From: Morrisa_Sherman@autodesk.com
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Trichotillomania
Date: 10 Sep 92 23:13:00 GMT

"So how did you do it, Evan?" asked Mr. Gillespie.

"Do what?" I countered, a tad too casually for the obvious victory.

"'Do what' he says, 'do what'.  Boy, we thought she was just gone, gone, 
gone!  We brought her back from the hospital because Marta was getting 
sick from her own anti-depressants she took for missing the poor kid, 
but we couldn't handle her any better.  When I sent her back, she had 
gone through the hair on her head, her eyebrows, her lashes, and, well, 
her whole body, and I had to physically restrain her from tearing out 
any more of her fingernails.  We thought you were a complete fool to 
take her on, and just look at her!  She looks like my pretty angel 
again!"

Simone sat cross legged on the floor holding a steaming cup of tea in 
both hands.  She smiled at her father shyly, and she was indeed pretty.  
Pale, yes, trembling, yes, but a thin, short halo of fine baby hair 
clung about her head, and her eyes looked almost natural with their new, 
soft lashes and eyebrows.   "It's very difficult, Daddy," she said, "you 
know me, you know how hard it is for me not to turn it back on myself, 
but Evan helps me."

"Well yes, clearly!  And you've done a wonderful job, Evan, but how?"

"Well, we have her in therapy three times a week and we have a great 
homeopathic herbalist who gives us teas to calm down some of that 
frenetic energy instead of all those damned drugs they gave her at the 
hospital, but I think the best thing has been the advice of the 
therapist to give her things to help her sublimate the urge away from 
her body, to dissociate the behavior from self destruction.  We still 
have a long way to go before she won't need to act out, but at least 
it's not on herself now."

"I don't hurt myself now, Daddy!" she said, triumphantly.

"Oh, baby, I'm so glad!" he cried, and pulled her into a tight embrace.

The emotion was a bit overwhelming for her, and as her father wept 
softly in her arms, her hands fluttered off of his back, and she began 
frantically stretching out her fingers, and then balling them into 
fists, over and over.   Finally she pushed him back, and said, 
tremblingly, "I, I want to go work on the rug now!" and went into 
her bedroom.

"The rug?" asked Mrs. Gillespie.

"Like I said, she's got a long way to go.  When she feels upset, or 
insecure, or happy, or bored, or well, when she feels just about 
anything, she still needs to work her hands, so we keep other things 
around for her to pluck.  She pulls the threads out of small rugs I buy 
for her.  I also get her down pillows, for she likes pulling the little 
feathers through the fabric by the quills. 

"We tried getting her to make things, pottery classes, embroidery, 
painting, writing, gardening, but the obsession wants to pluck out, not 
to create.
 
"She likes pulling up grass, leaf by leaf, so I keep the yard well 
fertilized and buy very fast growing grass seeds.  That's kind of good, 
really, because she gets some  sun now when she does that.  I buy her 
stuffed animals, and she pulls of their fur, pulls out their eyes, and 
then pulls the stuffing out through the eyeholes.  When she does a 
stuffed animal, it's pretty disturbing to watch, because you can still 
see a need to pick an entity  apart, but better a toy than herself. I 
tried dolls at first, but the jump from doll hair to her own hair was 
too small for her, so I got rid  of them.  

"I can even take her out for short periods now, ever since I discovered 
that bubble wrap sort of works for her.  That's not quite as 
disconcerting to our friends and to strangers as having her methodically 
pluck something clean, but it's not as satisfying to her, and after a 
couple of hours she may turn to herself again.  Some days are better 
than others. Tuesday she went the whole day without pulling at anything 
at all, but Wednesday she needed to work at a piece of rug by 
lunchtime."

Mrs. Gillespie listened attentively to his daughter's alien world and 
then asked me "So why, Evan?  Why are you doing this for her? She can't  
work yet.  It's expensive to rent a two bedroom place yourself, plus 
taking care of her and, um, indulging her with all these sublimation 
objects you buy for her, and most of all, it must be an incredible 
emotional drain.  You're not her family, you're not her husband, you're 
not even her boyfriend.  My God, boy, even if you were her boyfriend, 
her, her lover, there must be other girls out there, girls who are not 
so hard to take.  I need to know, because if you get tired of all this, 
she may wind up right back where she started, in that hospital.  I don't 
want her to be alone.  I know this is a silly question to ask of a 
roommate, but, well, what are your intentions?  Why are you doing so 
much for Simone?"

"The answer is not going to make you feel any better at all about me as 
the person who is taking care of your daughter..."  I said, uncertainly.

"No, go on, answer," urged Mr. Gillespie.  You're a gift, son, and we do 
want to know.  I love my daughter, but she is completely insane.  Why 
are you giving her so much when you could just let the doctors do it?" 

"This isn't charity, sir, I need her.  She's the only one who 
understands me."

                                  It is difficult to overcome one's 
                                  passions, and impossible to satisfy 
                                  them.
                                         -- Marguerite de la Sabliere,
                                            "Pensees Chretiennes"

------------------------MorrisaS@Autodesk.Com

Newsgroups: talk.bizarre