BDD SUCKS

Overcoming Body Dysmorphic Disorder - My Story of Living With BDD

"It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see."
~ Henry David Thoreau

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This is the Story of My Life Living With Body Dysmorphic Disorder

The Caveman – Hidden levels of discontent (a Poem by Stephen)

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Locking myself away, hoping for the world to quiet down.

Hoping for a new body, or a new mind, or preferably both.

The days blend into the doldrums of a windless ocean

It is here I sit

Looking for some degree of change.

Mostly I just want to be left alone, yet in today’s world this is an impossibility.

Surrounded by the motion of people spinning circles. We are all looking for meaning.

I know where happiness exists, I just don’t exist in it.

And from behind this window of discontent I sit and rot.

A mind wasting away, typing hear on this plastic keyboard.

I am sick of people, honestly I just want to be alone.

Yet in this feminine world, where social is the only “true” path to enlightenment. Quiet solitude is not allowed.

In the hills where I chose to run, there is no hiding.

Dirt, trees, the smell of fresh air, hidden from a job, from time from the responsibilities that are nothing but dead useless weight.

And then there is this face, this ugly disgusting hideous face.

It doesn’t deserve to be happy, it deserves only to be locked away.

Here the monster can not be unleashed, here my wife doesn’t have to touch it. Or see it.

Probably here, everyone is happy.

In the Cave, below the many hidden levels of discontent.

Hiding Places – The Shame of Body Dysmorphic Disorder

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In My Room

There were several bathrooms on my college campus that I would frequent the most.

I preferred the handicap restrooms as I could lock the door. In here I could fuel my compulsion without the fear of others noticing.

I remember walking out of the bathroom, and within seconds returning, to deconstruct my face again. Only when I was looking closely at my imperfections and hating on myself, was I free. It is bizarre, maybe it became like cutting in a way. In the pain I could feel something, even if it was the feeling of losing my mind.

With each new class I would find a corresponding place on campus to indulge this compulsion. These compulsions would reveal themselves from time to time in my art and in my music. I remember taking an an intro to drawinng class in college, I drew a large black and white charcoal image of an anorexic woman. I got an A+. My only A+.

Although I never particularly understood what it was about this work my teacher liked so much, it is obvious to me now. The best art is an expression of our soul, and this one was honest, possibly my first truly honest piece of work.