There Is Something Called Trichotillomania, And I Hate That I Know It By Heart.

there is something called trichotillomania, and i hate that i know it by heart.

there is something called trichotillomania, which refers to the act of pulling out hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes due to stress, nervousness, or pleasure.

you can’t help it and sometimes don’t even realize when it’s happening. i have a lot of weird issues, as everyone does. i can’t help but pull out my eyelashes because it feels like i’m cleaning my eyes, discarding the old, weak ones.

“i am dirty, Milena, endlessly dirty, that is why i make such a fuss about cleanliness,” said Kafka. and, speaking of being clean, i was almost diagnosed with OCD. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, for being too hygienic.

people with OCD take medication because their fixation doesn’t let them live normal lives. it disturbs their social lives—friends don’t get it. it interferes with their jobs—bosses don’t care. that’s the thing with obsessive people: they care an awful lot.

you see, i don’t have OCD. but before coming to france, i was “too hygienic,” some would comment.

there is a word in Spanish that i had to use to introduce myself. an excuse. an apology.

melindrosa

it encapsulates the idea of almost having OCD, but not quite. “too hygienic,” maybe. in English, we can say “picky” or “fussy,” “squeamish,” but that’s not it. so now i just say, hi, i am anaïs. i am a germophobe. i am sorry.

i don’t really like sharing, sorry.

because i am. deeply ashamed of not being able to give when i’m asked to.

as i said, it got better when i moved to france. i had to grow up out of it, i guess.

do i feel relieved about it?

i miss it. it was something so me. people associated being “picky” with me, and i felt proud. it was my thing. like Rachel’s thing is being pretty and Ross’ is being smart, Chandler’s sarcastic, Monica’s clean, Joey’s silly, and Phoebe’s whacky.

i was the “studious, smart, hygienic friend.”

so what am i without it? my friends got so used to me, they wouldn’t ask me to share my food or drinks because they knew i. just. couldn’t.

so now i feel like a hypocrite when a new person, unaware of my past habits, asks me to share something and i concede, since i don’t have a problem with it anymore.

i have this urge to explain to them that yes, of course you can have some, but i wouldn’t have said yes a year ago because i was squeamish. however, i see now that it was too hard to live like that. fortunately, the issue is vanishing— sorry, yes, of course you can have some.

losing a flaw feels like losing proof that you were once something else. it feels like a huge loss.

it’s bizarre when someone from my past—say, my parents—acts surprised:

oh, i didn’t know you’d be okay sharing a drink.

and i’m like: yeah, well.

it’s too much. sure, i care about being neat, but before, i wouldn’t even breathe the same air as someone who just coughed without covering their mouth.

and now i barely flinch.

not because i don’t care, but because i don’t care as much.

it drains you—flinching, covering, moving away, holding your breath…

it’s not about hygiene. it’s about identity. at some point, it just became exhausting to keep up. OCD isn't about being clean. it's about control. about needing the world to move a certain way, or else.

i believe i would go back to that trait if i had the chance, although i won’t.

i hate to admit it, but Mother was right when she told me off:

you can’t live in the real world acting like that.