The Cure is Love
About two months ago, I was gifted a free Mary Kay facial and make over. This was done so that a Mary Kay director could use the before and after pictures in a look book to show consultants and customers alike. While I have no harsh feelings towards the Mary Kay director I visited, I have learned for myself that Mary Kay is not for me. Most of the products stung my face, while the others made me feel like I was wearing 50 year old dress-up makeup.
But this post's focus is not actually Mary Kay.
When I agreed to this facial and makeover, I requested to receive copies of the photos so that I could also use them. I thought this was a good way to utilize my time and get some free photos.
Today I received the photos....
.... and I hate them.
But I love what they don't tell you.
This photo doesn't show you that the night before, I had a terrible episode or attack of trichotillomania.
It doesn't tell you that I yanked out a large section of my eyelashes and multiple hairs from my scalp.
It doesn't tell you that when I realized what I had done, I in horror went to the bathroom to check the damage. I lectured myself that I needed to stop.
It doesn't tell you that I couldn't.
It doesn't tell you the dread and distress that caused me to burst into tears.
It doesn't tell you how long I spent on the floor and on my bed, crying and trying to lecture myself to pull my crap together.
It doesn't tell you how much a failure I felt like.
It doesn't tell you about my earnest, tear-filled prayers to be able to stop.
It doesn't tell you about how I texted my friends for activities to distract myself, but how playing the piano didn't work.
It doesn't tell you that I thought of going to bed in my hopeless state just to escape, while the tears kept me awake.
It doesn't tell you that I struggled to internalize the love my friends tried to send me over text.
It doesn't tell you the love I felt and the grateful tears I cried when I was offered a Priesthood blessing.
It doesn't tell you that I got that blessing wrapped in a blanket, my hair in a messed up ponytail, my makeup running down my face, my eyes swollen, and my nose stuffy.
It doesn't tell you how much I clung to the hugs and back scratches I received after my blessing.
It doesn't tell you that that blessing changed my life. That I have not since had any notable attacks of trich, although I do still occasionally pull a little.
That's why it's my job to tell you.
For those who also have trichotillomania, no matter how severe or minor of a case, keep fighting. You CAN do this! You can win!! I BELIEVE in you!!!
For those who don't have trichotillomania, and perhaps have a friend or family member with it, but don't really know about it. Please research it. Ask your friend for details. Ask them what you can do to help them individually, because it's different for anyone.
What does this photo tell you? If you look closely enough, this photo tells you that all of my eyelashes grew back. This photo tells you that I can go a whole day without pulling any of my hair out. And if you really pay attention, this photo tells you that
But this post's focus is not actually Mary Kay.
When I agreed to this facial and makeover, I requested to receive copies of the photos so that I could also use them. I thought this was a good way to utilize my time and get some free photos.
Today I received the photos....
.... and I hate them.
But I love what they don't tell you.
This photo doesn't show you that the night before, I had a terrible episode or attack of trichotillomania.
It doesn't tell you that I yanked out a large section of my eyelashes and multiple hairs from my scalp.
It doesn't tell you that when I realized what I had done, I in horror went to the bathroom to check the damage. I lectured myself that I needed to stop.
It doesn't tell you that I couldn't.
It doesn't tell you the dread and distress that caused me to burst into tears.
It doesn't tell you how long I spent on the floor and on my bed, crying and trying to lecture myself to pull my crap together.
It doesn't tell you how much a failure I felt like.
It doesn't tell you about my earnest, tear-filled prayers to be able to stop.
It doesn't tell you about how I texted my friends for activities to distract myself, but how playing the piano didn't work.
It doesn't tell you that I thought of going to bed in my hopeless state just to escape, while the tears kept me awake.
It doesn't tell you that I struggled to internalize the love my friends tried to send me over text.
It doesn't tell you the love I felt and the grateful tears I cried when I was offered a Priesthood blessing.
It doesn't tell you that I got that blessing wrapped in a blanket, my hair in a messed up ponytail, my makeup running down my face, my eyes swollen, and my nose stuffy.
It doesn't tell you how much I clung to the hugs and back scratches I received after my blessing.
It doesn't tell you that that blessing changed my life. That I have not since had any notable attacks of trich, although I do still occasionally pull a little.
That's why it's my job to tell you.
For those who also have trichotillomania, no matter how severe or minor of a case, keep fighting. You CAN do this! You can win!! I BELIEVE in you!!!
For those who don't have trichotillomania, and perhaps have a friend or family member with it, but don't really know about it. Please research it. Ask your friend for details. Ask them what you can do to help them individually, because it's different for anyone.
What does this photo tell you? If you look closely enough, this photo tells you that all of my eyelashes grew back. This photo tells you that I can go a whole day without pulling any of my hair out. And if you really pay attention, this photo tells you that
the cure is love.
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