I hope everyone enjoyed their Thanksgiving here in the U.S.! For everyone else? I hope you enjoyed your Thursday! It's early Friday morning here and I can't sleep (not that I'm usually asleep at this point, it's still early!) I'm going to Atlantic City later on to celebrate my best friend's 21st birthday with 3 more of our closest friends. How much of a cheeseball am I right now? Although, I'm also in the process of reconnecting with an old friend who I've missed over the past few years, and listening to Eva Cassidy.
Okay, yes, cheeseball central.
Anywho.
I've definitely decided that something here is a big, big trigger. At school, I went almost a whole week without so much as tugging a strand on my head. As soon as I got home, it was almost a frenzy. I'm still not sure why. All I'm doing is laying in bed, hanging out with my cat (don't judge me) and watching television.
But this is a place that I found myself pulling day after day back when I actually lived here. I only recently cleaned up the mess I made several years ago. In high school, my bedroom was the only place I could go where I could shut my door and not be bothered. I would cry in here, laugh, be on the phone for hours and hours... this was pretty much all I had.
You know, aside from my family and friends and all those things I own.
You get what I'm saying here, though. My bedroom was the place I went to get away from everything else. And it was the place I came to pull out my hair because I knew nobody could see me here. So maybe that's it. And if that's the case, I'm glad I will be gone for half of winter break, and will be moving out in July.
Enjoy your weekend, loves! I may not be back until Sunday.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
shootouts
These past few days I've been trying to swallow a situation that happened to a few friends and I this weekend. It's been very difficult and caused me to regress a bit, but I'm going to be fine.
Saturday morning I went to the RD2B conference at New England College in New Hampshire. It was a nice conference and I met a bunch of good people. Just after lunchtime, the two other RAs from Hartford and I received a phone call from one of our RDs, informing us of a resident/student death. The resident belonged to one of the other RAs and I didn't know him that well, but it's still sad.
After the long drive back to Hartford, I went out with 3 friends to the Hartford Pour House, a popular bar downtown with great saturday night specials. What made that even better was that it was my name night, which means I got to drink from free from 8pm-last call just for being named 'erica'. How lovely!
So we got to the bar around 11 and stayed until we were kicked out. We drank and danced, but didn't get too crazy. At 2am, we filed out into the crowded streets like everyone else. I looked to my right and pointed out a couple guys fighting about 15 feet from us. Next thing we know, the fighter facing us pulls out a gun and fires three shots. Two into the chest of his opponent and one into the side of the girl standing next to us.
Naturally, there was hysteria in the street as soon as everyone realized someone was shooting. Most of us tried to get back into the bar, but the bar didn't know shots had been fired and was still trying to get people out. Not their fault, but frustrating all the same. One of my friends and I made it back in but realized we were missing our other two friends. We were spotted by an off-duty PS officer who we had seen at the bar earlier that night and had also hung out with briefly, and he grabbed us and pulled us by our wrists out of the bar and ran us back a block. He got us into a cab and sent us back to school safely.
The last we saw of the girl next to us was her feet, as someone dragger her away.
After speaking to the owner of Pour House on Sunday afternoon, I learned that she will be okay, and so will the other guy who was shot. The shooter was arrested and will probably go to jail. Saturday night, after we got back to school, we weren't sure what to do. Nobody was awake and we were all very shaken. I didn't fall asleep until well after the sun came up, and I didn't stay asleep for long.
I'm feeling better about the whole thing now. Much more myself today than I was yesterday.
On a different note, I am home visiting my family for Thanksgiving break. I've only been home for a few hours, but I've noticed that I've had to pull my hands away from my head on numerous counts already. Home is a trigger. How do I combat that?
Saturday morning I went to the RD2B conference at New England College in New Hampshire. It was a nice conference and I met a bunch of good people. Just after lunchtime, the two other RAs from Hartford and I received a phone call from one of our RDs, informing us of a resident/student death. The resident belonged to one of the other RAs and I didn't know him that well, but it's still sad.
After the long drive back to Hartford, I went out with 3 friends to the Hartford Pour House, a popular bar downtown with great saturday night specials. What made that even better was that it was my name night, which means I got to drink from free from 8pm-last call just for being named 'erica'. How lovely!
So we got to the bar around 11 and stayed until we were kicked out. We drank and danced, but didn't get too crazy. At 2am, we filed out into the crowded streets like everyone else. I looked to my right and pointed out a couple guys fighting about 15 feet from us. Next thing we know, the fighter facing us pulls out a gun and fires three shots. Two into the chest of his opponent and one into the side of the girl standing next to us.
Naturally, there was hysteria in the street as soon as everyone realized someone was shooting. Most of us tried to get back into the bar, but the bar didn't know shots had been fired and was still trying to get people out. Not their fault, but frustrating all the same. One of my friends and I made it back in but realized we were missing our other two friends. We were spotted by an off-duty PS officer who we had seen at the bar earlier that night and had also hung out with briefly, and he grabbed us and pulled us by our wrists out of the bar and ran us back a block. He got us into a cab and sent us back to school safely.
The last we saw of the girl next to us was her feet, as someone dragger her away.
After speaking to the owner of Pour House on Sunday afternoon, I learned that she will be okay, and so will the other guy who was shot. The shooter was arrested and will probably go to jail. Saturday night, after we got back to school, we weren't sure what to do. Nobody was awake and we were all very shaken. I didn't fall asleep until well after the sun came up, and I didn't stay asleep for long.
I'm feeling better about the whole thing now. Much more myself today than I was yesterday.
On a different note, I am home visiting my family for Thanksgiving break. I've only been home for a few hours, but I've noticed that I've had to pull my hands away from my head on numerous counts already. Home is a trigger. How do I combat that?
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Kickin' it
Last week I decided that I was going to see if I could quit this thing cold turkey. I had never really tried before, mostly because I never thought it was possible. I'm more than a head-hair perpetrator, I'm also a skin picker who enjoys (I use the word 'enjoys' incredibly loosely) pulling out hair from other parts of my body. In early high school I plucked out my eyelashes in big sections. Everyone and their brother made it a point to ask what happened and I was pretty quick at coming up with answers.
Little did I know that between the morning of last wednesday and now was going to be one of the most unnecessarily stressful weeks of the semester, great time to kick the habit, right? Lots of issues regarding money and music and a combination of the two. At one point, I was so frustrated and upset that I began looking up pictures of cute animals online to try and calm me down (it usually works). After 20 minutes of that, I stood up from my desk and - I don't know if karma just wanted to come back and slap me around a little more, or what happened - demolished a mug full of old coffee. It spilled all over my desk, all over my bed, all over the floor, and got into the power strip that all my electronics are plugged into.
Was it the straw that broke the camel's back? I could feel this awful knot in my stomach churning and changing until it swiftly bubbled into a fiery rage that could only be released in two forms: hit something or scream. Being a musician and not really wanting to hurt my hands, I took the screaming route. So that's what I did. Instead of reaching up and letting my fingers weed through my hair, I stomped around in my apartment and screamed until my voice was hoarse.
Was this kind of like a tantrum? I guess you could say that. But after I was done, I felt so good. Okay, maybe not good, but much, much better. As I soaked the mess up with a bath towel, my roommate came in and listened to my day with sympathetic ears. I'm so lucky to have her, she is truly one of the best friends I've ever had and one of the best people in the world.
Last year, when I would have the urge to pull, I tried to keep my hands busy. Making oboe reeds was a good way to do this, but it's also a tedious and frustrating process in itself. So I started rolling cigarettes. I don't smoke them, but most of my friends do. For hours at a time, I sat on the couch in my living room and rolled cigarettes. It was surprisingly therapeutic. I found my brain telling my hands to 'roll' instead of to 'pull' for the first time. Sure, rolling cigarettes is nothing glamorous, but for a few hours a week it made me feel okay, and I really liked that.
I've been counting. Since I said I would stop, I have caught myself three times. Two of these times were in my PR class and once was sitting right here in front of my computer. I cannot pinpoint where the trigger is. I don't know what makes me want to pull. Several times since the semester began in September, I found myself waking up and immediately pulling hair. Before I even got out of bed. I would sit at my computer late each night and pull. Writing papers and doing classwork kept me preoccupied but didn't stop the impulse.
So now I'm trying to identify triggers. When I've come up with one, I will let you know.
Little did I know that between the morning of last wednesday and now was going to be one of the most unnecessarily stressful weeks of the semester, great time to kick the habit, right? Lots of issues regarding money and music and a combination of the two. At one point, I was so frustrated and upset that I began looking up pictures of cute animals online to try and calm me down (it usually works). After 20 minutes of that, I stood up from my desk and - I don't know if karma just wanted to come back and slap me around a little more, or what happened - demolished a mug full of old coffee. It spilled all over my desk, all over my bed, all over the floor, and got into the power strip that all my electronics are plugged into.
Was it the straw that broke the camel's back? I could feel this awful knot in my stomach churning and changing until it swiftly bubbled into a fiery rage that could only be released in two forms: hit something or scream. Being a musician and not really wanting to hurt my hands, I took the screaming route. So that's what I did. Instead of reaching up and letting my fingers weed through my hair, I stomped around in my apartment and screamed until my voice was hoarse.
Was this kind of like a tantrum? I guess you could say that. But after I was done, I felt so good. Okay, maybe not good, but much, much better. As I soaked the mess up with a bath towel, my roommate came in and listened to my day with sympathetic ears. I'm so lucky to have her, she is truly one of the best friends I've ever had and one of the best people in the world.
Last year, when I would have the urge to pull, I tried to keep my hands busy. Making oboe reeds was a good way to do this, but it's also a tedious and frustrating process in itself. So I started rolling cigarettes. I don't smoke them, but most of my friends do. For hours at a time, I sat on the couch in my living room and rolled cigarettes. It was surprisingly therapeutic. I found my brain telling my hands to 'roll' instead of to 'pull' for the first time. Sure, rolling cigarettes is nothing glamorous, but for a few hours a week it made me feel okay, and I really liked that.
I've been counting. Since I said I would stop, I have caught myself three times. Two of these times were in my PR class and once was sitting right here in front of my computer. I cannot pinpoint where the trigger is. I don't know what makes me want to pull. Several times since the semester began in September, I found myself waking up and immediately pulling hair. Before I even got out of bed. I would sit at my computer late each night and pull. Writing papers and doing classwork kept me preoccupied but didn't stop the impulse.
So now I'm trying to identify triggers. When I've come up with one, I will let you know.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Hello There!
My name is Erica Clayton and I have Trichotillomania. Whew, that was tough. But as cliche as it sounds, admitting it is the first step to recovery, and that's exactly what I plan to do: recover. So let's get the basics out of the way, okay? As of right now, right this very second, I am 21 years old, I am a senior at The Hartt School, a conservatory at the University of Hartford. I'm majoring in Music Management, I play the flute/oboe/english horn/trombone. I play in a band called Hardcore Karaoke Pile-On Extravaganza! (HKPOE!) and I sometimes perform international tours. I'm a Resident Assistant of three years in an upperclassmen area. I'm a registered independent but I'm really just a think-for-yourself-er. Oh, and I have got just the BEST friends in the whole world. Have I mentioned that? I also have a cat named Duke and a 6 year-old niece.
What else do I do? Oh right, I pull out my hair. I have been pulling out my hair since the third grade, I was just 8 years old when I started, and I have not told a soul since. Okay, maybe I mentioned it to one person, but only because she has been the only person I've met to admit that she does the same thing.
I am not a freak. I am not sick. I am not weird. I am not a victim. I do not have a mental disease. I am not crazy. I do not have to take medication. I am not neurotic. I am not sick. I simply have an impulse-control disorder.
I tell myself these things every single day because I cannot allow myself to become consumed with this disorder. I will not be defined by Trichotillomania.
Like many others with the same problem, I have never asked for help. I probably never will ask for help. I am too stubborn, too proud and too embarrassed. But you can be sure that I have spent countless hours researching and discovering new information about it. I've read about people who grew out of it, people who have discovered their triggers and reassigned the emotions to a different activity, and people who can't grab hold of it. I was a person who couldn't grab hold of this situation. When I was in high school, I wanted a quick fix and when all of my research came up empty handed, I would find myself looking in the mirror, digging through my hair to find the strands I wanted and plucking them right out of my head.
Did my parents notice? Of course they did. Did they ask questions? Of course they did. My family is amazing. My mother, in particular, never let me forget that she was noticing. But she knew me well enough to know I would never, ever ask for help. I've been an "I want to do it!" kind of person since the day I learned how to speak. And she didn't bother me or pressure me into talking about something that I did not want to talk about, and I am thankful for that.
Even though I struggled with this throughout my entire youth and into my 20s, I have never felt sorry for myself. Feeling sorry gets you nowhere. There were days where I would be so frustrated with the whole ordeal that I would pull my hair out over pulling my hair out. I've thrown and broken things, torn things apart, screamed until I was horse... but I never cried. I couldn't. I wasn't allowed to. According to my own rules, nobody could ever, ever see my weakness.
Over the past 13 years I have tried so hard to keep this secret. But today I am finished. It's no longer a secret. My name is Erica Clayton and I have Trichotillomania. And this is my story: from the day I decided to stop allowing my disorder to control my life and started recovering on my own terms.
What else do I do? Oh right, I pull out my hair. I have been pulling out my hair since the third grade, I was just 8 years old when I started, and I have not told a soul since. Okay, maybe I mentioned it to one person, but only because she has been the only person I've met to admit that she does the same thing.
I am not a freak. I am not sick. I am not weird. I am not a victim. I do not have a mental disease. I am not crazy. I do not have to take medication. I am not neurotic. I am not sick. I simply have an impulse-control disorder.
I tell myself these things every single day because I cannot allow myself to become consumed with this disorder. I will not be defined by Trichotillomania.
Like many others with the same problem, I have never asked for help. I probably never will ask for help. I am too stubborn, too proud and too embarrassed. But you can be sure that I have spent countless hours researching and discovering new information about it. I've read about people who grew out of it, people who have discovered their triggers and reassigned the emotions to a different activity, and people who can't grab hold of it. I was a person who couldn't grab hold of this situation. When I was in high school, I wanted a quick fix and when all of my research came up empty handed, I would find myself looking in the mirror, digging through my hair to find the strands I wanted and plucking them right out of my head.
Did my parents notice? Of course they did. Did they ask questions? Of course they did. My family is amazing. My mother, in particular, never let me forget that she was noticing. But she knew me well enough to know I would never, ever ask for help. I've been an "I want to do it!" kind of person since the day I learned how to speak. And she didn't bother me or pressure me into talking about something that I did not want to talk about, and I am thankful for that.
Even though I struggled with this throughout my entire youth and into my 20s, I have never felt sorry for myself. Feeling sorry gets you nowhere. There were days where I would be so frustrated with the whole ordeal that I would pull my hair out over pulling my hair out. I've thrown and broken things, torn things apart, screamed until I was horse... but I never cried. I couldn't. I wasn't allowed to. According to my own rules, nobody could ever, ever see my weakness.
Over the past 13 years I have tried so hard to keep this secret. But today I am finished. It's no longer a secret. My name is Erica Clayton and I have Trichotillomania. And this is my story: from the day I decided to stop allowing my disorder to control my life and started recovering on my own terms.
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