Come a Little Closer

Hey you, yes you. I see you. Come here, lean in closer.. nope a little closer. There you go. I have a secret to tell you…

I have body dysmorphia.

I hate sounding like a fucking victim. If you know me, I am anything but a victim. I can’t stand my body.

I’ve yet to meet a girl who’s 100% satisfied with the way she looks. It’d be fine if I were just one of those girls who complains about it and then writes it off.

“Ugh, I’m SO fat,” while taking a swig from a beer bottle and scarfing down cookies.

But I’m not that girl.

Everyday my body haunts me; I let my body control my life. I see the beer and cookies and instantly want to go into fetal position. My figure has this strange, mystical power over my soul.

Body dysmorphia is a mental disorder. It can mean different things to different people, and I could supply you with the textbook definition, but it means more to me than just being unhappy with the way I look.

It’s about feeling like a stranger in my own body. I don’t see in me what other people see when they look at me. 

Sometimes, I look down at my toes, hoping a bird’s-eye view will give me a better sense of how I fit into my clothes, how big I am in relation to other people, how much space I take up on your average crowded train. That doesn’t help my cause.

Sitting in the library as I write this stupid paper, I’ve put off for literally weeks, I’m taking turns staring at the laptop screen and looking down at my legs. Those fucking legs. Thinking about the way I look hardly leaves room to think about anything else.

Despite spending nearly every minute of my day ruminating on what I used to look like, or what I want to look like, I have no idea what the hell I actually look like.

I know in the back of my mind I’m not fat. I’m healthy, sure I have a few extra pounds on where I shouldn’t but nobody would ever look at me coming down the street and say “she’s fat!”. 

The mirror is my worst enemy. Sometimes I’ll stand in front of it and scrutinize every little ounce of fat on my body. My reflection in the morning determines whether I’ll get to go out that night. Other times, I’ll go weeks without even looking in a mirror because I’m too ashamed of what I see.

There’s no winning. It’s either a staring contest with myself, or it’s an aversion to facing myself altogether.

When I look in a mirror, I don’t see a whole body. I see only parts — specifically, all the far-from-perfect parts. And those parts aren’t just parts. They’re defects. They’re everything that’s wrong about me, and they minimize everything that’s right about me. My contagious, bubbly personality, my ambition? None of that matters.

My body is flawed, so I am flawed. My entire self-worth revolves around what I look like. I know how sad that is.

Sometimes, I stay cooped up in my apartment an entire weekend, punishing myself for not looking the way I want to look. In fact, this very weekend, I’ve convinced myself I can’t “afford” to go out and gain any more weight.

I’ve lost a ton of people in my life from blowing off plans one too many times. They think I’m self-absorbed — and they aren’t wrong — but I’m also deathly afraid and wildly insecure. This stupid sickness has me strung by the heels and hanging upside down.

I turn down social invitations because I’m afraid of the food, the alcohol, the judge-y, up-and-down looks I imagine coming from everyone in the room.

Anxiety paralyzes me into sitting in my room by myself for days.

I know my friends and family will always love me. But living with body dysmorphia keeps me from letting people in. God forbid someone I like spends one day too long with me and realizes how fucked up I am about food, my body, the way I feel about myself.

One time, my ex called asking me to dinner. I said no. I’d finished my allotted calories for the day by 6 pm, leaving me with two options: I could go to dinner and make up some excuse not to eat, like having the stomach flu, or I could just stay home. Staying home was just easier.

Going to dinner and actually eating dinner wasn’t an option. He didn’t understand, and he never would, even though he was the one who made this demon return.

I hate this world I’ve created for myself. I want to break free. Frustration over it consumes me. Time spent dwelling over my self-imposed problems is time wasted. There are so many more important things happening in the world outside my body.

Damaged Past Makes me who I am

If our pasts decide who we become, then I’ve been given a past worth growing from.

I think damage can sometimes be endearing. I value dark histories, growing pains and repressed memories. People have a tendency to shy away from me once they realize I’ve survived damage and a bad pasts, but I have learned to embrace my damaged past.  

We all leave the nest with a few dents and bruises. As Mitch Albom said, “Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.”

No one comes out of life without a few scars, even the cool kids have demons. But some people have faced challenges that have truly changed and damaged them in ways that aren’t fixed by new apartments and fancy cars.

These people belong in a special class of “fucked up.” They’ve seen shit you’ll never know about. They’re rare people who have died and come back to life with brighter vision, they are the phoenixes that rise from the ashes of their life.

It’s like they’ve lived multiples times. I’ve felt the cold ground of rock bottom and danced with demons you wouldn’t want to meet. 

Ive been both victim and victor. 

I’ve overcome trails and tribulations that have shaped me into a stronger and more knowledgeable person. 

I’m not trying to romanticize or generalize the hardships and abuse many have faced. I don’t condone fucking people up in the pursuit of strong character and I definitely don’t want to give the impression that all damaged people are the same. 

I’m making an observation from my own life. And that observation is that some damaged people know how to embrace life better than those who have been coddled. 

People who have been through it all come out on the other side incredibly strong. I’ve been forced to grow up facing struggles my neighbours will never experience. 

At times I feel immune to life’s bumps and curves. But my struggles have humbled me. 

Under my hard shell I’ve grown over the years, I do have a soft inner core, even though I don’t alway like to show it.

I know what it’s like to struggle and what it’s like to love. 

I often throw myself into everything that makes me feel good and happy. When you’ve been through the worst things in life, you make damn sure to appreciate the good parts.

I’m 30 and sometimes I feel like I’ve already been to hell and you know what I’m not afraid of going back!

When you’ve already hit rock bottom, there’s no more fear of falling. Fear stems from our ideas about the unknown. When you’ve experienced the reality of every terrible situation, there’s no more wondering, guessing and worrying. Hitting the lowest point in your life is liberating; from there, there’s nowhere to go but up.

I can’t improve my pasts, but I can seize the future.

When you’ve experienced the loss of control, you seize every chance to win it back. People who have witnessed horrors of their own life are always masters of their future. I’ve had my control taken away, I know what it’s like to appreciate and fight for my freedom.

I try not to sweat the small stuff.

Until you’ve been truly sick, you can’t appreciate your health. People doesn’t appreciate being able to walk until they lose a leg. The same goes with those who have faced life’s biggest shit storms. When you’ve stood underneath the heaviest downpour, you stop noticing the drizzle. Damaged people have a perspective that comes only from some serious experience.

I know how to embrace life’s bumps and pitfalls.

People say life doesn’t come with a manual. But if we were going to make one, I’d have the most damaged people lay out the escape routes. They know how to get through things. Unlike your prissy friends — whose worst day consists of a spilled coffee or missed plane — damaged people know how to handle real situations. If our skill set for life is based on experience, then the people with the most hardcore training are always going to have the best tools.

I have knowledge that can’t be learned.

Most people with some serious damage are like old souls who have already lived thousands of years. If Buddhists are correct in saying that each new life in the cycle of reincarnation is a step on the way to enlightenment, they’ve passed a few more stages than your average Joe. They’re the Buddhas of handling fucked up situations and keeping things in perspective. They are like people who have traveled the world and become deep with knowledge and information. They’ve survived and persevered in ways some of us will never know.