#ecsu

Persephone and the Pomegranate.

They love me, they love me not.

You know that childhood game where you pull the petals off of the flower saying “he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not...” with each petal deciding your fate? Well all you end up with at the end is a bare flower that you throw away.

I am that flower.

For years, I’ve dealt with trichotillomania - a disorder that my doctors hadn’t even heard of. It basically means that when I’m stressed, or when I have nothing else to do with my hands, I pull my hair out. From all over my body. And I can’t stop. I used to make wishes on my eyelashes - another old wives’ tale you hear people say - and sometimes I still do. The wish was always the same - to stop pulling my hair out. To be happy. To not have this weird disorder no one knew how to fix. And all that was left at the end, was a bald patch. And the pulling didn’t stop.

For years I would hide it. Fill in my eyebrows with makeup, bandage up my fingers so I couldn’t pull. I was so scared of people finding out. I was so embarrassed when people noticed. And I wouldn’t talk about it. I felt broken. I turned to the internet to try and figure out what was wrong with me and found some amazing people who also pulled their hair. And I found a community. I began telling a few close friends. I started therapy. I met with some amazing filmmakers at a screening of their documentary all about trich.

I still pull out my hair. I think I always will. But now, I don’t feel like a bald flower. I let my hair grow as long as I can manage. I try to busy my hands with productive things. I see my doctors and take my medicine. I tell myself that I am beautiful.

Even without all my petals.