Tonight, as I was looking through all of my previous articles in an attempt to aid my chronic writer's block, I noticed an obvious pattern. I have always loved giving advice to those who are struggling with body image, self-hatred and insecurities, and helping others feel more confident about themselves has always been first on my daily agenda. As someone who has never been as confident as she may appear, I've always felt it was a responsibility of mine to eliminate the self-consciousness that consumes those around me. Reassurance is my specialty, and it brings me happiness to know that the people closest to me are comfortable in their own skin. But over time, I've realized that I've never been brave enough to share my real story– and that maybe, it could be a weight off my shoulders.
At the height of my battle with Body Dysmorphic Disorder, thick wool blankets covered the windows in my bedroom to block out any natural light that blinds and curtains didn't eliminate. On a "bad face day," I would only allow my family see me if I had a scarf or shirt to cover my face with. Each morning at 4:00 a.m., I designated 90 minutes for hair, 60 for tweezing and filling in my brows, and 60 for makeup– only to end up crying with frustration, unable to leave the house for school. I kept four compact mirrors in my purse because I knew without a way to "check my face,"(check if it got worse, or doubtably, better) I'd lose my mind. I refused to be seen eating, and most days my mother had to beg me to have something for dinner. I knew that my destructive behavior was only hurting me, but I didn't care. I was a prisoner to my own mind, and I wasn't actually myself at all.
Similarly to the impact disorders like anorexia have on their sufferers, BDD is a little-known illness involving the obsessive focus on one's appearance. Some become preoccupied with a specific imagined defect or minor flaw– but for me, my entire appearance was warped. My eyes seemed uneven, my nose wide and crooked, my eyebrows bushy, my bone structure nonexistent, my skin blemished and wrinkled. I convinced myself I had scars and discoloration that didn't exist, and truly believed that I looked like a monster. I had awful nightmares, and unimaginable panic attacks. I quit all of my favorite things and barely left my room for months. To others, I was vain and outright ridiculous– but this was my reality.
Many people in my life had tried to convince me that it was all in my head, that one's insecurities simply couldn't get this out of hand unless they were outrageously conceited– but they were wrong. My disorder eventually resulted in homeschooling, various prescription medications and therapists who didn't know what to do with me. I put my family and myself through hell for years, and there were times when I was so far gone, I didn't know if I was ever coming back.
Fast forward three years, and I'm no longer afraid to be seen in sunlight. Mirrors are no longer my best friend nor my worst enemy. I'm working as a stylist, and I've made it my job to make others feel as confident as possible. I still go through phases of good days and bad days, and I know it's something I'll live with forever– but if you had told me three years ago that it was possible for me to live my dream, I would've laughed. The one upside to my Body Dysmorphia was the assurance that the bad things always get better in time, and that it's more than possible to come out on top even when you're at your lowest. My advice to anyone struggling with their mental health: I know what it's like when getting out of bed each day is painful. But please, talk until people listen and never give up on yourself. I promise you'll regret it.
