"You're Not....."

"....a pain in my ass."

7 words.

Words that you don't know how badly you needed to hear them until they hit your ears like a symphony.

That, and "I'm coming over."

Friday I was a wreck.  Like a hot mess that blew up and then glued itself back together only to end up looking like a Picasso.  

In my previous post, I said that I said something out loud that I hadn't talked about before.  I had talked about it, with the one person that I needed to talk to on Friday. 

February 2014.  My hair was not cooperating and keeping the color that I kept dying it.  A few months before I decided to go a deep red and nothing I would do would get rid of it, and on top of that I'm a natural blonde.  It wasn't pretty.  I realized that I hadn't seen my natural hair color since I was 14 years old.  I also accepted the reason why.

I hated myself.  Every time I felt inadequate, unloved, judged,  I would change.  Because something deep down inside said that if I did, then I might finally be enough.  I was an addict.  I couldn't stop.  My philospohy (with everything but myself, of course) is that if there is a problem, that you get right down to the root of the problem, stop the bleeding and then fix it. 

I cut my chest length hair off into a pixie cut and decided that I was going to keep cutting it until all the dyed hair was gone and it was back down to my shoulders again. 

It was not easy.  Especially when for about 6 months you have red tips, blonde roots, and something you can't describe going on in between.  Add to that medical mystery fun and a roller coaster of a relationship, saute that until I'm losing my mind.  Add people who don't understand why you're doing it, and then add one spiteful person who with every haircut that showed just how blonde you really are who keeps accusing you of dying your hair.  Throw a million coupons and fantastic deals for dye into that mix.  Sprinkle it all with self-loathing just for good measure.

And then there was getting to the root of the problem.  Growing up, my hair was gorgeous. But teenage girls are bitches, and when the boys that they want like you because you "look like Barbie" you are instantly ridiculed.  And then from ages 9-12 I had braces.  I was tormented all through my childhood.  I love making people happy and at every turn, I was always coming up short.  In my early 20's it was multiple things that led me to use alcohol and sleeping around as a coping mechanism.  Today, as a single parent with a stress level through the roof at most times and a million plates spinning at the same time and one wrong move is going to make them all fall, it was really hard to go through the process alone.  I did what I needed to do to get through it.  I lived.  I learned a lot about myself.  I still have days where I want to do something drastic again.  I can't go into the dye isle of any store yet.

And I understand that most people don't get it.  For most of society, changing your hair is a healthy process full of self love and fun - as it should be.  Using it as a coping mechanism to hide from what is really bothering you isn't.  Yes, I appreciate the fact that you don't understand that this is something that is possible as an addiction.  However, this isn't your story.  It's mine. 

 

Me, age 4 

 

February 2014, the first pixie cut and last time I dyed my hair.

 

 

 

1.5 months later, driving me crazy because the blonde is starting to show in random places.

 





 

 

Completely dye free, October 2014

 

   

 

Darkened up through the winter, but still dye free.

 

Me, this past Tuesday after work.

 

"I said it.  I said it to someone other than just between you and I.  Every time I felt inadequate, unloved, judged, stressed to the max, I would change. Because something deep down inside said that if I did, then I might finally be enough.  And now I'm in the same boat again and I have no outlet for it and I don't know what to do.  I'm sorry I'm being such a pain in your ass."

 

I am blown away.  I don't know what to say about Friday other than I'm glad I finally wasn't alone.  This person knows who they are, and I cannot thank them enough.

 

"And she looked in the mirror and told herself in no uncertain terms, that she was okay with who she was then and who she is now."  Myself