Insight into a Relapse.

So for those of you just now joining us from home: I pull my own hair out. It's pretty much my biggest problem in life. Which, really, doesn't sound too bad. I mean, I'm well aware of how blessed I am, that I could have things so much worse.

But I am human. I am narcissistic, and although I love that my life is unique and extraordinary in many ways, I still want some things to just be normal.

That's why it endlessly frustrates me that after I graduated, I fell into a several month long relapse. It's bad. It's not been this bad since jr. high. I thought after I graduated, I'd be okay. Maybe I'd get as close to completely better as I possibly can. Fate tends to troll me whenever I have absolute hope like that, though. LOLOLOLOL NO! Turns out wasting away with nothing to do while feeling like my life and my youth are passing before my eyes is a major stressor. Who knew, right?

Now, before I continue, I'm not trying to throw myself a pity party here. I just need to get this out, write it down, and maybe, if anyone reads this, get them to understand a little bit more about me. Even if I do get into pity territory, it's my blog and SHUT UP THOR! I DO WHAT I WANT!

The odd thing about relapsing is how EVERYTHING changes. Not just in me - people treat me differently. I used to wonder if it was because I wasn't appearing as confident as before, but no, there's definitely a change in other people's actions towards me. People are colder, more offput than usual (I believe I have a pretty offputting personality as it is), close me out more. Small talk is already hard for me, and it's even harder to make when I look and feel like a weirdo Sometimes it feels like "maybe if we just ignore the patchy bald girl, she'll go away". It hurts. When my hair looks cute, people interact with me more. They try to get to know me, and their first impressions are usually more positive. Human behavioral evolution sure is strange. Hair has been, in many cultures for thousands of years, a sign of healthiness, after all.

The worst is when you know people are staring, or wondering, but they just don't out and out ask the question. Really, you think I would prefer you wondering (and not hiding it well) and imagine you thinking horrible things rather than just asking me? I've always worn my heart, and my brain, on my sleeves. I'll tell you exactly what I'm thinking - if you ask the right questions.

The sad thing about hair, and trichotillomania, is that supposedly once you rip out the roots too many times, the hair follicle will never grow back. That's been a constant fear of mine for over a decade, and ironically also another stressor. This time I'm afraid it's happened. After my relapse let up, I did my usual damage control routine - lots of green tea, lots of water, lots of exercise, lots of soy, lots of biotin and multivitamins. It doesn't seem to be working, My hair just isn't growing.

I don't understand.

I had to euthanize a bird today

It had Avian pox and a large grape sized abscess on its wing. 

When I was in high school, I worked for a veterinarian. I loved that job; cleaning out the cages, walking the dogs, playing with the cats, helping with small tasks around the hospital. One day, I came in to work in the morning, switched on the light, and found that a dog had passed away during the night - from Parvo. Parvo is extremely contagious and extremely deadly for dogs. Sanitizing its cage was heartbreaking and I remember crying while I did it. Worse still, though, was euthanasia - I mean, it was necessary in every case, and I never partook in those appointments. Doc is great and treats the occasion, every time, with the dignity that pet deserves. It doesn't make it any easier, though, and a few years later when I went to Doc to put down my childhood cat, a black ball of fluff named Wisper, it was one of the saddest things I've ever experienced. Wisper had been clinging to life as it was, only 10 years old (not young but not terribly old for a cat) due to malignant tumors and necrosis on her side that would not heal. Even though I knew it was for the best, that making her linger until she passed on her own was cruel, I vowed I wouldn't make a good Vet because its just too much to deal with.

I'm an empathetic person. I know my limits emotionally, and especially as an introvert I know when to pay attention to certain red flags that scream "caution! I extremely emotional situation ahead!". I know I would never get desensitized to it. No, and that's what stopped me from pursuing being a veterinarian. 

On the other hand, as an ecologist (yes, I consider myself one...biologist is too vague), I understand the natural cycle of life. It doesn't faze me to see a lioness take down a gazelle or what have you. I understand that every species of animal, aside from humans, inherently struggle with survival every single second of every single day. 

Maybe that's why I didn't cry. This was a wild animal that had the unfortunate fate of catching a serious disease -even if it recovered, it would still be a carrier and could infect hundreds of other birds over a course of a few years. But it still tore at me a bit, doing it myself (I was on call tonight). I'm not terribly sad, but I don't think I'll forget it. 

I'll enjoy the rest of my evening with a cat curled up at my side (his name is George), some milk and poptarts (smore's, although I usually prefer cinnamon and brown sugar), and a movie (Lilo and Stitch).