It's been a strange week. It's strange to feel every emotion that human beings feel, all at once. I've decided to slow down, smile, and enjoy all of the great things coming my way, and all of the great things that are coming to an end.
There are a lot of big changes happening in my life; and I'm going through all of it alone. I'm about to leave a job that I have been comfortable at, and know everyone, to something brand new for me. I am almost moved in to an apartment that I'll be paying for and living in by myself. I have never slept in an empty house. My boyfriend has never been good at knowing how to support me, and I don't expect anything from anyone. But I wish I wasn't going at all of this alone. I have almost no money in my bank account, and almost no hair left in my bangs. August has been bitter sweet, I can only hope that September treats me better.
Lately I find myself wanting to talk about my trichotillomania. I think I want to find someone else that knows what I'm going through. I have never talked about it on social media except one time. And someone thought I had an STD simply because they were uninformed. Embarrassed and ashamed I quickly deleted it. I shouldn't be ashamed. Or embarrassed. It's relevant. And real.
So, pretty much if you have trich or just want someone to talk to about it, please comment or message me. I know that isn't what this website is for, But I feel most comfortable here. And you can too.
I wish I was brave enough to share my struggle with trichotillomania on social media, because maybe I'd find support. But I can't get past the feeling of just complaining or that no one would care. Let alone understand. I've realized that the worst trigger for me, is watching shampoo commercials. Because I know I'll never have hair like that. Full, pretty, strong. It *****. And even as I'm writing this my hand is in my hair, tugging away at the short strands I have left. I feel hopeless, because I am losing.
When my world turns upside down, you are the first one in line, waiting to pull me back up. My arms to cry in, and keep me from floating away. You tell me I'm beautiful when I'm a mess; even after I've spent the whole afternoon pulling out my bangs. You see what I don't, but always end up making me smile. I don't know how you do it. I am a tough one to *****. But I'm thankful.