Noelani's Story

Today (28 Feb 1999) marks my two year anniversary of learning I'm not alone and that our
disorder has a name, treatment, etc. I couldn't think of a better way to
celebrate than to work on my "jars of clay" message.

The Story of a Woman With Trichotillomania's Journey Toward Wholeness and
Healing In the Area of Self-Image

Although many positive experiences influenced me through the years, I would
have to say that three primary negative experiences had the most impact on
my self-image and self-esteem. First, and this is an experience which many
have in common: shortly after moving to Hawai'i at the age of 8, I found
myself being molested by my grandfather on a regular basis for several
months. While there is much I could say about this experience, the primary
impact was on my sense of self-worth: I must have done something to deserve
this. After all, with all of the granddaughters in the family, for some
reason he picked me. Fortunately the Lord gave my mother wisdom and without
my ever having to utter the words, she figured out what was happening after
a few months and put an end to it. Unfortunately, though, I was never
allowed to speak about it with anyone. It was a taboo subject. I think in
some ways this compounded my shame and sense that I'd done something wrong,
because I wasn't even allowed to process my feelings with anyone, until
actually right after my second child was born.

I hesitate to share this next piece, because I don't want to send out the
message that I blame my parents for anything... I don't. They did the best
they could as parents, coming from families with their own baggage and
dysfunction. And I love them very much! However, from late-elementary
through high school, my parents went through a very difficult time because
my dad was an alcoholic. Instead of coming home after work, he would go to
a bar every night and come home very late. I recently found a journal entry
from junior high which read: "I cannot understand why you drink and drink
and never come home. Don't you know that I love you? Mommy yells at him
when she smells his breath. She sometimes tells him to get out. But I
think he should solve his problems here, at home, where we love him." There
was a serious role reversal that happened beginning during this period, not
uncommon in families with drug and alcohol abuse. Being the oldest child, I
took on more of a parenting role in the family. Even at the age of 11 or
12, I felt it was my responsibility to hold our family together, yet daily I
saw us falling apart, and in my mind, anyway, it was my fault. I couldn't
be a good enough daughter that my dad would just want to come home instead
of going to that bar.

Finally, when I was 13 years old, I began pulling out my hair, one strand
at a time. I became obsessed with the root or follicle of the hair, and I
would pull and pull in search of just the right follicle. Some of these
pulling sessions lasted for hours, mostly in bed at night, and I'd arise to
find a pile of hair ( I had hair down past my bottom back then), beside my
bed, and a new bald spot to cover up the next day before I headed off to
school. I pulled so much over time that by my senior year of h.s. I had to
pull my hair over the top of my head from just above my left ear - my whole
crown area was bald, not unlike a monk. Well, over the years my pulling
continued on a daily basis, and I was unable to enjoy the pleasure of a
professional haircut (too embarassing), a windy day at the beach or even
swimming underwater. I truly thought I was crazy. Who in their right mind
would do this to herself?! Needless to say, my self-esteem took a slow and
painful beating. Particularly in highschool, when looks and the approval of
your peers are so seemingly critical. I looked like a freak, I was sure.
In fact, I asked my best friend from back them recently if she ever noticed
I pulled out my own hair, and she said, "No, but I knew you always had weird
hair!" That confirms it! As best I could, I tried to kept this a secret,
spoke to no one about it; not even my husband knew until two years
ago...nine years into our marriage! For some reason I thought his opinion of
me would sink way down if he knew I did this to myself, and that he'd
somehow love me less. But weight of this kind of secret was extremely
heavy, as you might imagine.

Without a doubt, my self-esteem and self-image hit rock bottom about two
months after my mother died in 1995 when I was supposed to be the matron of
honor for my sister as she got married. Three weeks before the wedding she
distributed a schedule for the wedding party of the wedding day. The
wedding was not until 5pm, but the day would begin with a hair and make-up
session for all of the bridesmaids at 8am. ‘Hair and makeup session? Oh my
gosh, no one has ever touched my hair in nearly 20 year!' I'd always cut my
own hair because I didn't want anyone to know about my secret. There was NO
WAY I could do this. I called my sister, and told her that because I was 4
months pregnant at the time, and spotting, I needed to rest the whole
morning (which was true). So could I just show up at 1pm for the pictures,
and do my own hair and makeup? The answer was "no." Then I told her, while
the room was literally spinning, and I could barely breathe out the words,
"Well, I can't really let anyone do my hair because I still have that
problem from high school." (I was sure she'd noticed me pulling since we
shared a bedroom growing up). The answer was , "Well, get a grip and get
some help, because you're driving the rest of us crazy!" Needless to say, I
sunk way back into my private prison of shame and isolation at that very
moment. And three weeks later, no longer the matron of honor, when the
bridesmaids, looking beautiful with their french twist buns came walking
down the aisle, and I couldn't stand with them to support my sister on her
wedding day, I felt like the ugliest, freakiest person in the world. I'd
done this to myself. I was angry at my sister, but she had a right to want
her bridesmaids to all look the same. I just couldn't - I didn't have
enough hair to put up in a bun. It was my own fault. To make things worse,
as my mother lay dying, I could feel her disappointment that she would not
be able to support my sister on her wedding day two months later. So I
promised her I would take care of my sister that day, even though I knew it
would be bittersweet for all of us. Now, because of my pulling, I couldn't
even keep that promise to my mother! Even as my hair grew thinner, my
prison walls were never thicker or higher..

But God is gracious and merciful, and in February of 1997, after nearly two
decades of pulling and rarely whispering a word about it to anyone, I
experienced what I call a "God-incidence," not a co-incidence. I was
reading in a mental health handbook for a family member who has
obsessive-compulsive disorder, when I flipped past a chapter entitled,
"Trichotillomania: Compulsive Hair-Pulling." ‘Deep breath. Sit down - I
can't believe this. Someone knows about me? What? There are others?
Millions? Most start when they're 13 years old - that's when I started
pulling!' I kid you not, down to the last detail, that article was like
reading the story of my life for the past two decades. And there was a name
for this disorder, and a national organization with information on treating
it. I'll share more in a minute about my recovery since that day, but can
you imagine the OVERWHELMING relief I felt!

The main effect of the sexual abuse, growing up with an alcoholic father,
and the two decades of self-destructive pulling and keeping that secret was
on my self-esteem and self-image. Because I was so shriveled up and
insecure on the inside, I tried to get my parents' and others' approval by
over-compensating on the externals - not so much physical appearance,
because there wasn't much I could with the lack of hair, but more so by
excelling in school and other areas. I busied myself with as many clubs and
activities as possible, mainly, I think looking back, to impress people. I
was president of this and that, salutatorian of my class, written up in the
newspaper as one of "Hawai'i's Young Achievers." I continued this pace
through college, receiving numerous accolades during that time as well.

But God, in his Grace, allowed me to slowly begin to heal from the years of
low self-image and feelings that I had to overcompensate by being so
outwardly impressive. First, I met my husband in college. Did I ever put
him through the ringer! I just couldn't trust his love for me, and I was
certain every time he learned a new secret about the real me, the inside of
me, he'd just leave me for sure! But he stuck by me all the way. He has
truly been a model of agape (unconditional) love in my life.

My healing continued when I gained admission to a law school which had no
grading or class ranking - God knew I needed to be in a place where I could
focus on learning and not grades or performance. Where I could focus on how
God wanted me to use my law degree - perhaps to shun the high profile
possibility of working at a private law firm and making a big salary, and to
look instead at using my law degree to benefit those without a voice in
society - a ministry of sorts.

I became a Christian when I was 8 years old, literally days before the
sexual molestation began. I used to carry around this cross necklace that
a teacher had given me even after the chain broke - I'd carry it in the palm
of my hand all day, and put it on my night stand at night. It was my way, I
suppose, of making sure God was with me. I told someone recently, I
believe I grabbed onto my childlike faith in God because I would've gone
crazy if I didn't think at least SOMEONE knew all I was going through and
cared! However, throughout my whole Christian walk since I was 8 years old,
I'd never been able to fully realize God's love for me because I'd let all
those awful experiences and my efforts to shine in the world's eyes DEFINE
me. But the good news is: that is not who I am. And for all of you reading
this right now, my message is the same: whatever pain you've brought
forward from your past, whatever self-image you or others have created based
upon externals - the good news is that is not who you are either.

This may sound odd, but about 15 months ago I was at a women's conference
and I felt God saying to me, "I am preparing you for something." About an
hour later, after sharing this impression with a friend, a woman from our
church whom I barely knew, came up to me and said, "I heard the Lord say He
is preparing you for something." I was floored! What was it? This was
about 8 months after I'd learned about my trichotillomania, but I still
wasn't gaining control over it, and I was frustrated. Why wasn't God just
zapping me and healing me? I wanted a full head of hair, and a sense of
control back in my life. Instead, I went even deeper into a valley, when
later that afternoon, I experienced my very first ever of many panic
attacks, where I actually hyperventilated to the point of almost passing
out, accompanied by chest pains, heart racing, and an incredibly "edgy"
feeling that just wouldn't go away. The speaker I was listening to sang
this song just before that, and I'll never forget it. She was a
quadriplegic who really inspired me. Here's the words to the song:

When the weight of all my fears
Is resting heavy on my head
And the thoughtful words of help and hope
Have all been nicely said
But I'm still waiting
Wondering if I'll ever be the one
I think I am.

Then You gently re-remind me
That You made me from the first
And the more I try to be the best
The more I get the worst
And I realize the good in me
Is only there because of who You are.
Who You are....
And all I ever have to be is what You made me
Any more or less would be a step out of Your plan
As You daily re-create me help me always keep in mind
You make all things beautiful in Your time
And all I ever have to be
all I ever have to be
all I ever have to be
Is what You made me.


2 Corinthians 4:7 says that we "have these treasures in jars of clay" so
that God's power can be made known through us. In Bible times, clay pots
or jars of clay were like the "tupperware" of today - everyday, very plain
storage containers! You wouldn't cry if you lost one, and they, too,
probably lost most of the covers over time! Even though these pots were so
commonplace, they used them to store their family's most valued treasures
and heirlooms. These past two years, I have come to understand the true
meaning of that scripture reference, that we humans are like "treasures in
jars of clay." Our bodies are plain, earthen vessels, which enlarge with
pregnancy, deteriorate with age, and which will one day cease to function
completely. But the INSIDE of us is BEAUTIFUL and its FOREVER! Take some
time today to think of ways you've blessed your neighbors by a kind word
spoken, your children by all the agape love and care you pour into them,
co-workers with a job well done, and so many others. Focus on the things
that make the inside of you beautiful. You are a true TREASURE in a clay
pot!

In reality, for most of us, self-worth and self-esteem have been more linked
to gaining the world's approval for the outside stuff. It is more tangible
when you're in high school and boy you like doesn't notice you because, you
think, you have funny hair, you're not as skinny as Susie, or you think you
have a plain Jane face. It's more tangible when your boss gives you a raise
or a promotion and everyone congratulates you. It's subtle, but that kind
of rejection or affirmation carries a lot of weight with us over time. The
"inside stuff"....the TREASURE...is not so easily seen and affirmed. The
treasure inside of us, that which makes us unique and special to God and to
others, is not always something others can point out so easily in us, and
say "Hey, congratulations!" But it's far more valuable than the externals
that so often define us.

Now, to put the happy ending on my story, I want to share with you my
discovery of the TREASURE in my post-pregnancy, balding clay pot!. Looking
back, I firmly believe that God has used these experiences I've shared with
you, because if I had not gone through those 20 years of hair-pulling and
living imprisoned by that secret, I could not have experienced the past two
years of ministering to people imprisoned by compulsive hair-pulling, panic
attacks, and other closet anxiety disorders which so affect one's
self-esteem. I've started a local organization called "Hawai'i T.O.U.C.H."
which is a support group for people with trichotillomania. I've also
organized two state-wide conferences bringing in doctors from the mainland
who specialize in trich. My favorite part of this ministry is that I've
been able to go on television four times in order to reach people with the
good news that they're not alone, and they're not crazy. I don't
particularly savor going on television, but through this media outreach I've
gone from thinking I was the only hair-puller in the world, to now meeting
nearly 70 people here in the islands with the disorder, ages 7 to 64. And
I've had the awesome privilege of being that first person they ever talk to
about what they've done to themselves in secret for so many years, crying
with them, and rejoicing with them over the good news that there is a name
for what they do, and treatment available, although it is a chronic disorder
we will always have to be on guard against.

Personally, I've been able to stop pulling largely through behavioral
therapy: that is, re-training my hands and my mind, so that the urges, which
appear to be biochemical, and related to levels of serotonin in the brain,
have almost completely disappeared. I've had several relapses in these two
years, but they are less and less severe. Perhaps more importantly, though,
I no longer care if people know about my disfigurement - it is a medical
condition, not something I chose, and certainly not the most important thing
about me. The treasure inside this earthen vessel, this clay pot, is the
compassion and empathy I try to give to others who've suffered, either from
trich, panic attacks, or any chronic mental disorder, because I have been
there, and now, in the full light of day, I can look back and see that even
the worst of experiences can build the strongest of character into a person.
I no longer consider a full head of hair the mark of my healing -
realistically, that may never happen because of all the scarring and
follicle damage (I love that phrase bald men use: "follicly-impaired"!)
Nevertheless, I feel my healing has already come, because I've been freed
from the prison of thinking that my outside, my externals, DEFINED me.

In terms of my law degree, God has even used my past to allow me to help
others for I now work part-time to represent abused and neglected children,
many of whom have been sexually abused as well, or come from homes where
their parents are addicted to drugs and alcohol, as was my father. My job
is to represent the "best interests of the child." I don't think I could do
that with the same empathy or understanding if I had not gone through
similar experiences myself. And now my husband and I are feeling called by
God to possibly adopt one or two foster children, perhaps siblings, in the
next year or so, in order to share our home and our precious children with
other children who've been handed a rocky start. I certainly don't feel
like a perfect mother for whom having four children will be a walk in the
park! Which of us does? But I do have a heart full of love for these
children, and as much as I've appreciated being able to be a lawyer for
eight foster children these past 2-1/2 years, the gift of being an adoptive
mother to a couple of foster children for their lifetimes is something I
want deeply to share.

You are all TREASURES to me! That is why I have entrusted you with my
story. I see society, especially in my own experience as a mother, really
de-valuing what we have to offer from the inside-out. Society expects us
all to be beautiful and slim despite numerous pregnancies, have the most
well-behaved children that never throw tantrums in the supermarket, to
prepare gourmet meals by the time our husbands arrive home from work, and
somehow in the midst of all of that, to keep a cockroach-free house! If all
of that doesn't happen, it must be because we're sitting around watching
soap operas and eating bonbons on the couch all day, right?! (Hey, I like
bonbons!) The good news is, these clay pots, these earthly, post-pregnancy
shaped bodies, these sometimes tidy, but at least habitable homes, these
10-minute Costco lasagna and canned bean meals, and YES even these sweet
children of ours who seem to learn the words "mine" and "no" with absolutely
no prompting but can't say "please" or "thank you" despite our hourly
reminders....even these clay pots, these earthen vessels contain TREASURES!
And the treasure is YOU. All that God has made you to be, all that has
shaped and molded you into who you are on the INSIDE, these are the
treasures we have in our clay pots. I'm thankful for our clay
pots...because they keep us grounded in reality. I can't be a perfect,
beautiful, loving mother, wife, friend, daughter, whomever for 24 hours a
day, 7 days a week. But no matter what shape I or my house or my family
appears to be in EXTERNALLY, the INSIDE is priceless and irreplaceable! A
true TREASURE in a clay pot!

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing
power is from God and not from us." - 2 Corinthians 4:7

From Amanda - I asked Noelani for a picture, and this is what she sent and replied:

I'd be happy to submit a picture. I actually have a funny one of me, my husband and our two children smiling underwater. I considered it a milestone that in the last six months I've started swimming underwater again, trying to break the fear of bald spots showing when your hair is wet.
So besides being a good fun family Christmas picture to send out to folks this year, it was kind of  meaningful to me going underwater.