Being aware of my body dysmorphia causes a ferocious battle in mind every day between being rational and being my dysmorphic thoughts. My mood and self-worth are heavily impacted by my body and it eats at me on a daily basis.
My first instinct is to stop eating when I feel as though I’ve gained any weight, but I power through and make sure I don’t skip a meal nowadays. I feel like shit every time. On those days, I think about how much I miss my stomach feeling entirely empty and cold when I was starving my body. The other side of my brain thinks, “Do I really miss that or do I miss feeling in control?” Because that’s what it really comes down to, doesn’t it? Feeling in control. I’m constantly checking and measuring my body parts in ways you don’t even notice right in front of you.
When I place my hands on my waist, I’m taking in to account how big it feels. If I’m running my hands up and down my thighs, calves, or arms, I’m checking to see if they feel any wider or softer, if I gained any fat there. When I’m pinching my neck and underneath my chin, I’m looking for any signs of more fat to grab there than the previous day. Sometimes I go in the bathroom just to look in the mirror and see if my arms look bulgier when they lay flat against my sides or if I get a double chin when I speak. I look to see if my waist looks thicker, if my thigh gap is still there, if my calves touch when I stand with my feet together, if my shoulders look bulky. I look at myself from every angle to visualize what people see when they look at me in person; If I look big and burly from the back, if anything jiggles when I walk away. Every day I feel exhausted by the end from all the anxiety and stress I feel in conjunction with these thoughts.
On my super awful and terrible days of recovery, I wear the baggiest clothes so no one, even myself, could possibly see what my body looks like. I do this in an attempt to shut these obsessive thoughts and habits out, but they’re still there. I still go to the bathroom and lift up my clothes, I still measure myself with my hands while talking to someone. I’ve always taken longer in the bathroom than most people I know simply because I cannot leave without checking my body in the mirror. I look at myself in every reflective surface I walk by to check how big I look in that moment and it’s something that makes me feel like an ugly person for doing. Every article of clothing is planned out and decided depending on my body and what I’m eating that day. If I know I’m going out to eat I wear anything that’s not body hugging, especially in the stomach area. I wear a skirt over jeans to avoid obsessing over whether I have a muffin top or if my thighs look fat. If my arms feel pudgy in a short sleeve, I wear a cardigan or jacket over it, anything to hide them. If my ankles look thick that day, I wear high top shoes and so on.
It’s as tedious as it sounds and it drives me fucking mad, like bash your head into a cement wall, mad. Some would say, “why don’t you just not think about it and wear whatever you want?”, and you’d be right, if it were that simple. Most of the time I want to punch myself in the face and scream. If I could physically grab my body and shake it until I grew weary I would, because that’s how absolutely frustrating it feels like to be me. I look forward to waking up to that “morning skinny” and often don’t eat for hours and hours into the day for the fear of losing it and anyone noticing my stomach bloat. Little things like this worry me, but also don’t, because I like feeling that sliver of control again.
A common misconception of body dysmorphia is that it solely revolves around the body from the neck down, but this is not true. This condition is not discriminating to the face. As much as I look at my reflection, I almost never look at my face. I hate my face and it’s crushing. People that know me will bring up how often I get complimented or the amount of stares I get when I go anywhere, but that doesn’t matter to me because it’s not what I believe or think. And it pisses me off when they don’t understand that, although, how could they? You could say millions of niceties about my appearance and I’d still pull my hair out at night and scream out my frustration towards my stupid face and body.
I can’t stand to see it. I can’t stand the thoughts I have about it. I look like an alien; wonky and distorted. I wonder if I’ll ever stop believing these things. If I’ll ever put something on without thoroughly thinking it through and giving it a second thought. I don’t believe I ever will.
My Light Filled Life... Sort Of. 