Here’s a blog sent to us by our friend Lashes.

The hardest thing I ever did was admit to myself that I was a hair-puller.

At first I was convinced it was a bad habit, and in a sense, it really was. I told myself I could stop whenever I wanted to. I just didnít want to badly enough.

Then came the day when I was exhausted. I was tired of being obsessed with being obsessed. Constant checking and checking. Is my hair in place? Did my eyeliner smudge?

I would observe people from a distance and wonder what it felt like to be them. How it felt to rub your eyes when youíre tired, or let your hair down.

I look at people who complain about thick cuticles or a pimple, and wonder what itís like to be within the extent of those worries. How easy and simple it must be to lead a life where the worst case scenario is a zit on your nose.

Eventually I discovered that there was such a thing as hair-pulling, and it wasnít
just some freakish habit I concocted. I was relieved because I wasnít as isolated as I thought, but now I had an excuse to do it. I have Trichotillomania. And while grasping a freshly torn hair between my fingernails, I would justify my pulling because now it was a disorder, not just a bad habit.

This was accompanied by a willing sense of weakness. I would like to believe that this is out of my control, and every frock I pull forth is a result of an illness in my mind that is beyond fixing. And I donít know if itís the years of failed attempts, or the episodic waves of baldness, but any hopes existing or prior have been drowned out.

A full head of hair and thick eyelashes equate to utter and complete happiness in my world. Forget huge mansions and private jets. How can people not see how easy it is to be content? I canít even fathom the joy and calmness of rolling out of bed without a second thought. I have never learnt such an emotion.

All the black pencils and eyeliners, the fake lashes, the weird hair-dos. I wake up every morning to change myself; to change what I look like. I am guilty of fooling the world and ashamed that I have to do it. Ashamed that I donít give myself any other choice.

I am kind and generous. I never judge people and I never put anyone in a position to feel uncomfortable. Yet my face doesnít reflect any of that. All it shows is a self-infliction of ugliness.

This is not who I am.

And I donít understand why this is who I have become.