coping
Life presents variables; learning how to cope in order to master, minimize, or tolerate what has come to pass.
Crowning Glory
My story isn’t a happy one, but it’s something I’d like to get off my chest. I’m hoping by sharing it will help me heal and move on. I’m a woman and I have bald spots on my head because I suffer from trichotillomania. If you don’t know, trichotillomania is a disorder that creates an irresistible urge to pull out one’s body hair. Some pull eyebrows or eyelashes, many, like myself, pull from the scalp. As a woman, I feel my hair is strongly connected to my beauty. I’ve been told since I was a young girl that long hair is beautiful. Men like long hair. I had long, thick hair that my mother did not know what to do with. She frequently told me how hard my hair was for her to deal with. I began to dislike my hair. Every day seemed like a battle between my mother and my hair. She wanted my hair to be silky straight, and it just wasn’t. She was not shy in expressing her disdain. When I was 5, my mother got married. Benny, her new husband, my stepfather, was nice to me at first. When my mother became pregnant with my little brother, Benny took on a new interest in me. It began with me sitting on his lap and feeling his hands down my pants or under my dress. I didn’t like this and tried to avoid him, for which I was punished. Punishment came in the form of a beating with a belt. When my mother asked what I did, she was told that I had lied about something. Benny would come into my room at night to “tuck me in,” which involved fondling and kissing my neck using his tongue. I started to wet the bed. Every morning I woke up with wet sheets was a morning I would get a beating. My mom didn’t question it, she just took Benny’s word for it. I was, “...too lazy to go to the bathroom.” My brother was born and the abuse continued. One day, Benny commented on my hairstyle. He liked it. I don’t remember the exact moment that my fingers found my scalp, but the sensation of plucking a single strand out was one of relief from the anxiety I didn’t understand. When I was 6, my mother took me to a salon to have my hair relaxed. My scalp felt like it was on fire. I cried and squirmed. I was threatened with, “If you don’t stop, I’m telling your father when we get home.” I let it burn as tears ran down my cheeks. My hair was straight and my mom loved it. My scalp was tender for a week afterwards. I was now in a vicious cycle of “touch-ups” every 6 weeks. It burned every time. My hair started to break off. Now, it wasn’t long and beautiful anymore, which meant I was ugly. My mother took me to get my hair braided with extensions. The stylist pulled my hair so tight, it hurt. I cried and squirmed. “Do you want me to tell your father?” Absolutely not. I sat and cried. Even with my hair separated into skinny braids, sections pulled impossibly taut, I still managed to pluck out strands. At one point, I tried to tell my mother what Benny was doing to me, which by age 10 escalated to him having me in my parent’s bedroom naked, so he could look at my body and touch me anywhere he wanted while my mother was at work. I was punished for lying. This continued until I hit puberty. When I became interested in boys, and they became interested in me, that was another reason for Benny to beat me. I left home at 18. I wore weaves to disguise the 3-inch bald spot at the nape of my neck. Ironically, I went to cosmetology school. I graduated and worked in a salon for two years. One of the stylists suggested I try a cute, short hairstyle to give my scalp a chance to breathe. I was nervous, but let her do it. I instantly regretted it. I felt the entire world knew my secrets and thought I was hideous. Fast forward 10 years, I had my son, and became a single mom. I started caring for my hair. I bought creams, oils, conditioners to help it grow, to help me love my hair and myself. Men found me attractive, but I lived with the fear that the ones I dated would eventually discover my secret. My relationships never lasted. I’m now 43, with a handsome, brilliant, almost 16 year old son. I wear my hair in twists with extensions that I do myself. I cannot bear the thought of going to a salon. I oil and massage my scalp every morning and night. I have a goal to grow my hair out and wear it in its natural glory. My fingers still find my scalp sometimes. That familiar, comforting feeling of plucking each strand still calls me. I’m much more aware of it now and am learning to find other ways to keep my mind and hands busy. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel is long. I’ve set a goal to have full head of healthy, thick, lush hair by age 50. I am learning to see my beauty, bald spots and all. I’m single, but by choice. I cannot be in a relationship and expect to be loved, if I cannot fully love myself. Every day, I lift and separate my twists in the mirror to remind myself of my goal. Each day is different. Some are better than others, but every day, the struggle is real. Thanks for listening to my story.
By Amanda Perkins6 years ago in Psyche
The Grief Method
Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance: Stage of the Kubler Ross Model for Grief. I’ve experienced horrible in my life, awful and degrading things. I’ve dealt with people who spit in my face, and maybe I imagined what they would look like on a spit roast. Out of all the terrible things I wish upon people who’ve wronged me, the loss of a loved one is not something I’d wish on my worst enemy.
By Mae McCreery6 years ago in Psyche
THE COVID PARADIGM
I was caught with my pants down. Not literally, you understand. Though it has been known. But that's another tale. Battling mental health is a chore within itself, but keeping the demons at bay while in self isolation is another battle altogether. Just when you thought you were doing okay, some pandemic decides to interfere with your life. Now, this is the crux, a paradigm in itself. As much as the thing has been ghastly and cost a great many lives, torn heartstrings and shaken families to the core, some of us, a select minority have enjoyed the time to ourselves.
By Dom Watson 6 years ago in Psyche
The Travelers of the In-Between
The facade of the “real world” is something not often acknowledged. It’s always been there, yet we deny it exists in the monotony of day-to-day life. A life full of voids we try filling with meaningless possessions and superficial tally marks—All we will have to account for our time here on Earth. Days we spent working for some corporation that would be quick to replace us for taking too many sick days to spend with a terminally ill loved one. This is the “real” world we have been brainwashed to believe in; and by believing it’s real —in a way, means it actually is.
By kristyH8186 years ago in Psyche
The Mind of a House Wife With a Child
Most people think being a young stay at home mother is easy. I mean, I try to make it out to be easy, but to me, being home all the time with a one year old at the age of Twenty-One is the most miserable thing in the world. Outside of battling postpartum depression, I am watching my life go by while everyone else my age is making career accomplishments, or having the best college experience they can have, or maybe even having one Hell of an epic romance.
By Destiny Wooldridge6 years ago in Psyche
Today I Cried in the Shower
Take a deep breath so you don’t lose control, I coached myself as I finished the last of, enough dishes for a dinner party of eight or more. My hands were trembling, which in return made it difficult to hold the soap filled plates while scrubbing away food grease. My husband quickly paced from the living room, down the hall and back, out through the sunroom then repeat.
By Jade Hiltner6 years ago in Psyche
Love in the time of Corona Virus
One Friday night in the middle of March, while driving for Lyft in San Francisco, I started coughing. My chest hurt and I felt like I almost couldn't catch my breath. I called the advice nurse who scheduled a call with a doctor the next morning. I was beside myself. Was it Covid-19? Was I going to die? As a lifelong Asthmatic, I couldn't seem to keep myself from going to the most catastrophic scenario. And what about my passengers? Best case scenario, I'd only had it for 2 days, thus potentially infecting at least 40 people. Worst case, I'd had it for 2 weeks, and infected 200+ people.
By R. E. Dacted6 years ago in Psyche
