can’t see him shouting as I’m not allowed to turn my head. I can feel my buttocks clenching through terror .I’m afraid he will beat me but he doesn’t, he just carries on eating but I know he’s watching because if I wobble or cry he shouts without warning. When Number 3 thinks I have had enough punishment I am ordered back to the table where I have to continue my meal as if nothing has happened. I am told to eat properly and sit up straight. I find it hard to swallow my food because it has gone cold and I’m so frightened.
Mother says nothing when I am being punished by Number 3 and when I am allowed to return to the table she remains silent towards me as she continues to enjoy herself by chatting and entertaining Number 3 as if nothing has happened.
As child I have no idea that years later, when I am an adult, people who meet me will assume that I come from a privileged background due to my manners.

Before Trichotillomania.

2009-08-08T15:12:00.003+01:00

It’s 1976 and we are split up. I am 9 years old. My brother stays in the city with his father, the man I call Daddy, even though he’s not my father. My grandmother told me that Mother had been married before. I understand my brother is not allowed to come with my sister and I because mother’s new man, soon to be her new husband does not like boys.
The new husband, Number 3, is a lot older than mother. He has a nice house, full of very nice things that I’m told not to touch. I have nice clothes and shoes because Number 3 is wealthy. I share a room with my sister. The room has pretty wallpaper which Mother tells me is very expensive. Mother tells me that I am very lucky to be living with her and Number 3. I think Number 3 must be very important because I have to behave myself and be quiet. Number 3 thinks children should be seen and not heard. I do not feel lucky, I am very frightened of Number 3.
Everything is different now; we even have different names for things. I no longer have dinner and tea time, it’s now lunch and dinner. But dinner is in the evening and this makes me confused. At the table everything is different; it’s now covered with a cloth. There are lots of glasses, plates and different sorts of cutlery. There are pieces of cloth by the plates, they are pretty and soft. I am told they are called napkins and I’m instructed in their use. I must place the napkin on my lap and dab the corners of my mouth with it whilst I’m eating. At special times like Easter and Christmas I am given grown up drinks of wine, watered down or a Snowball. I am instructed to drink very slowly and am told that I must learn to treat alcohol with respect. I don’t like the taste and I don’t understand the word “alcohol” but I do as I am told.

Why Talk About Trichotillomania?

2009-07-25T10:26:00.003+01:00

For me there are three answers to this question. First, the hardest thing about having trichotillomania is the intense secrecy attached to it. As with all secrets the more time that passes without your secret being revealed the deeper your secret becomes imbedded within you. For me this secrecy only served as a feeder to my trichotillomania which worsened as the years passed. In fact my trichotillomania started when I was eleven years old and I turned forty before I decided to bring my secret completely into the open. Once I started talking I found that I couldn’t stop, and as I continue talking, I realise that I am looking deeper and deeper into myself and as a result of this am being really honest about my trichotillomania. The necessity for honesty became the second hardest aspect of facing up to my trichotillomania. I know that to simply say I have trichotillomania is not enough, as it is my behaviour whilst carrying out the trichotillomania and the feelings and visual impact (the bald and sore patches)that I am left with afterwards that have the most profound effect on me. The third hardest aspect was in deciding how I want to define myself. Do I want to be a victim suffering from trichotillomania? Or do I want to be a survivor dealing with trichotillomania? I choose that I will be the latter. A survivor dealing with trichotillomania.
My decision to write my memoirs was borne from my honesty and I accept that some of the details of my trichotillomania behaviour are graphic. My reasons for being so honest and graphic are my desire to leave no stone of my experience unturned so that others who carry out the same or similar trichotillomania behaviour know that they are not alone, and that their own honesty may inspire them to become trichotillomania survivors.

The Safe Room

2009-07-24T19:35:00.003+01:00

My therapist unlocks a door to a bright airy room. This is to be my therapy room and, to prevent me from having to wait in the corridor, will be unlocked ready for me every week .At the far end of the room there are two soft chairs and a large plant in front of a large window which looks out into a private garden. There is also a large table and two hard backed chairs and it is here that we sit. On the table are many art tools which include pastels, paints, crayons, pencils, charcoals, clay, paint brushes, water colours and oils. There is also a huge stack of paper.
As this is my first art therapy session half the time is taken up with administration. My therapist explains to me how long my session will run to each week (one hour) and that my therapy will always be held on a Wednesday at 9am. I also sign some documents relating to the art work that I will be doing. The documents explain that all my art work belongs to me, but during my treatment it must remain at the day hospital where it will be kept secure. When my treatment is over, and if I so wish, I may take the artwork home with me.
Then we start talking. My therapist tells me that she appreciates that I may find it difficult to talk to her as she is a stranger and there is no element of trust established between us yet. She tells me that I should think of the room as a safe place, my safe place where I can say anything about absolutely anything, where I can express myself freely.
I don’t know where to start. My therapist replies that it does not matter where I start and this encourages me. I tell her that I hate having trichotillomania and I hate the other self harming that I do to myself, both of which feel stronger than me as they have such a devastating hold over me.

The Fist Day Of Therapy.

2009-07-22T16:39:00.002+01:00

On the morning of my first therapy appointment I feel physically sick as I am so nervous and my hands are shaking. So that I do not have to walk through the building on my own my therapist has told me that she will wait for me in the reception area of the day hospital.
I feel embarrassed and a little ashamed as I approach the doors of the building. My embarrassment is based on vanity, I am worried that I will see someone that I know, or worse, someone I know will see me, without me realising it enter the building . The Mental Health building. My shame is based on the fact that I know that I cannot make myself better on my own, that my problems have escalated to such a point that I have asked professionals to help me, help me with this trichotillomania hell.
I dismiss these thoughts from my head as I convince myself that as always I am so smartly dressed, if anyone I know does see me they would probably assume that I am attending a business meeting , particularly as I am being met in reception.
As I push the large glass doors open I feel the shame flush my face, to my relief I see my therapist waiting for me, as she said she would.
As I walk with my therapist through reception I expect to see lots of people, patients I suppose and the prospect of this frightens me. However I only see a couple of people who return the smiles that I give them. I kid myself that these people think I am an important official visitor to the day hospital. A cleaner is vacuuming the carpets and stops her work to let us pass, she does not look at me, she appears to avert her eyes as I walk past her, perhaps out of respect for my privacy, I can sense that she realises I am a patient, she looks like she has seen it all before.

The Assessment Result

2009-07-18T13:20:00.004+01:00

I receive a phone call from my assessor at the beginning of the last week of September 2008. She tells me that my case has been successfully presented to the psychiatrist and the rest of the team and a decision on my treatment has been reached.
I am offered weekly treatment, lasting a year in the form of art therapy. I immediately accept as I am anxious for any sort of treatment to begin. The assessor then arranges to meet me a couple of days later so that she can introduce me to my therapist before my treatment starts.
I am filled with mixed emotions after this phone call. My very first thought is of ridicule and disappointment at the decision to give me art therapy. I wonder what use doing a load of silly drawings will do me. My next reaction is one of smugness as I tell myself that it must have been noticed how artistic I am to have been offered art therapy in the first place.
I talk it all over with my husband, who as always listens with care and attention. I realise that I feel afraid now, knowing that I am now in the “system” and knowing that it has been recognised that I am unwell and need treatment.
But my desire to claw my way out of the hell that is trichotillomania far outweighs my fear and gives me the strength to approach the treatment with an open mind.

The Assessment cont.

2009-07-13T18:22:00.002+01:00

After three weeks she tells me that she has enough information to present to the team. She tells me that due to staff holidays, general workloads and other team commitments I will not hear anything for more than a month.
As I leave I tell her that I desperately need help and ask her to put as good a case as she can forward for me. I tell her that I am prepared to try anything as I am serious about getting help. I tell her I know that even though treatment is free due to our National Health Service, I understand that it still costs and is very expensive to deliver to patients.
I assure her that I really do need and want treatment and that I will attend every appointment given to me.
As she holds the door open for me to leave she smiles and nods her head at me.
The intervening weeks seem to pass very slowly. I am tense and on edge as I wait to hear if I am going to be offered any help.
Pops (my father-in-law) buys me a complicated three dimensional puzzle to keep me occupied whilst I am waiting.
My husband is very supportive. He tells me that there is nothing we can do but wait and as he constantly comforts and reassures me he tells me how brave I am, how proud of me he is and how very much he loves me.

The Assessment

2009-07-13T18:02:00.000+01:00

I arrive at the Day Hospital where I am met by a very nice lady who introduces herself as my assessor as she leads me to a private room. She explains the assessment process and that she will be taking notes all the while she is talking with me. She says that it is important that I know this as she does not want me to wonder what she is writing or to think that she is not listening to me whilst she is writing. She asks me lots of questions, a large proportion of which relate to my childhood, my mother, my siblings and the rest of my extended family. Some of her questions are in relation to communication and social skills, in both childhood and adulthood.
She apologises at times for the awkwardness and difficulty of some of her questions. Again she explains, the reason for this is that she has to gather as much information as possible during the assessment to enable her to present my case to the psychiatrist and the rest of the team. The purpose of this, she further explains is to present such a strong case so that I will qualify for not only help but the right sort of help.
I thought that my doctor’s referral would guarantee me help, I did not realise that I would have to meet a criteria for help to be offered.
Considering this I know that I will have to put all my fears about talking to a stranger aside, confide in her, tell her the truth, as I have done with my doctor about all of my problems along with the trichotillomania and self harm.
I feel so vulnerable and scared, but also I feel a determination. I desperately want help and I know that I must get it.

The Trichotillomania Referral

2009-07-13T17:42:00.004+01:00

A short time after writing to my doctor I make an appointment to talk things over with her. I don’t actually have to talk much at the appointment as I have said so much, and in so much detail in my letters to her.
I agree with her decision to refer me to the Community Mental Health Team (CMHT), at this stage I have no idea what type of treatment is available or may be offered to me. I am just glad to be referred because I feel so out of control yet at the same time totally numb. The only thing that I am certain of is that I need and want help.
A few weeks pass and I receive a telephone call from the CMHT inviting me to attend an assessment. I immediately accept and am told that the assessment process will be for one hour a week over a three to four week period starting at the end of July 2008.
On the day of my first appointment I am so nervous I feel physically sick because I am dreading the thought of telling a stranger the intimate details of my life that have brought me to this place.

The Numbness Of Trichotillomania

2009-07-09T15:57:00.000+01:00

I don’t feel anything during any session. I feel no pain or discomfort even, at pulling out my hair and picking at my skin. During this time I am not aware of anything around me, I don’t hear general everyday noises like traffic passing my house or people talking on the pavement outside. It is as if I am not really here at all, as if I am just floating along.
Weightless. Voiceless. Silent. Numb.
I suppose I am in a trance like state with my only focus being the self harm I am carrying out. This trichotillomania.
Then I stop.
I have no idea what makes me stop, indeed I am not consciously aware of making the decision to stop. I just do.
Then I feel the pain.
It is the first of my senses to return. My brain starts to recognise my pain and it screams at my body. My head is throbbing and my genitalia feels as if it is burning.
Almost immediately I notice the debris, so much hair, everywhere, over my clothes, on the furniture, in the bathroom basin below the mirror, wherever I have gone in my trance like state there is debris.
Often my fingertips are smeared with blood. I clean myself up as best as I can, it is difficult to clean my genitalia as it is so sore.I am truly exhausted now. I am always exhausted after a session and I usually start crying, at what I have done, then I usually lie down and fall asleep

More Intimate Truths About Trichotillomania

2009-07-09T15:44:00.000+01:00

About ten years ago I added a new dimension to the pubic hair pulling by really picking at the skin in this area.
Because of the years of self harm I have a lot of scars in this area, and during a session I examine and pick at this scar tissue along with any blocked hair follicles I find.
Five years ago this really intensified and I became more and more intrusive in this area, using an angle poise lamp and a mirror to illuminate the area.In reality I know that they are blocked with sweat, talcum powder and soap, but in my head, during a session I believe that they are full of all that is bad about me. All my madness, my crazy insanity. So, I pick at them, sometimes using a fine sewing needle in an attempt to pierce them so that I can squeeze their contents out. Most of the time I am unsuccessful and my attempts cause the area to bleed and become infected. When I am successful and the inside of these spots are squeezed out I am very satisfied, and as I examine the gunk that has been expelled between my fingertips I believe that I am right, that I have successfully removed a little piece of the evil, badness and insanity that is inside of me.

Intimate Truths About Trichotillomania

2009-07-09T15:37:00.000+01:00

It is not always the hair on my head that I pull, I also habitually pull the pubic hair from my armpits and my genitalia.
Because I shave my armpits the hair is short and stubbly, so I use tweezers to grip the hair so that I can pull it out. I also feel my armpits for any blocked hair follicles and tiny imperfections. Sometimes I can actually see these by looking in the mirror. I use hairpins to try to squeeze out the blocked hair follicle. I also try to remove the actual new hair growth before it has broken through the skin.
Again I am searching for the right hair, the one with the good root, and when I do find it I destroy it.

My other main area of intense hair pulling and skin picking is my genitalia. I have self harmed in this area since hair first appeared ,when I reached puberty and about six months after I started pulling the hair on my head. At first I used mother’s tweezers to remove the pubic hair, but as the years passed I became expert at pulling the hairs using the tweezers and my finger tips.

Further Truths About Trichotillomania

2009-07-07T16:24:00.000+01:00

Again, if there is a good root attached I will examine it and then either destroy it immediately or place it intact on the mirror whilst I search for more. Sometimes I inadvertently leave the hairs for too long on the mirror, my leg or whatever surface I am using. This results in the hair root drying out leaving the root bulb stuck to the surface that I have laid it upon.This prevents me from destroying the root myself and leaves me feeling disappointed and a failure.
On rare occasions I pull a hair that is so big and bulbous it actually has blood on the tip of it. This fascinates me and I spend a long time examining a root like this. I trace the bloody root bulb across the back of my hand, to see if it will leave a tiny trail of blood. Sometimes it does, which just adds to my fascination. When the blood source is exhausted I set about removing the root bulb from the hair shaft in my usual fashion.
Of course during a session there are many many hairs that I pull out without their roots attached. I am completely disinterested in these and immediately discard them.

More Truths About Trichotillomania

2009-07-07T16:08:00.000+01:00

Sometimes, as soon as I pull a hair with a good root on it I destroy it immediately.
Other times I wait until I have a collection of hair with good roots lined up on the mirror, my leg, or whatever surface I’m using, and only when I feel I have enough with good roots attached do I start to destroy them. I destroy them by holding the hair between the fingers of my left hand and pulling the root off between the pinched finger and thumb of my right hand. I roll the severed root between my fingers, feeling its texture, then I throw it away. I don’t have any particular place to discard the destroyed hair and root, I just rub the debris of my fingertips and let it fall wherever.
Sometimes when feeling for the right hair to pull I can also feel shorter,stubbly hairs, the regrowth of previous pulling sessions. Finding these prompt me to move to the bathroom mirror where I use a comb to part my hair to help me to locate these coarse stubbly hairs, and when I do I use tweezers to remove the hairs.I never recognise myself in the mirror, it is as if I am faceless.

The Truth About Trichotillomania

2009-07-07T15:55:00.000+01:00

My hair pulling sessions range from about 50 minutes, which are concentrated and intense, to sessions which last for several continuous hours. Sometimes it lasts all day, which involves several intense sessions continually throughout the day.
My areas 0f trichotillomania and self harm also vary.When pulling the hair on my head I could be sitting on the couch in the lounge or sitting in my bedroom. I never pull in clumps, I always pull individually hair by hair. I immediately check each individual hair I have pulled. What I’m looking for is a hair was a good root. Sometimes I know I’ve been successful in this as I can feel the distinguishing popping sound that a hair with a good root makes as it is being pulled. Once I have successfully got one of these good hairs I will hold it in the tip of my fingers at the opposite end to the root. I watch as the weight of the root makes the hair bends downwards. Then I lay the hair down, with the root still attached on any surface that is near to me, this could be my leg, a mirror or the edge of the table. The roots sticks to whichever surface I use, and I leave it there until I’m ready to destroy it.

Letters cont.

2009-07-05T17:11:00.000+01:00

I retreat further and further into myself. My trichotillomania and self harm are getting much worse as each day passes. My body is sore from all the hair pulling and skin picking. I have caused an infection around my genitalia, from all the picking. My Dr. Gives me antibiotics.
I feel so ashamed as a drift around a my own little world.
One day I start writing to my Dr.
At first my letters tell her how miserable I am and how I am struggling with the trichotillomania and self harm. Once I start writing to her it's hard to stop, and as I continue to write ,my letters become more graphic. I start to tell everything, the real truth about what I do, how desperate it makes me feel.
Now I’m going to tell you.More often than not I don’t know what triggers me to start a pulling session. I can be anxious, tired, angry, happy or sad. A lot of the time I just feel numb, isolated and afraid. I’m always afraid of the same thing, the madness which I’ve been told all my life I have and which I believe is as much part of me as the trichotillomania and self harm. I feel trapped in a vicious circle.

Letters

2009-07-05T17:04:00.000+01:00

In February 2008 I receive some shocking news.
After a silence of five years my brother makes contact with me. However, this is not a reconciliation, my brother is saying goodbye to me. He is leaving. He is emigrating with his wife and children in two weeks’ time.
I’m so shocked I put the phone down on them.
I am crying, really sobbing. My husband tries to comfort me, but I’m inconsolable. An hour passes and I feel I must call my brother back. He tells me he will come to see me, to say goodbye in person. I ask him why does he want to do that considering he hasn’t been in contact for the last five years. He says he is saying goodbye to lots of people and he is doing so to draw a line under everything here, in this country.
I can hardly speak, I’m sobbing uncontrollably.
I tell him not to come, but I can’t bear it. I tell him I love him and that I thought about him every day the five years. He says he will come to say goodbye, but I repeat my plea for him not to.
I really can’t bear it.
I write him a letter. I write that I admire his strength to take his family away to a better life. I write I love him and wherever he is a I will always love him. He is my brother and he will always be my, heart.
I post the letter, I hear nothing back.
Two weeks pass and I know he has now gone.I become obsessed about his immigration. My shock is compounded into disbelief because he was always Mother’s favourite. I am convinced Mother has caused this emigration.

More visits to the doctor

2009-07-04T20:49:00.000+01:00

In 1998 I am at my doctor's surgery attending one of the many appointments I continually make for myself. I still desperately want to confide in her about my trichotillomania, and as I wait for my name to be called I have no idea that today is the day that I am finally going to tell her.

When my name is called I still have no idea that I am actually going to be brave enough to tell her.

But I do.

Before my doctor has chance to sit down I stand in front of her and pull my trousers and underwear down and blurt out the words that I am terrified to say. I say that I cannot stop pulling my pubic hair out and I cannot stop pulling the hair on my head out either. I tell my doctor that I have done this since I turned eleven years old, and that she is the first person that I have ever told.

I pull my clothes back on and sit in front of my doctor.

She is very kind and thanks me for telling her, adding that she realises that it is very brave of me to do so.

But I am not really listening to her, because of my shame.

I feel so very ashamed that I cannot look her in the eye.

My shame runs so deep inside of me that despite the fact that I will see my doctor many ,many times in the coming months and years, I never really talk to her about it again.

In fact unbekown to me at the time, ten years will pass before I finally do ask my doctor to help me.

The Doctor

2009-07-01T15:47:00.000+01:00

In 1990 I am a passenger involved in a serious road traffic accident. Because of the injuries I receive from this accident I have to attend my doctor's surgery for treatment. As time passes I come to accept my permanent injuries and the medications that I have to take in relation to them.
However, my visits to my doctor do not lessen.
I continue to use my accident my accident injuries as opportunities to secure appointments with my doctor. A few of these appointments are in relation to my accident injuries.
Most are not.
I attend these appointments to try to establish a contact with my doctor.
I desperately want to confide in her about my trichotillomania and self harm, but I don't know where to begin.
After a life time of Mother and my family telling me I am mad I can't make a decision on whether to confide in my doctor or not.
I am not brave enough.
I am certain that my doctor will diagnose me as mad and that she will be repulsed by me and by what I do.
I often just sit in front of my doctor and cry.
My tears are genuine.
I desperately want her to work it out.
To come to the conclusion that I have trichotillomania and I self harm .
I want her to use her brilliance as a doctor to work this out for herself, so that I don't have to face the shame of saying the words out loud.
But how can she work it out? She is not psychic, she cannot see inside my head and read my thoughts.
I sit before my doctor, I am perfectly groomed, cosmetics perfectly applied, clothes and accessories perfectly coordinated.
How could she possibly know?
I am very careful about my appearance, it is my suit of armour.
I wear it every day so that people cannot reach me or break through to me.
Naturally, my doctor diagnoses me as depressed.
She is right.
I am very depressed, but the depression is just on the surface, the reality runs much deeper.
Some days I feel detached from my body and I see myself as others do.
Some people say that I am unapproachable and I can see this for myself when I am feeling this detachment.
I get a perverse feeling of safety from this, knowing that no one can get near to me. But I also get a huge sense of sadness as the price I pay for this self imposed safety is extreme isolation and loneliness.
The feelings of isolation and loneliness are so intense they are debilitating. They make me feel as if I belong to nothing and I experience the sensation of watching life and the world go by without participating in it in any way.
Eventually my feelings of isolation and loneliness give way to a gradually increasing numbness,until I am so numb that I am incapable of feeling anything.
Totally numb,no one can reach out to me, touch me, make me laugh, engage me in conversation or try to help me.
But still I continue to make and attend appointments with my doctor, and sit before her in the desperate hope that she will be able to reach out to me, to find a chink in my armour.
But, yet again, I leave her consulting rooms with my secrets intact, and the belief that I am mad creates another seemingly impenetrable barrier between her and me.

To The Reader

2009-07-01T15:04:00.000+01:00

This is a true account of living with trichotillomania.
If you are a fellow sufferer, I hope that you will come to understand that your trauma is exacerbated by your secrecy concerning trichotillomania.
It is very frightening to reveal your secret, but once you do you can become more open to possibilities to lessen your symptoms and improve the quality of your life.
KNOW THAT YOU ARE VERY BRAVE IN BEING HONEST WITH YOURSELF.
If you are reading this and you don't have trichotillomania, then I applaud your compassion and intellect in your desire to read about this subject matter and help to bring it out into the open.