All my life I've been different and I know how cliche that sounds because everyone is different but its the truth. I dressed different, talked different, looked at the world differently then everyone one around me. I remember being in 4th grade and one day I wore a dress to school and all the girls were shocked like it was the first time anyone has ever worn a dress in history, they told me that I finally looked like a ten instead of a four and I never wore a dress again.

“Papa!”, “Malish?”. I miss his voice, I miss him. I missed my chance to get the answers, even though there were times I had asked for them. I had questions about things that had happened, that he said I was too young to know the answers too. He would tell me one day as papas do. That day would never come. But I realize the answers I am looking for live within me, and I can still discover them if I try to piece together the puzzle between body and mind. This is a hope for healing, and for the acknowledgment of truth.

SEBRING FLORIDA 2011

I was thirty days from retirement, enjoying a weekend away at our cabin retreat, the place I call home. All seem right with the world. Then the phone rang. Yes, I acknowledge a 7 a.m. Sunday morning wake-up call creates an abrupt awakening, but it happens sometimes. However, when my husband answered, I heard long pauses and tones of concern. Thinking something had happened to my 84-year-old father, I listened attentively. When Randy used the pronoun “she” alarms blared. Something had happened to one of my babies.

I’m finding that as I am getting older life is beginning to be more complicated. You have to deal with relationships, friendships, illnesses, death of loved ones and self esteem issues. I have been thinking about my life and where I am at this point. At the age of 41 I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and last year I finally divorced from a marriage that felt like I was in a Tyler Perry movie.

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.

I remember it well before. It's only been 3 months, but it feels a lot longer. The world was this shape of expectations, norms, and behaviour. Defined as normal stuff. Going to the shops, going into town (with the crowds), school runs, cafes, walks in the park, family events, appointments - you name it, it was busy.

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance: Stage of the Kubler Ross Model for Grief.

I was caught with my pants down. Not literally, you understand. Though it has been known. But that's another tale.

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 what has become our day-to-day life. A life full of “If only’s” and 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 replace us for taking one too many sick days to be spent 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.

Imagine yourself, sitting in an empty room. There is no one there. No one around. It’s just you, yourself, and your isolation. The only thing you have to accompany you is your mind, your experiences, your memories, and your spirit.

Judas Iscariot