The Story Behind the Secret

They say a crucial step in demystifying the enigma of the behavior is to trace back to its origins in our lives and hopefully in doing this, we can come closer to locating its source. Something I noticed when reading other pullers’ stories is that, even though the causes for our behavior remains elusive, they establish an almost eerie pattern of similarity. I’ve also noticed when reading the descriptions people have shared of their experiences with and drive to pull their hair out, that there are other striking commonalities, especially in terms of the satisfaction and subsequent feelings of guilt and shame that pulling out the hair brings forth in us. This acts as a comfort to me, because it suggests that what I feel so strongly compelled to do is not entirely anomolous. Atypical yes, but if so many people got their start down the path of pulling in pretty much the same way at the same stage in life and get the same sorts of sensations out of it, that must mean that there is an identifiable cause. Though correlation is not always causation, it’s still more to grab onto than I had before.

That being said, for all the commonalities we share, no two pullers have the exact same story or rituals of pulling. So with that, here’s my own story of how I got my start in the seductive, sensuous, shame filled world of compulsive hair pulling:

I was 12 years old. I had just began puberty and was, unbenowknst to me, swiftly hurtling toward an awkward stage the stuff of horror film legend. At this point, I was still a skinny, tall and naive youngster. Did I have self-esteem issues? Yeah sure. I was not a popular girl for a variety of reasons (growing up in a horrible, backbiting town of old money Southern snobs who taught me that life was unfair, people are cruel and not be trusted, and that I could never win with them because of my background, I’m sure didn’t help) but I was starting to find a place of at least begrudging tolerance for my inability to blend into the crowd and tow the line. I certainly didn’t feel bad about myself or dislike myself, I just disliked everyone else.

Then came middle school and the awkwardness started to kick in. I had a group of friends I had just started to become a part of legitimately and who seemed like fun, cool girls. I was in some accelerated classes and developed my burning love for Literature in the Advanced English class, taught by an unforgettable teacher. I had my first real boyfriend, which filled me with an excitement and pride I have rarely experienced since. I felt so cool and grown up, not to mention he was as tall and awkward as I was.

Looking back on the hell storm that followed, it’s kind of a blur really. Maybe I’ve  just tried to forget it all or maybe it really was just that confusing. I don’t know really and have only one other time in my life felt so absolutely miserable or had my self-confidence and self-image so thoroughly shaken.  The boyfriend and I broke up for a reason I can’t even remember, but of course he was in all of my classes and then proceeded to date every other girl I knew. He was a fixture and constant reminder of losing the first thing that made me feel special, and I soon learned I was just one in a long string of other, equally “special” girls. I started doing poorly in school too. I was never a great student, but I always knew I was smart and just didn’t feel the need to prove that to anyone else. The fog of hormones made me painfully stupid, and I couldn’t seem to ever get a grip on anything or pay any attention to what was going on around me. One teacher completely tore me apart in front of the entire class for not having an assignment done, right in front of the ex-boyfriend of course, who always got straight A’s and was probably glad he got away from me before I devolved into a primordial ape girl. Speaking of, my skin became an unimaginable landscape of acne and I gained roughly 40 pounds in the span of about two months. That probably can be attributed to my constant position in front of the TV with a bag of potato chips or popcorn or pizza, or all three. I was used to being able to eat anything and never gain an ounce. Then, overnight, I became a fat girl. Perhaps the reason I was parked in front of the TV all the time was because my entire group of girlfriends decided to shun me. They spread rumors that I had stolen from them at a slumber party (which was totally untrue, but that made no difference). I became known as “Delilah the thief” by all and sundry from that point on. Why did they do this? I’m still not entirely sure, but it made a mess of my life, that much I know is true. So, since the social ordering of middle school is based on rigidly defined social groups, and no group seemed to be taking applications, I was alone. I hated everyone and eveything, but most of all myself. Coincidentally, my father was undergoing an epic mid-life crisis at the same time and proceeded to terrorize the house without mercy. He became obsessed with appearing young, cool and attractive, as he had always been before and had always taken for granted. Now he clung desperately to anything that made him look, in his mind, young and cool. Even at 12 though, I knew he looked like a total poser half the time. He, for some reason, focused on me like a laser beam and drove me completely to distraction with his newfound, non-sensical and often cruel behavior.  I dreaded his presence at home, which for work reasons, was thankfully infrequent.

So here we are. It’s Christmas day (I think) and our whole family has gone up to Boston to visit the side of the family I love and enjoy, and who has always loved and enjoyed me in turn. It was a desperately needed break from my town, school and the miserable drudgery of my life. We were getting ready to go to a family party at some relatives’ house and I was in the process of styling my hair for the occasion. Before puberty, I had beautiful hair. It was dark, curly and thick. Everyone said I looked just like Snow White. In our town though, for some strange reason, short blonde girls with straight hair done up pony tails with tacky Clemson bows was the beauty standard. I was the antithesis of those things. Add to that my hair also underwent a transformation at puberty and became akin to a frizzy, coarse rug that hung down my back, complete with a ridiculous poof of bangs that I hated but could never quite grow out successfully.

I didn’t pay much attention to this feature, because I was trying not to pay much attention to anything those days but I will never forget the moment that I peered into the mirror, noticed some scraggly hairs sticking up off the top of my head and decided the easiest fix was just to pull them out. From that point on, I would never truly be able to stop paying attention to my hair. The feeling of the hairs all coming out (there were maybe like 5-10 that I pulled out at once) was a titillation and thrill that has since continued to plague me for the rest of my life thus far. Also, I was shocked and intrigued to see the shiny hair roots on the ends of the hairs. I had no idea these existed, but it made perfect sense once revealed. I felt like I had uncovered some sort of hidden treasure. My instinctual response was to bite each root off in my mouth. It was sheer delight. Gross, bizarre, mildly insane: I already felt I was all of these things already.  The entire ritual made perfect sense to me, like I had somehow, in some locked up part of me, secretly known of its existence all along and was just waiting for the right time to begin. It was what I had desperately been without for so long, a feeling of total satisfaction. Something to fill the hole that I wasn’t even fully even aware I had inside me but had been cramming with food and mindless entertainment up till this point. Pulling my hair became the new mindless entertainment and never failed to lull me into a feeling of calm, sedate indifference toward everyone and everything as I pulled out a hair, examined its dimensions with utter fascination, like each was a precious gem, and then slid the root off between my teeth like a delicacy. The best part was, I could do this over and over, the novelty and the feeling of pure, blissful release never ceased, but only became more and more intense as I began to pull from the same area. The feeling of pulling from that particular spot was like being able to return to a physical place, a place of refuge and escape. I felt so comfortable there and was drawn to it with a strength of desire I had yet to experience and which cannot be compared to anything else I have known or loved. I began to get the feeling over time that this was something I shouldn’t be doing, especially in public, but figured I had really thick hair with plenty to spare, so I kept returning to the well,  not really seeing any pressing need to stop right away.

Eventually though, the inevitable happened and I developed a fairly noticeable bald spot. I wasn’t really aware of its visibility (which makes no sense) until some of my old friends who had shunned me from the group kindly pointed out to me that I was going bald, as did a friend of the family in front of several other adults and children. I was mortified and any enjoyment I got from the ritual was swiftly replaced with embarassment, shame and a stash of lame excuses about “my hair just parting like that.”  I managed to stop pulling entirely from the sheer horror and punishment the act had created.

Luckily, my family then moved far, far away and I got to reinvent myself and actually managed to stop pulling for years, replacing this act with hair chewing. Still gross and self-injurious, but much easier to cover up. I continue to do it to this day and fear it will be even harder to give up in some ways than hair pulling, because it’s my second and last line of defense against anxiety. So, my hair grew back, I had many stylish haircuts over the years and dyed it funky colors to match my funky persona. It was a good time for me and my hair. We got along just fine.

I started back up again, though never too long or too much, in college when stressed out about essays and exams. Whenever it started getting a little too unacceptable, I would manage to quell the behavior by sheer will. Plus, college stress goes just as fast as it comes and was balanced out by carefree fun the likes of which I’m sure I’ll never have the chance to enjoy again. So, the pulling was just in occasional bouts, but they were relatively few and far between.

It continued to be an issue, but not anything that had any serious impact on what I could do or how I felt about myself. It was just something I did when stressed out, but it didn’t control me or my life. It was just a bad habit, like biting nails. It was at this time though, that I met a man who I fell so in love with, that it completely changed me forever. He had his own very serious set of personal demons, but did a very effective job projecting them onto me in a way that I’ll never fully understand the mechanics of but that had me totally convinced that I was totally irrational, he was always right, that I was the uncoolest person ever (before I had the blessed fortune of him entering my life and instructing me in what is cool and what isn’t) and that I would be the luckiest woman in the world if he married me. Granted, I would have to work on a lot about myself before that could happen because I needed serious improvement. I was completely and utterly his to control and loved every moment of it, even the pain and desperation he inflicted. It was all a powerful, seductive drug to me. I was also deeply paranoid that he didn’t feel as strongly about me and that I could lose him at any second, another impression that I suspect he orchestrated himself by the way he treated me and delighted in making me constantly wonder about  his whereabouts and devotion to me, only making me that more drawn to him because he was so elusive and never really within my grasp. My attraction to him bordered on obsession. We had several torid, dramatic break ups and reunions, usually over the same thing. He would go through “phases” were he wasn’t attracted to me physically. Keep in mind, I was a beautiful girl in college. I had blossomed into a stunning woman, but had no idea because he was very good at making me question my attractiveness through his mind games. No, the reason he didn’t feel sexual attraction to me is that he would periodically only desire the company of men. I learned about 9 months into the relationship that he had had many encounters with men before we began our relationship. He claimed it wasn’t about the sex being better, just easier and less complicated (than me of course). He occasionally missed it and it would periodically drive a wedge between us and make me feel, well, like shit. I would occasionally get fed up or freak out about it when it became too much of an issue, and then we would fight and break up or fight and get back together. I didn’t want to lose him. We planned to get married and I, for some reason, thought this would actually happen and that it would be wonderful. I couldn’t wait. He on the other hand, said we had to keep it a secret. We did, more or less successfully, for a few years. Much of the time, I never knew what was real and true about him, about me, about anything– something he created in me and which made my need for him that much greater.

Then came graduate school and the big break up that sent me into a complete tailspin. The stress of graduate school, coupled with my utter devestation over the truth that the man I so desperately loved did not really love me back, that he couldn’t love me back combined to send me rushing into the familiar and deeply comforting arms of pulling out my own hair. That was actually quite a few years ago, and my life went through several other, even darker and more confused landscapes, and since then my hair pulling has not ceased, even for a day, and with my new identity as a teacher and the inherent stress and pressure that comes with the job, my impulse to pull has gone to a whole new level. One where I often don’t even realize I’m doing it and where, no matter how much I may desire to stop myself from such horrible, self-destructive behavior as part of really, truly becoming a functioning and healthy adult who has left the painful trials and confusion of her past in the dust and who has a handle on life and accomplishments under her belt that many others her age are nowhere near and may never be, the urge to pull has gone from enjoyable to necessary to a compulsion that cannot be denied. All leading to here and now. I know things have slipped beyond my control and that I have to acknowledge that it isn’t something that will magically go away on its own or that I’ll grow out of.  It is something that has been with me every step of the way, like a best friend I had no idea  I needed so desperately– the pattern of my behavior is deeply entrenched by 14 years of my repeating it and has only dug itself deeper and deeper into me, threatening to become me. But looking back, I guess it was me all along.

My life is so much better now in so many ways and I feel much more comfortable with who I am on the inside, but this thing has gone from something I just do, to something that controls me body and soul. I know that I need help to fix this and that I need help dealing with the stress that won’t be dissapearing any time soon either. My coping mechanism has become a cancer that is killing me and destroying the opportunity for any real joyor pride in myself that I can hope to feel.

I want to leave all of these memories behind because they still, obviously, weigh heavily on me. I hope I can. At the very least, stopping my addiction to pulling would be a symbolic triumph over the mistakes and heartbreaks of the past, and I could finally grow into the person I know deep down I’m capable of being. A person who is waiting for deliverence.