AE Voices: Pulling for Perfection

AE Voices: Pulling for Perfection

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AE Voices is space for America East Conference student-athletes, coaches and administrators to share their personal stories in their own words. May is Mental Health Awareness Month and this feature is sponsored by America East’s #BetterToether initiative, which aims to help create more mentally healthy environments for AE student-athletes.

Read past AE Voices features

Pulling for Perfection
By: Current AE Student-Athlete

“White. A blank page or canvas. The challenge: bring order to the whole.” The opening line in my favorite musical, Sunday in the Park With George, by the late great Stephen Sondheim. This is also how I view my journey battling anxiety, OCD and depression. Breathe, sit on your hands, don’t break down.

Control. It has always been about control. My existential need for control over something coded in my genes; my biological coping mechanism for the consequences of childhood trauma; a journey to self-acceptance. Don’t let anyone know. I have to keep up the image. Be everything. Do everything well so no one notices: the perfect daughter, singer, dancer, volleyball player, volunteer, club leader, super fun party girl, girlfriend, scientist, academic—don’t touch your face. Keep going.

I must have been 10 or 11 when I began compulsively “flat-checking” my stomach whenever I passed a mirror. I remember comparing myself to my friends who were small-statured cheerleaders. I was tall, not “thin” but also not “fat.” I didn’t—and still sometimes don’t—think I fit in anywhere. So I controlled where I felt I was lacking: running five miles every day, weighing myself multiple times a day, studying until it was dark... It never occurred to me that constant exercise and a restricted diet was a problem. This was the beginning of my obsessive compulsive behaviors. No matter how skinny I could get or good enough in school or the arts, it was never enough—I never felt enough. control IT. GOD why did you have to f*** it up again you were good this week- F*** I DIDN’T TAKE MY MEDS okay cool cool cool be cool.

The urge was small at first. The American Girl Doll book told us to be open to the changes of a “growing woman.” whatever that means. Always being considerate of my appearance, I began to look at myself in the mirror and pondered the ways I could control my image further. I had an uncontrollable, obsessive, compulsive inclination to pull my hair out. Yes, pull it. I did not know why, but I reached for what looked like an out-of-place eyelash and just like that, pulled it. I will never forget the feeling of freeness and release I had the first time I pulled. It seemed like my anxiety stopped for a moment in time. If only I had known what would lie ahead whatdidyoujustdodidyoujustpulloutyoureyelash whatisWRONGWITHYOU?

I kept pulling my hair. And again. And again. And again for 10 years.

When I pulled, I could individually select each hair, like it was special and new each time. There was immediate gratification for a moment, but then it would go away, making me want to pull more.

This was not some random urge to pull my hair; it is called trichotillomania, and it is an obsessive-compulsive disorder that I have battled in silence since 2012.

Release. Let it out.

My trich started to worsen during my second year of middle school, when I began a 5-year journey of wearing a back brace for my severe scoliosis. On top of the complex issues that middle school brings I was wearing a full brace 20 hours a day, without fail or complaint. While navigating this new adversity, I made the volleyball team after being cut the previous year; but the team already had an established clique, and my friends who did other activities began to distance themselves. I was a complete outsider. And I hated it. No matter how nice I was to the volleyball girls, or how normal my family tried to make me feel with the brace, the idea of being different terrified me. Who I was at the time was insecure, scared, and desperate for kindness, especially from myself. I had to be strong and not complain about the brace because I saw how scared my parents were that I was close to spinal fusion surgery.

The possibility of never having the chance to play volleyball again scared me. Pulling my hair gave me quick and instant release from my anxiety, but also enabled me to feel in control of something when I felt like so many of life’s cards were out of my control. It was on my terms. It gave me comfort for the pain I felt inside, and that relief was addictive. I never questioned how I dealt with negative emotions; I never questioned why I pulled out my own hair. All I knew was that pulling made it felt 1% better for one second. The whole conundrum is that I never really had control over pulling my hair, I didn’t realize that this was a biological impulse, something that would take years of therapy and learning to accept myself to stop.
Once I started, I couldn’t stop. A whirlwind of mindless pulling until the end of a brow, a patch on my scalp, or an eyelash band would disappear. It was during times that I was bored or lonely: driving in the car; laying in bed at night crying myself to sleep; or feeling incredibly overwhelmed doing homework.

These moments made you who you are, which is enough.

I don’t remember telling anyone or seeking help. I don’t remember seeing the doctor to talk about it for the first time. I don’t remember being diagnosed with anxiety and trich. That time of my life is completely blacked out. But what I do remember is the beginning of the shame; the shame I carry around each day—to this day—feeling like a phony, or like someone is going to notice and uncover my big, dark secret. I was terrified to be labeled as “the girl who pulls her hair out,” and have every good deed or pleasant memory erased. I was not ready to face my own flaws and demons; and if someone else were to call it out first, I didn’t think I would be able to recover.

Learning about trichotillomania, that it was a legitimate condition, left me utterly embarrassed. I was determined to never tell anyone because of how gross or weird it felt to say, “Yes! That’s right! I have the biological impulse to pull my hair out when I am stressed!”  To this day I have told incredibly few people: my therapist, my immediate family, and six of my best friends. That’s it.

Until today. Keep going.

By the time I went to college, I felt I was on the right path. I was managing my trich and anxiety alright, with expected flare-ups here and there, until the end of my freshman year. Being in a new environment, I desperately wanted to “fit in.” I was struggling to cope with managing my new life in college and my anxiety and trich thrived. Each week brought more and more anxiety attacks, keeping me up until 3 A.M. During my attacks, I could not stop over-analyzing times during the day where I thought someone caught me pulling my hair. At my lowest point I brainwashed myself to think that everything I had ever accomplished was not real—my academic, sports, and musical achievements and how I try to treat people with kindness was a lie, a result of me hiding my trich. All my hard work to heal the relationship I had with myself was gone in about 5 months. One night I talked myself down to a pulp, questioning everything in my life. Why me? Why does it have to be trichotillomania? Why can’t I just be a normal girl?  My whole entire body shook with fear, as it felt like I was being chased to my death- but I was only in my dorm room having an anxiety attack. I called my brother. Shane brought me back to reality that night; he saved my life and I am eternally grateful to him for that.

I am here for a reason.

I thought my mental health journey was completed, but it was then that it really started. Through therapy, I recognized my hair-pulling triggers and learned behavioral intervention techniques to stop myself from pulling. Therapy has made me a more emotionally intelligent person, a more understanding daughter, and a kinder friend to myself. It has taught me to control the things I can control, and to have grace if I fall short of my expectations for myself. My biggest hurdle in managing my trich was dealing with my anxiety. Having anxiety is like having a council of little you’s in your brain dissecting your every action, every glance, every thing. My brain gets caught up in what I think other people are thinking about me, overanalyzing interactions, and berating anything I do that is less than “perfect”. Perfection is great, but it is not real. I have come to learn that I am allowed to have days of struggle, days I am not perfect. It isn’t up to anyone but me to dictate how I view myself, how I present myself, and how I take care of myself. Healing is not linear, especially when it comes to mental illness. I am still in recovery of trichotillomania and anxiety, and no matter how long it takes, I know I am capable of managing these parts of me.

Once I began to understand that who I am as a person is not a coincidence or cover-up for a biological condition, I could acknowledge, for the first time in 10 years, all the things I like about myself: my endeavors, my hard-earned achievements, my peers’ comments about my empathetic nature, and my zest for life. I do not know if the shame and fear of my image will ever go away, even after I recover from my battle of trich. What I do know, is that the moment I began to love the parts I thought were unlovable, I never felt more myself. I am beginning to like the person who wears my clothes; and plays on the volleyball team; and wants to change the world; and whose heart bursts when I make someone smile.

Writing this makes me smile.

There is so much more to you, to me, to anyone than just their profession or hobbies. I chose to stay silent about my battle with trichotillomania for a decade. Perhaps I labeled myself wrongly as too broken to deserve to be open about my struggles with trich and anxiety—that my comorbid conditions were too unrelatable to have a place at the table for mental health discussion. I am now at a place where I choose to label myself as me: nothing more, nothing less. I share my story to shed light on a condition that affects one in twenty individuals, and for anyone who feels that their mental health struggle is “weird”. I can only hope that this piece brings light to trichotillomania and others like it, or that it makes someone feel seen—to feel empowered to embrace the spectacular kaleidoscope of being that they are, no matter how broken and ugly they may think it is. You are the one that makes you, you. Today, and from now on, I choose to not hide this part of myself. I choose to love every part of myself, even the parts that I once deemed unworthy of acceptance from myself or from others.

I am me, and I live with anxiety and trichotillomania.

That felt good to finally say.


The author of this #AEVoices story is a current America East student-athlete who wished to remain anonymous. 
If you, or someone you know, is battling anxiety or depression and in need of someone to talk to, The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones by calling 1-800-273-8255. 
Are you a current or former America East student-athlete, coach or administrator interested in sharing your own story as part of the AE Voices series? Contact America East Senior Associate Commissioner Sean Tainsh (tainsh@americaeast.com).