AITAH - for wanting to spread awareness of tricotillamania during my little princess hair donatation - but my family don't want public scrutiny on my mental health

I guess I’ll tell my story here. I might never get to really tell it publicly.

In October 2020, I entered a relationship that started with failed contraception as a Christmas present. I didn’t know the guy long, but I loved my nieces and nephews and believed I was ready to care for another human being.

At the time, I was living in a one-bedroom annex on my parents’ property. It was great for me and my dogs, but not for a soon-to-be family. His parents offered us one of their properties that they’d been delaying renovating. It was a work in progress, but something to build on.

By January/February 2021, the world stood still. Lockdowns hit, everyone was trapped indoors, and everything started to break down. I found out he had been cheating, using my phone. He’d saved the login details for an alternate account. While I was five months pregnant, he wrestled me to the ground to stop me from looking.

I became isolated from my family. Communication broke down. He told me they wanted us apart, that our child would grow up without a dad, just like me.

My family became the enemy. I doubted everything about myself. My emotions spiralled: screaming, crying, then going silent for hours. That’s when the hair pulling started. Clumps. Painfully.

Our child was born in the summer. I felt detached. I felt nothing. I gave birth alone and stayed in hospital alone, no visitors allowed because of COVID. I didn’t bond with her.

Slowly, I gave my mum more and more time with her. I asked her to keep her overnight, to keep her out of the toxic environment I was stuck in. Eventually, I gave my mum full control to keep her safe.

I spent six months trying to be the person he wanted, letting him message whoever he wanted, on my phone, because I couldn’t give him what he wanted.

Then there was a car crash he caused. That’s an entirely different chapter of crazy. The seatbelt caused internal bleeding that I ignored. I spent a week barely moving on the sofa, in pain, not understanding why. The tear clotted, and then I started coughing up blood.

A seven-day hospital admission gave me clarity. I went back home to my mum’s with my daughter. He threatened us, but eventually gave up and got another girl pregnant… then another.

But I wasn’t getting better.

I hated myself even more. I felt like I’d failed. I hadn’t given my daughter the happy family I wanted, the kind that produces well-adjusted children without fear of abandonment.

I started taking risks. Even when I was physically present, I wasn’t there. My mum didn’t understand, thinking leaving him would fix everything. I became hostile to the people I loved most.

Medications were started and switched for depression, but they contributed to manic episodes that went unidentified for five years.

I fell pregnant again. I didn’t know who the father was. I didn’t even know where I’d been that weekend. My daughter was safe with my mum while I tried to destroy my life, back in the annex.

The hospital wouldn’t perform an abortion immediately because I was on blood thinners. They wanted a specialist. An eight-week wait. I tried to take a shortcut.

Another hospitalisation.

My mum found me and called the ambulance.

In hospital, I answered questions exactly how I knew I should so they’d let me go. When I got home, everyone was angry. Rightfully so. I scared them. I hurt them. They were always trying to help, and all I gave back was more pain.

I went into the kitchen, hacked my hair off with a knife to the nape of my neck, and ran for a week.

That was my lowest point. Again. Hurting everyone because I couldn’t regulate my emotions. Lashing out, then punishing myself by pulling my hair out.

And yet… they still took me back. Every time. No matter how many episodes I’ve had.

They started learning about mental health. About how it actually presents, not how films show it. I think that’s what saved me.

I started arguing for my right to proper care. I refused to be dismissed as “just depressed.” Every SSRI made things worse.

Five years later, my hair is over 15 inches long.

I stopped pulling it out because I decided to donate it. I gave myself a purpose. Every urge came with a thought: what good could this do if I don’t pull it out? I brushed it. Washed it. Took vitamins. Took care of it.

I turned something that was only pain into something meaningful.

Now it’s ridiculously long. I’m ready to cut myself away from the person I used to be.

I wrote a draft to go with my fundraiser and sent it to my family. It’s extremely censored compared to this, but still revealing. They said they’d think about it, then came back and said they all agreed it was a bad idea.

They said it was too personal. That people might say bad things and “set me back.” I’ve never really cared about public opinion. I don’t post. I don’t have much of a social media presence.

But they do. A small family business. We’ve raised thousands for charities before. I’ve been an active part of those campaigns. I’ve posted empathetically. I have hundreds of nosey acquaintances who would read it, judge it maybe, but more importantly share it. Increase funds. Increase awareness. Maybe even help someone else leave.

When I told them I was proud of how far I’ve come, even if they felt ashamed of my difficulties, they said I shouldn’t make a children’s cancer charity about myself.

That turned into our first argument in over a year.

So… am I the asshole?

I want to share my story and turn it into something good. But I don’t want my family to face public scrutiny when they’re such private people.