Many people have commented that my willingness to publicly share this struggle to stop pulling out my hair is brave; however, I feel anything but.  I am scared to death of failing…again. I’m afraid of replacing the TTM with some other impulse control disorder even-weirder than this one.  And really, to be gut-wrenchingly honest, I’m terrified of not having this coping mechanism anymore.

One of the most frightening discoveries I’ve uncovered is that my impulsive need to render myself bald has virtually nothing to do with hair at all.  It is all about introspection and trying to figure out who I really am and what purpose the hair-pulling serves.  In case you’re wondering, this sucks.  I don’t really enjoy delving into my past yet again, dredging up all the dirty little secrets lurking deep within the dark and ominous recesses of my bruised and battered psyche.

After years of  battling this seemingly invincible malady, I am beginning to realize that trichotillomania, for me, is like a “Check Engine” light on  my soul’s dashboard.  All this time, I’ve thought trich was the problem.  I viewed it as some enemy to slay,  when it’s actually just an indicator of something off-kilter under my hood.  Attempting to simply “quit pulling out my hair” would be like snipping the little wire that makes that check-engine light glow.  Although there is a part of me that is seriously lobbying for the “ignore it and it will go away” response, I think it’s probably time to get my hands dirty and figure out what that light is indicating once and for all.