A first look.

I think it is time that I push myself farther than I think I can go.

I know that my Trich is primarily a direct reaction to my extreme anxiety and childhood PTSD. I am tired of always hiding the evidence 100%. This picture doesn’t show the worst spot, but it is the best I was able to convince myself to post.

I want to learn how to control the urges. I want to fight back. This is the next step.

Maybe I’ll post a ‘better’ view in a couple of weeks, and hopefully it will have grown in some.


PTSD, it’s more common than you might think

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I’m not a w  OMG!  I just wrote out the start of that sentence and put w instead of v (I meant to write very) but because I put the w by accident, I had a mini panic attack and just sat there thinking about what word I could write instead that starts with a w.

All of this happened in a notebook, in pen, of course, while I was sitting at my desk, in my house.  Why was the simple act of crossing out a letter so difficult for me?

My anxiety can get so bad, and my annoying OCD tendencies so strong that I couldn’t just cross it out, at least not without an internal fight.

There are the good days, where I manage to fight my anxiety before it consumes me, but more often than not there is always something.  When it comes to my blog– I think about it al the time. I come up with ideas that I want to write out– but then I feel this overwhelming sence of dread towards writing it.

For some reason I get the same feeling when I go to use my credit card when I don’t know if the payment I made has cleared and I worried the payment won’t go through.  Actually, I do know why I feel like that.I’m afraid of being embarrassed.  I don’t like the idea of someone making fun of me, judging me, or even feeling sorry for me.  And if I dig a little deeper, I guess a therapist would tell me it come back to my childhood.

I  used to get in trouble if (insert anything I did that annoyed my mother at any given moment) was to her standards, exactly when she wanted it.

The level of expectation for perfection was also a loose variable–not a constant, but she would never indicate what the level was at any time.  Eventually I just always expected it to be the highest level.

The summers before high school wasn’t spend hanging out with my friends– not at all.  I got the pleasure of baby-sitting, and there was no getting paid, no, this was an expectation. My sisters were ten and four, I was fourteen.  I was excepted to not only watch them ALL THE TIME but make lunches, and often diner, complete a daily list of chores, AND keep the house spotless.  Otherwise I would lose privileges– having to miss an outing with friends, no tv, no computer, or more chores.

At twenty-six with an almost four-year old and a very messy dog, I often have trouble keeping up to my own standards — let alone hers.

And then the self-shame kicks in.  It always happens after I realize I “should have known” something, but kept it buried inside.  Which I know is illogical. I know PTSD, or in this case CPTSD, is not my fault.  If I were listening to anyone else tell this same story I would tell them that, but I have trouble listening to myself.  I also know that I shouldn’t blame, or even hate myself for not noticing earlier, but I do.

Sometimes it feels like the rational me is locked in a cage and a very sadistic me (I just realized how much of this example comes from Inside Out, if you haven’t already, watch it, I think it’s a must see) is dangling the key in my face while letting my anxiety take over completely.

I want to stop listening to that horrible voice in my head when it tells me my fiance doesn’t really love/want/trust/belive me.  I know that he does, but logical me can’t take back control.

Honestly though, I am so tired of being pushed around by my anxiety.  I want to be proud of who I am. I don’t know how long it will take to get there, but that’s the ultimate goal.

Adults I was supposed to trust and look up to (my teachers, my mother), made me feel worthless at times, like I was choosing to complain about a non-existent issue, or purposely failing to meet ridiculous standards.

Now that I’m a parent it is much easier to sympathise a little, and understand that my mother (most likely) did not purposely cause the pain she did, and I am fairly confident that non of my teachers believed that I was in serious pain and purposely ignored me. (Read this post for details) That knowledge eases some of the pain, but dealing with CPTSD is an ongoing battle.


Side note.  I spent about two weeks fighting with myself to type something up.  I finally picked up a pen and the words just started flowing out.  The typing up is still a little hard, but much  better than before.  Handwriting rough drafts, it worked for me in school, I guess it will work for me now.

Hi, my name is Katlynn and I have Trichotillomania.

A little background, from www.trich.org

Trichotillomania, also known as trich, is currently defined as an obsessive-compulsive related disorder but there are still questions about how it should be classified. Most recently, it is being conceptualized as part of a family body-focused repetitive behaviours (BFRBs) along with skin picking and nail biting.

For as long as I can remember I’ve always felt a need to play with and fix my hair. Sometimes I’ve been able to identify the reason; when I find split ends, or when I am positive that it is a gray hair, for example. Unfortunately, more often than not I find myself just mindlessly pulling my hair.

Before this blog, a VERY select group of people knew about my trich.

I am still trying to pinpoint the exact trigger(s) behind this, but tonight I cut my hair. More specifically my bangs. I cut them fairly short and combined with my already short damage zones I think it is a little too far out of my comfort zone.

I’ve been thinking a lot about letting other people know about this part of me, this part of my mental health, and I finally, after reading a post on Facebook by one of my elementary school teachers I  realized that this is the best time, today specifically is the best day.

I know that talking about my mental illnesses, specifically this aspect of it, one that is actually visible, and that I have spent so long trying to hid from everyone, is not going to make it go away.

Some days are going to be better than others, some days are going to be much worse, and I know that how I feel about letting everyone in on my secret will change from day to day, but I know, that it is a step in the right direction. It is the first step towards coming to peace with who I am.