haircuts & mania {pixie}

i was waiting impatiently in the hair salon, and the fumes of sprays and chemicals clogged up my nostrils so that i struggled to breathe. my heart was beating so violently that i had a peak at the left side of my chest – it was actually visible, the boom boom boom was plain for all to see and i hoped with all of my pumping heart that no one would notice.  next i began hyperventilating, in true panic attack style, and glancing at the door. i needed fresh air, and i thought i would faint if i didn’t get it. i knew that i could still do a runner or i could just ask for a trim like i had the last couple of decades. it’s been a long time since i was in such an anxious mess, and it seemed ridiculous to be using so much emotional energy on getting a radical hair cut, but at the same time, i wasn’t going to let myself pike out now. not. now.

this eternity of anxiety did come to an end, when i was finally speaking with my stylist, showing her pictures, and discussing my preferences. yes please, a bit of hathaway mixed with williams and a dash of mulligan for good measure.  it was a relief to have finished my intense freak out, although i felt a certain fatigue from all the adrenalin expulsion. my very lovely, very perfectionist hairdresser took nearly two hours over my new cut – and i endured some hideous stages, the worst being a long period of looking just like justin beiber. {same hair shade too. not cool. } at times i wondered if she could actually pull it off, because the hat-of-thick-hair look was just the complete opposite of chic & cute. i tried to keep up beat inside, but it wasn’t until she finally straightened and waxed the ‘do’ that I was put at ease. i had a pixie, and i’d survived the ordeal. 

the best bit was realising that i loved the cut, and the second best bit was when she said , ‘you have a lot of hair.’ you have a lot of hair. i wanted her to say it again.

for me, this serious cut was more than breaking stereotypes, doing something i wanted regardless of peer/parental opinion, having a change, looking a bit more mature. it was a celebration of having my hair fully grown back from my long struggle with trichotillomania.

{literally: hair mania}

when i was in my early teens, i NEVER EVER thought i would have boy short hair – i thought i would have a wig. i needed every long wisp that i had to cover those bald patches. i used heavy duty gel to stick down the spikes of newly growing hair which would poke through my long strands and give me away. my adolescence was a lonely scared one. just the word ‘hair’ made me feel sick to the core. i didn’t go to the hairdresser for years because i couldn’t go {home cuts done in privacy of bedroom} – because they would find out that i had missing hair, and that would lead to them find out that i was insane. and then what would happen? 

even when i was 19 i felt that i would never be free from trichotillomania – and in many ways that’s true because it’s always something i want to do and have to fight. 

but have learned the self control to say ‘no’, and that has enabled me to grow back my hair, each little strand which was plucked out a hundred times. you can’t have a pixie cut if there is a bald patch, or a thin area, and that’s why this is a victory.

it was worth admitting it, and getting help, and praying, and denying my impulse desires to feel that i’m no longer a slave to this strange addiction. this is a reminder that there is great hope for change and recovery. that today’s battles can be tomorrow's victories even when we think we are way beyond help.

 "No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it." 1 Cor 10:13

what time shall i set the alarm for?

words are powerful. they can be lethal, or soothing. they can be used to lift up, or crush. they can produce smiles, or tears. 

it scares me how fast we toss them from our lips – when you consider the impact on our listeners. they are so easily formed and so painfully processed. we hurl them around, sometimes we leave a mess behind us. sometimes we leave a ray of sunshine.

when you are unwell for a long period of time you have the privilege of becoming well aquainted with the very best and worst of people’s responses. you learn to think before you speak because you figure out the power that words contain, and it feels so acute because you’ve never been so fragile or raw. 

sometimes i have sobbed, ‘it’s hard enough feeling like this, without having to deal with the things people say.’ i would think, ‘it’s not like i chose this’, and feel that bitterness at people having slipped away as soon as I was low, and boring, and irritable. but when there is only small reciprocation on the horizon, it’s not surprising, is it? i’m more immune to these things now, perhaps I have a thicker skin...i’m not sure, but it’s been a journey - one i'm grateful to have been on.

when you agonise over sending a cancellation message to someone, so often there is a cold, “that’s ok. see you next time,” or a hint of frustration. you long for a word of understanding, something a tiny bit tender which shows they didn’t just consider their own inconvenience, but also yours and your pain at having to cancel. when you leave early, you sting a little as they urge you to stay longer – you wish they would celebrate the immense effort it took to come at all. and it hurts when people say that if you thought more positively, or prayed for the pain to go away, or truly believed you would get better, then you would. because in your experience, the pain is still there... still there. you see pain on earth, and you feel it and groan with it, and you know that it’s not dependent on you for it to leave because if it was, it would be gone.  

my friend sets an alarm when she comes to visit me, so that she won’t stay so long that I get worn out. I feel this crazy warmth of joy when she says, ‘what time shall I set the alarm for?’ those words speak understanding and love a million times over. i can’t possibly list all the things people have said which have filled me with warmth.

you can always stop to think before, but afterwards it’s a bit late...so i’m going for the before approach. 

little big things

it’s the little things

Last week I said to someone that I was enjoying my time in this country town by the sea. She asked me why, because she knew the essentials of my life hadn’t changed at all. For me, my time consists of the daily simplicity of treadmilling & biking, practicing, some friendships, and pulling back from the many things which compromise my wellbeing. It’s not like I have a new job here, or my close network of friends and medics, or other ‘big exciting things’. I couldn’t really answer her why I was happy here. 

But a few days later I was trying to figure it out, and I realised that my life isn’t about big things anymore.

It’s about being able to have the sand under my toes seven days a week, if I like, and watching the pinkness of the sunset in awe. Its jogging for a minute longer than I managed last time, and celebrating the absence of headaches, and finding a beautiful quote or verse to scrawl on my chalkboard in the kitchen. Its Ben riding home from work just after 5 o’clock while the sun is still strong, and Wolfgang jumping on my knee for a snuggle. It’s wearing a summer dress, and playing a piece of music that breaks my heart a little bit, and having a real conversation with another human being. It’s being content with being exactly where I have been placed in life, and loving the minutes and opportunities and views and thoughts and people and creatures and experiences. 

Sometimes I’m on Facebook or talking to a friend – and I read and hear about people doing Honours, and expecting babies, and getting exciting jobs and scholarships. I don’t know if I’ll get to do those things. That’s when I start to struggle with discontentment, and suddenly I want that, badly. And suddenly I’m really so very sorry for myself and my lame little life. Because ‘comparison is the thief of joy,’ said the very wise Roosevelt. Even though it rocks my boat for a little while, I eventually come to a calmer place, of peace with my place in God’s perfect unfathomable plan. 

I think I used to live blind to many beautiful things, when I was well {which is technically more beautiful than being sick}. I channelled my attention and my thoughts to the ‘big things’, which of course I needed too, much of the time. But I didn’t even take ten minutes to look at the moon and love it, or stop to enjoy a moment by choosing to drop my busy agenda just for that minute. It was all about powering on, and you do miss so many things when you’re going that fast. These things are so healing, they are the things which stop us from stress combustion.

i’m starting to think that the small things are actually the big things

there's beauty in simplicity

 

the second step, again

Going downhill after four months of giddyingly good health is not what I would call fun. But neither is it shocking, or acutely devastating {just moderately}. I actually thought my reaction would be more one of catastrophic depression, because I was having such a wonderful time feeling well, and was wondering if I had an addiction to it. But here’s the thing: I feel kind of normal again.

I know this life. This has been my norm, my familiar, my staple for the last few years. I can slot back into this old groove, as challenging as it is. And now I realise, I have adjusted to being unwell and it happened without me even realising.

It was strange feeling so well. I had to pinch myself, to know if it was true. I didn’t feel like me at first.  It was all so surreal, so sparkly. I would burst into tears if I thought about it too much because it was so overwhelmingly ridiculous to feel like that.  And with it came lots of adjustments for me, and for Ben. What to do, if I did get well? I felt this huge responsibility; now you have health, you need to do something really worthwhile. But I had no idea what because I have changed so much. Our home life was different, our housework roles were changing, our social life was changing, our dates were changing – and even when change is beautiful and exciting, you don’t necessarily feel secure. It’s like when you’ve just met someone you really like, and you are in this crazy hyped state of excitement whenever you hear from them, touch them {even accidentally}, talk to them...but it’s not like the stable, comforting closeness of being in a committed relationship with them and knowing them deeply and intimately. Not that being sick is like being in a committed relationship {although I must say, chronic illness is VERY committed to it’s victims}, but that change makes you feel a little uncertain, and tips you out of the groove for a while. 

If most of the things that come with being unwell are nasty, at least there are a couple of pros. One is the comedy of my brain. Most days at the moment we get some serious laughs from the things that my foggy brain verbalises, particularly at night in bed when it’s at its finest. It was a bit boring when I could say what I meant first time. 

And then there is lying on the couch with my dog. It was so odd seeing him lie on the couch while I was up and about, and there is something very precious about his cuddles and his loyalty. Other perks include getting to drink more cups of tea, and....I actually can’t think of anymore pros right now, but the point is, when you find yourself on the second step of the staircase, after having been near the top, at the very least you have been there before and it’s not new and it’s not scary.

And you know that it is possible to be well, and you know that you were loved and comforted last time you were unwell and feeling like a complete mess, so you settle down to hope and wait. 

you don't know that you're toxic to me

You don’t know

that you’re toxic to me.

Even you, my close friend,

my incredible family.

You don’t see how I hurt

after we’ve talked. As we talk.

How I ache and burn,

How I lie and wait.

You cannot watch,

as I mend myself.

In my private space.

I long to be with you,

you give me joy.

But oh, your humanity is something my body

cannot tolerate. Anymore.

You stimulate me,

violently,

unconsciously.

I leak, adrenalin.

My head, my ears, my heart,

Hurt.

you assault my senses,

overloading me with sight

emotion

scent

presence.

You can’t see my inward battles.

I need you to leave

I feel unwell

Yes, even with you.

But I feel so rude

that I hide my pain.

Or I want to keep talking

despite the discomfort.

I pretend I am normal

but it always destroys my health

a little, or a lot.

I lie to reassure you.

I lie far too often.

I fear telling you the truth,

That your body affects me detrimentally,

of my fragility.

That you, even you,

overwhelm me.

I limit my friends, I can’t always invest

I can’t bare interaction

often, for long.

We ‘need’ to catch up,

that’s what you say.

But those words make me shiver.

No. We don’t.

Don’t oblige me with ‘need’.

Don’t say ‘it’s been too long’.

It’s not long enough, for me,

if I’ve been silent.

You who just wait and gently offer yourself,

when I’m ready.

for however short a time,

without asking for more,

You are the sunshine.

In your patience, your subtle communication,

you restore me

from the terrors of interaction.

You never ask for more than I can give.

You know that you’re toxic

to my body.

photo source