Anxiety manifests itself in many ways: weight gain, sleep loss, lack of energy, or even depression. Sadly, some suffer so strongly that they develop compulsive disorders. I was one of those people. At the age of 7, I was diagnosed with trichotillomania, a panic compulsive disorder where one has an obsessive and irresistible urge to pull hair from their body. It started with my eyebrows, and I eventually discovered my love for pulling eyelashes. When both of those sources were depleted and I had none left, my scalp was my next victim. For years I walked around with a nearly hairless head. I had no eyelashes, no eyebrows, and my scalp was so sparse that I could no longer put my locks into a pony tail. Thankfully, by the time I was 13 years old, I successfully subdued those urges and regained control of my life. But it was a long and hard road getting there.

I didn’t understand my addiction.

Children are not built to understand addiction. Their minds aren't meant to comprehend it. I had these unexplainable urges; terrible, unhealthy compulsions that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop. And I so badly wanted to stop! I didn’t want to look like who I was turning out to be. I wanted to feel pretty, I wanted to feel normal.

I felt alone.

I had never even heard of trich before, let alone knew anyone who suffered from it. I felt like an anomaly, a freak! Here I was, this 1st grade little girl walking around with no eyebrows or eyelashes, and the world was not kind to me. Kids would run away like I had the plague, mothers would turn and whisper to each other as I walked past them, and some would just simply stare. No one knew how to approach me. No one knew how to be my friend.

I was a walking target.

To say that I was bullied would be an understatement. I was victimized, tormented daily for my abnormal appearance. Girls would point and snicker to each other, gossiping back and forth about the origin of my disfigurement. They’d say I had a hair eating bacteria, and if anyone got too close, they would catch it. Boys would openly tease me, calling me disgusting and ugly to my face. As a young girl, I wanted to be liked. I wanted boys to think I was pretty, and for my crush to like me back. When I was 12 years old, I made a bold move and wrote a love letter to a guy that I liked. When he opened it, he stood up at his desk and read the letter aloud. His words were met with laughter from the class, and he ended his speech by looking me in the eyes and saying, “I could never like you! You don’t even look like a girl!” To this day I can still hear his mocking words.

I was my own worst enemy.

I let my anxiety get out of control, and that was my fault.I wanted to blame my afflictions on somebody else, but I couldn’t. I became self-loathing, hating myself for allowing this disorder to take over my life. I fell into a deep depression because I couldn’t stop pulling. Not being able to stop created even greater anxiety and nervousness inside of me. And what did I do to relieve that stress? I pulled. I pulled and I plucked, finding temporary satisfaction. But once that feeling of peace subsided, the anxiety only grew stronger, continuing the circle of trichotillomania.

For so long, I’ve been too ashamed to open up about the struggles I’ve been through. I destroyed almost any picture of me from 1st-7th grade, trying to pretend that I was never diagnosed with trich. I just wanted to forget. But now that I’m older, and I understand that I’m not alone, I want to share! Over 2.5 million people in the United States struggle with trichotillomania at some point in their life, and it is my hope that some may read this and feel comforted in that fact that I was able to overcome, and that they have the ability to as well! Never be ashamed of your past; it just may help someone’s future.