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

courage

With spring days upon us, I was looking through my draw for some suitable t-shirts to wear. Most of them were pilled, misshapen, or had an unpleasant odour which refused to be washed out and I had a very female crisis at this discovery. Basics never last, so I never bother to spend much money on them. They get washed most days, and that’s what kills them so fast. Anyway, I went shopping and found a top that I loved. Usually I don’t wear prints or words, to my eye they are often wanting in the style deparment. But I guess it depends on the word...because I ended up buying an Esprit top with both a word and a picture on it.

It has a red squiggly heart on the front, and the word ‘courage’

It was one of those times where you just grab it off the rack and know that it’s the one. I’ve worn it ceaselessly since.

 Somehow over the past few years ‘courage’ has come to be one of my favourite words, and I mutter it to myself at appropriate times. It seems that being alive takes a lot of courage. Just putting one foot out of bed in the morning takes courage on those days where I feel I can’t move.

little wobbly steps

My favourite thing about courage is this: if you routinely practice being courageous, facing your fears and fighting your weaknesses, you gradually wear them away till they are problems no longer.

I was 19 and I could not go to the doctor alone.

I could not go for a blood test without mum.

I could not drive the car without panic attacks.

But I was pushed into frequent solo doctor trips once I found myself living in Melbourne away from my mum, and with a husband at work. I went for bloodtests on my own, in complete trepidation, and survived. And I hopped in the car which made me shake and sweat and cry – over and over again with Ben beside me. And now its 2 years later, and Ben asks me if I want him to drive me to the psychiatrist because he has a free morning. I thank him, but say that I really don’t mind driving at all, and feel full of confidence. Driving has no fear for me, nor does going to doctor’s surgeries. It’s a delicious feeling, this sense of overcoming. 

Last weekend we took our puppy to a big waterhole at the park.

“Are you sure he will be able to swim?” asked Ben

“Of course he’ll be able to! He’s a dog. It’s not like we have to take him to puppy swimming school,” I replied, confident in my assertion.

We watched him running up to the water and then backing away from the unknown substance. Some bigger dogs jumped in and enthusiastically doggy paddled in the deep. Our little dog looked on curiously. We decided it was time for him to take the plunge, and Ben threw a nice stick into the water. Without a thought, Wolfie jumped for the stick and splashed into the water – where he sank down. And down. I could see his floppy ears floating up under the water, but he wasn’t struggling, or swimming. My heart stopped. Ben moved to the edge of the water, about to jump in to get him, but just before he moved, Wolfie started to flap himself upwards with great effort and unpolished skill. He finally got his head above water and groped for the rock, where he hung for a while looking scared and dishevelled. 

I was so proud of him. He evidently didn’t know what to do at first, he just went down. But then he struggled, and pushed and somehow got himself up. I wouldn’t call it swimming, but it was a big plunge and the first step. And I thought of what courage it takes to do things for the first time – sometimes it’s still scary at the 20^th. But imperceptibly it improves, each time you dare to be courageous.

photo source

One of my weaknesses is this beastly disorder where I pull out my hair compulsively – Trichotillomania. Often I have felt sure that I will go into old age still pulling my hair for relief, though at least I could wear a wig then and it wouldn’t be so odd. Yet I know I don’t have to be a slave to this – if I’m to win over Trichotillomania I’m going to have to kick it hard.

I have a chart on my fridge.

If I pull out my hair, I am not allowed my nightly cup of tea and gluten free muffin. If you know me at all, that is pretty much the worst punishment imaginable. I see the stars on the days that I have resisted the urges and I feel excitement – each star is another sign that I need not be conquered. It gives me courage to fight the urges when they next arrive; I am determined to have another day of beating the hair-pulling monster (and another cup of tea). Sometimes the battle inside is excruciating, but there is always pain involved with courage and change. Being outside of my comfort zone is horrendous at the time, but without fail I am relieved, thankful and inspired afterwards. 

It doesn’t have to be two steps at a time. Just one. Just one tiny courageous step towards a better way.

professional people pleaser

My psych asked me this question:

What would say if young guy came up to you in the supermarket, said you were gorgeous, and asked you to expose yourself?

I replied: I’d say NO WAY!

I wouldn’t share that with anyone but my husband. That’s a pearl, that’s mine and I know it. So is the money in my wallet, the writings in my diary, my deepest thoughts...some things are too precious to give away lightly. I am not obliged to give away parts of me to people. I’m not obliged to say ‘yes’.

When people ask me, “What do you do?”, I feel yucky inside. That is the most basic of questions, the famous conversation starter, and the bread and butter of first meetings. It’s meant to be an impersonal kind of way to break the ice. And they’re looking for a simple answer: I work, I study, or I mum.

I don’t have a simple answer. In a world where life is measured by what we ‘do’, the fact that I neither study, nor work, nor have babies sounds like a cop out. So, I then feel I should explain about my illness – the journey of the last 3 years of pain and learning is so personal and deep that I can never do it justice in a short conversation, and I don’t want to share it with just anyone. For me, that question is personal, really personal. And the full answer is a pearl.

I figured out yesterday something I never knew:

I don’t have to give away intimate details of my life. There’s a space between me and other people: My thoughts are mine, theirs are theirs. They have no claim on mine, and I have no claim on theirs.

 I don’t have to share just because I’ve been asked ‘what I do’. I’m used to working my butt off in an assignment even if I am unwell, cleaning the house when I have a headache, catching up with friends for longer than I can cope with, and telling people the ‘pearls’ of my life when I don’t want to. I tend to cave in to pleasing people. I’m a coward as I let people drag information from me, and don’t tell people when I need them to leave. I will do more than I can handle to supposedly keep someone else happy or not offended. I hate to think they might think badly of me, that they will judge me or dislike me.

So in the process of ‘pleasing’ them, I run myself down, leaving little energy for other things. I spend energy where I shouldn’t and that’s not right, by me, or by others.  Never mind what people think –  I can leave them to their thoughts. I will act the best way I can, and manage my energy as wisely as I am able.

When strangers ask me what I do, I’ll say,

“That’s a very long story. How about you?”

“ I do the best I can in life. What about you?”

If you have an idea of what else I could say, please do comment.

And if I need to end a conversation or a catch up after half an hour– I will end it then, regardless of how awkward I might feel doing it at first, or how they may perceive it. I’m a terrible conversation-ender, so this is going to be a challenge.

I’ve been living to please others for too long. I thought I had to give if asked, and give till I drop. I’m learning about the space between me and other people. And that space is a healthy thing, it means that I can be me regardless of what they do or think.

I’ll do the best I can!