Monica – Will Write for Mangoes

Originally published through Medium on November 19, 2023

Hair Pulling…is a trick. It’s one of those self-serving habits that slowly takes over until you just can’t help yourself. And, like any addiction, you’re stuck. Or so you think…

You are here because you’re trying to find the name for what you or your loved one is doing — plucking, rubbing, twisting, tweezing — hair pulling.

Observing me at a glance, one would assume I was merely absorbed in my thoughts. Looking closer, you would notice it, “snap”… “snap”…“snap.” At seven years old, my hair was thinning, and no, it wasn’t because my mom was pulling my hair into a ponytail too tight. It was because I was pulling my hair.

Growing up, my mother was always sick, I didn’t know why, and I didn’t know how to help. My father was consumed with my mother’s illness, so he turned to his obsession — work. I was in a “normal” household, but the vibe was everything but…Coming home, I never knew whether I would find an ambulance rushing to take my mom to the hospital or if she was already there. As a child, you have all the energy in the world to save the day, but for my mother, there was nothing I could do. My hands found something to act upon.

Was it painful to pull my hair? Maybe, well, a little, but the satisfaction of feeling the hair leave my scalp was like all the pain in my life being lifted. The only problem was that this relief lasted for a millisecond, and so another hair had to be pulled, then another, and another.

My family was baffled at my behavior. No one else pulled their hair. Not my Mother, Father, Brother, Grandma, Granny, or Aunties. None of my friends pulled their hair. Just me. If only my family would go to a psychiatrist, they would get a proper diagnosis. Unfortunately, going to “head doctor” means you’re crazy. Their child was not.

After three years of talking, wearing gloves, and looking in the mirror, I was nowhere closer to knowing what was wrong with me or how to fix it.

Life changed when my dad died. At ten years old, I was shocked. I thought my mom would go any day; I was mistaken. And so, finally, my mom sought therapy. Not for my hair but for my dad’s death.

It’s nice to talk to people; ultimately, it is God who takes us through grief. My mom got her money’s worth, though, because my bald spots were staring the therapist in the face. She addressed them by name — Trichotillomania.

With a name, you can find a cure, right? Well, that’s trichy.

This was written by our contributing writer, Monica Patterson.