My daughter, Nora Jane, is nearly perfect. Both of my daughters are, actually. But then, I'm probably a little biased.
Nora Jane, though, is smart, funny, and adorable in that I haven't grown into my body or teeth yet kind of way. She is kind, sensitive, and has a never-ending love of animals, and me. To me, that's really her most important and endearing quality: she loves her mum.
She has one flaw, though. One flaw that I cannot fix. One flaw that I can't help her with, help her to overcome, help her to stop. And it kills me. And I don't even like to call it a flaw, because that implies that she's broken, or defective, or, somehow, not right. And she's not.
Nora Jane has Trichotillomania, which is just a fancy way of saying that she pulls out her hair. Not all of her hair, only her eyebrows. And, really, only one eyebrow. And she only does so when she reads. And she hasn't always done this. It's something that she started this year, right after she started in her new class. A class of third, fourth, and fifth-grade highly-capable kids. (I hate this label too, because, somehow, it also marks her as different.)
Naturally, I assumed this behavior was the result of her new environment, the higher expectations. But after talking to her teacher, she assured me that Nora Jane easily adapted to her class, made friends, and was doing great academically. So what then?
Nora has always been fidgety, wiggly. She cannot sit still, cannot keep her hands still. But this seemed off the chart. When I first asked her about it, she seemed completely befuddled. As if she didn't even know what I was talking about. And I don't think she did. Her actions were completely subconscious. She simply replied that she felt something "weird" on her face. Not weird, honey. Hairy, maybe, but not weird.
And that, I thought, would be the end of it. We'd confronted it. We'd talked about it. Done.
I was so wrong. By the time Halloween rolled around, her brows were almost completely gone. That's how fast this evolved. When she started school in September, she had a full set of beautiful, brown, brows. On Halloween night, her big sister said she looked like a cancer patient. And she was right, not that this was, at all, helpful.
Thus, I began to plead with her, make demands of her. One night, in the midst of my frustration, I loudly told her "enough is enough, you are too old for this!" Which did nothing but make both of us cry. It was that night that I knew we were dealing with something that neither one of us could control. So, off we went to the pediatrician.
When he said she has Trichotillomania, I wasn't surprised. I'd already surfed the web and stressed myself out in an effort to understand why she was doing this and how to make her stop. I got no answers. Just A LOT of anxiety-producing information: it's a compulsion, it's a form of turrets, it's a mental disorder. It usually occurs in girls, smart girls, around the age of ten. (Apparently Nora's a little advanced, dammit.) By the time Dave took my I PAD from my hands, my head was filled with worry and I had visions of my completely hairless daughter entering high-school. I started crying and asked him why. Why is she doing this to herself? She's the kid with no troubles. No problems. She's happy. She's smart. She's loved!
He just held me and said, "but she's not perfect." He was right. She's not. But she is.
"But why!" I kept asking him, demanding an answer. "Why would a smart, funny, well-loved kid start mutilating herself?"
"I wouldn't call it mutilation," he replied in his calm-down tone that told me I was starting to over-react. "It's just a phase. Besides you pay someone to rip out your eyebrows."
True. Okay, I'll give him that. But Not ALL of them! Only the unruly ones! And I pay someone because I can't do it myself. Because it hurts! And it should hurt Nora! And plus, Abby always puts on that nice smelling lotion that soothes my skin. And she has that soft, soothing, running-river-sounding music playing in the background. Why if she wasn't ripping the hair from my face, I could probably fall asleep in her little room.
Nora's doctor had no calming music in his exam room. Only a bench that barely accommodated both Dave and I, and a swiveling stool that he sat upon while asking Nora a long series of questions:
Do you have a hard time falling asleep? Yes.
Do you wake up really early? Yes.
Does it seem difficult for you to put your mind to rest and stop thinking about things? Yes.
Do you do well in school? Yes.
And just like that, he confirmed my diagnosis, "it's a compulsion." Instantly, my mind started thinking about all those "weird people." The ones with all the weird routines; like placing their keys just right on the table, or in the dish. The ones who have to have all their yogurts facing forward in the fridge. The ones who place their pantry items in a specific, systematic order. (Oh wait, that's me! But I get this from my dad, so I can't help it! And not anymore! From now on, my pantry will be one big, chaotic mess!) Or the ones who count the stairs every time they climb them. Even if they've climbed them hundreds of times before. (Shit! That's me too!)
God, the poor kid! She was doomed from the get-go.
The doctor went on to discuss the various methods of treatment. The first of which was Distraction Therapy, which is simply giving her hands something to do when she reads. Because this is when she plucks. "Or," he continued, "you could limit her reading time." What? Do you know how much my kid reads? Just the thought of limiting her reading time, taking books from her hands, would be like asking her not to breathe! Two of her favorite past-times are going to the library, the bookstore. Just this morning she was ready to rush to the library to pick up a book she had placed on hold. It was barely past sun-up.
So, Dave and I clung to every word about distraction therapy, BMT (Behavior Modification Therapy) while Nora, clearly not bothered by any of this talk at all, patiently sat on her paper-covered exam table swinging her legs and thinking about the promised post-doctor trip to the frozen yogurt shop. "And whatever you do, do not make a big deal out of it." I've been bringing my children to this man for nineteen years, and, clearly, he doesn't know me at all. He concluded his speech with "the bottom line:" she has to be retrained. Retrained? She's perfectly trained! I know! I trained her!
Not at all happy with the advice from my pediatrician, I sought out the other experts. My dad said it's because she's too busy. She has too many activities. But he was wrong. She played soccer and went to Girl Scouts TWICE A MONTH. I hardly consider that "too busy." Besides, I probably shouldn't consult him on this matter seeing that he has his own share of idiosyncrasies. Take his coin counting, for example. Whenever he goes out, he counts out a very specific amount of change to take with him:
4 pennies, because carrying 5 would be the same as bringing a nickel,
1 nickel, because carrying 2 would be the same as bringing a dime,
4 dimes, because carrying 5 would be the same as bringing two quarters, and
3 quarters, because carrying 4 would be the same as bringing a one-dollar bill. Yikes!
See what I mean? Nora didn't have a chance! But we can't be the only weirdo-schmeardos out there. What about all those nail-biters? Biting their nails to the quick, until they bleed! Or those people that are constantly clearing their throats. Or the ones who can't stand it when their foods touch! Just to name a few.
The difference between Nora's compulsion and my dad's, however, is that his doesn't cause him any harm. It's just weird, calculated. And while, technically Nora isn't in harm's way, I don't think picking away at her skin and hair is a good thing. And I can stop ordering my pantry, or counting the stairs (I think) anytime I want. Finally, I could decide right now to never again have my eyebrows waxed. And if it would make Nora Jane stop, I probably would. But it won't. I know, because I'm her mom. I know her. And I know it's not just a phase. Otherwise, we wouldn't have entered Round 2.
Yes. Round 2. After many months, Nora's plucking seemed to have stopped. I don't know if she just forgot about it, or if I just laid off her long enough, or if all the squeezy balls we bought for her to "play with" while she read actually did the trick. But for whatever reason, her eyebrows grew back. And they were beautiful! And Dave was right: it was just a phase.
But now it's back. And some of her eyebrow is, again, gone.
And Nora, sweet Nora, said, "I feel so guilty mom! Because you and dad keep buying me all these balls and I just lose them and it just doesn't help! And I can't stop because it feels good!" And I was crushed. Crushed by the weight of those three little words. Crushed by the tears and emotion that poured out of Nora as she stood next to the fridge, clinging to the handle, the snack she was after completely forgotten.
I walked over to her, and hugged her and told her that she should never feel guilty about something she can't control. And I told her I'd buy her every squeezy ball in the world if it will help. And I told her it will be okay. And that I loved her. I will always love her.
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