On December 13, six months after shaving my head, I wrote about the meditation practice I use to get past the urge to pull out my hair.

Step One: Close my eyes

Step Two: Breathe Deeply…

Little did I know that just one month later this would become a virtually impossible task.

My workplace is basically a petri dish.  We are locked in a small room with partial cubicle walls between us, all breathing recycled air for hours on end.  When one of us gets sick, we all do, so when my breathing trouble started, I assumed it was due to the upper respiratory crud that had infected my co-workers.

I went to the doctor who promptly started me on the usual antibiotic/steroid regimen to knock out the infection.  Later in the week, when I was unable to take a deep breath, became lightheaded and felt my heart was trying to escape the confines of my chest, I figured it was just a result of the prednisone.  To be safe, I went to see “Doc,” who informed me my blood pressure was a bit high, but it was most likely due to the illness and medications.

When I returned for a follow-up visit after finishing the course of med’s, my blood pressure was still elevated. My doctor is an excellent conversationalist, and is very good at getting his patients to talk about what’s going on in different areas of their lives.  He worked his magic on me, and I casually mentioned that I have dealt with anxiety in my past, and this sort-of felt like that.  He peered at me over his glasses, tore up the prescription he had been writing for blood pressure medication, and asked if I had any trouble taking SSRIs (Selective Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors), a class of drugs used predominantly for depression, but also helpful with anxiety.

At first I was flabbergasted.  What in the WORLD do I have to be anxious about?  I have a husband I adore and who is crazy about me.  My kids, for the most part, are doing really well. I have a normal desk job with coworkers I truly enjoy.  I live in paradise surrounded by nature  For all intents and purposes, I am living a charmed life.  Then it hit me…

I haven’t allowed myself to truly feel my emotions for 45 years.

I’ve been using trichotillomania my entire life to insulate my psyche.  Right now,without that force field, every emotion that enters my consciousness is like a napalm bomb going off.  Imagine an alcoholic or addict of 45 years suddenly quitting, but not in a rehab center or recovery program, just attempting to go about their everyday life.  The fact that I’ve been able to hold it together this long is a testimony to my very stubborn will, but one can only rely on a hard head for so long.

After three weeks, Lexapro, the SSRI Doc prescribed, is helping to take the edge off.  I’ve had a couple of days without having to make myself yawn just to be able to fill my lungs, and my heart has only occasionally felt like a bird trapped in a tiny net.  Only once this week did it take every ounce of strength to stop myself from screaming and running home as fast as my Hyundai would take me.

This is the first time in two years that I have seriously considered throwing in the towel and going back to hair pulling.  Not being in control of my own panic button is a horrible consequence of attempting to overcome trichotillomania.

I guess that’s what it is.  I just want to be in control; not controlled by trich, not controlled by anxiety…

How ironic that a big part of the solution is surrendering control to a Father who loves me.

Finding peace requires I stop fighting for it and simply accept it.

Perhaps the neural pathway I am attempting to create doesn’t require any bushwhacking at all. Perhaps I must simply listen for Father’s voice and move toward Him, following an ancient path laid out before time became our prison and death the key.

For now, I am grateful to just breathe… and hope.