WARNING: SOME IMAGES AND DESCRIPTIONS IN THIS POST MAY BE DISTURBING TO SOME INDIVIDUALS.
Being a pessimist and part-time hypochondriac is difficult to control sometimes. First, you think of all kinds of crazy diseases you might have and next you think of all the terrible outcomes.
Now add a fear of doctors to the mix. Sounds like a ton of fun inside my head, right?
I cried. I was angry. I was scared. I was everything you could imagine yet I felt nothing.
To lose hair from the top of my head was devastating to say the least, but I had no idea where to go or what to do.
I didn’t want to go to the doctor. They would tell me I was dying and then I would die in the office after they delivered the bad news.
Or, they would play guinea pig with me and poke me and stick me with needles and then tell me I could never have sweet tea and ranch dressing again.
They would shove me in a plastic machine that looks like coffin and force me not to move for hours.
They would lock me in a bubble and tell me I was allergic to life.
They would cancel my September wedding in a few months.
As you can see, I come up with some pretty good crazy. But, I wasn’t going to let this ugly bald spot stand between me and my wedding. September 2012 was going to happen and I was going to marry the love of my life.
But what appeared to be minor was only growing in diameter, which in turn stressed out this bride-to-be even more.
There were nights I couldn’t turn off the tears. There we’re days I thought it was the funniest thing. The range of emotions my brain traveled to felt abnormal.
I didn’t know what to do, but a doctor wasn’t the answer. My brain couldn’t handle it. My heart couldn’t handle it.
My plan was to take a deep breath and make the best of an awful situation. Between wedding planning and working in the mortgage industry during the busiest time of the year, I was completely stressed out and felt that seeing a doctor and worrying about my health would only stress me more.
So, in June 2012 I decided to wait. I told myself it would get better. I told myself that it wasn’t that bad.
The wedding date grew nearer and as every other bride in this decade looked on Pinterest for hair inspiration, I dreaded what I would do. Did I need a wig? A hairpiece maybe? Pre-wedding haircut on the checklist? Let’s just cross that one out.
I couldn’t go to a salon. I would be judged. I was a complete mental case, and I couldn’t share with anyone my struggle. But the wedding planning must go on.