Elle: Learning to love yourself

Whenever people ask me to pin point the moment my body dysmorphia started, I always tell them I was aged six. This is because there’s a vivid image that’s trapped in my memory. It’s of me, on a summers afternoon. I’m running around in circles in my old back garden, when my mum opens up the door and asks me what on earth I’m doing. I claim that I was simply “playing a game.” It wasn’t really a game though, games were meant to be fun. This was the very opposite. I was exhausted, continuing the same route around and around until I’d collapse in a heap on the floor. I then proceeded to lift my top above my head after I’d finished every lap so I could inspect the state of my body. “No” I thought to myself, “keep going, the fat is still there.”

I will never shake the sensation I experienced during the first time I got called fat. I was young and the person who told me was one of my closest friends. She said I was chubby, and I believed her. That moment felt like a horrible shock, suddenly I became hyper aware of bodies. I compared myself to every single one I saw. Those from magazines, television, people in the street. From then onwards everyone else was beautiful except for me. I didn’t want a particular body, I just sure as hell didn’t want mine. This feeling, however, is nothing in comparison to the first time I got called ‘ugly’. This word was tormenting, it would continue to haunt me for over a decade. There wouldn’t be a day that went by where I didn't worry about the consequences of what it meant to be ‘ugly’. I was existing as an ‘ugly’ person in a world that didn’t want me in it. When I was eighteen, I said to my therapist “It’s easy to understand. There’s everyone else, they’re the beautiful people.” He looked at me, writing down the contents of my mind onto his sheet of paper. “And then there’s me, below them.” He asked me exactly why I was unworthy in comparison, and after an uncomfortable moments pause I conjured up the words “I just am.” For me, body dysmorphic disorder was never about perfecting my looks, it was about shedding them. I had spent years looking in the mirror growing evermore disgusted by my own face. It wasn’t even about what would stare back at me in my reflection, but more about how I felt living in my own body. It was like a heavy headache, a dull pain. There were unbearable days where it seemed I was trapped in a cage that held me back from living. I was around twelve or thirteen when a boy turned to me smirking, when he stated “your face is so funny and weird that I can’t even look at you.” My entire body froze. I could feel the tears coming but I didn’t want anyone to see. I considered running off to hide in the toilets but my legs wouldn’t even flinch. I begged for my entire face to just disappear. “There’s the beautiful people, and then there’s me” my mind repeated. “Of course he can’t look at you, you’re below them, remember?”

The worst point of my body dysmorphia is when it stopped me from leaving the house. Weeks went by and my only outings were trips to the doctors, for me to sit on uninviting grey chairs and burst into tears over how exhausting it was to have this disorder. About ten minutes later, after they’d suggested the usual exercise and therapy, the doctor would encouragingly say “we wish you could see what we all see.” That meant nothing to me, it wasn’t going to erase the words I’d heard in my past. Stop lying to me, I thought. How unprofessional for you to lie and tell me I’m not ugly. Just be honest. I would do the very same to my parents, “you have to say that, you’re my PARENTS. You’re not going to actually admit I’m ugly, are you?” I was irritable and defensive. In school, my ritual had been brushing my hair over and over again and standing in front of the harshly lit bathroom mirrors trying to cover up my perceived flaws. I have to. I thought, otherwise people will feel uncomfortable looking at me. How dare I ruin the lives of others by being so monstrous and disgusting? The taunting words said by that thirteen-year old boy sat next to me in year eight would flash into my seventeen-year old mind. I would imagine my current self experiencing that situation from the past. My body would freeze. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe, and I’d skip a lesson and hide in the toilet cubicle because the thought of anyone looking at me was terrifying. I loved learning. I had so many thoughts surrounding my studies that remained as merely that, thoughts. I couldn’t actually say any of them, because that mean’t people would look at me. It’s not fair to make people look at someone like me, I would persuade myself. This cycle of hiding in bathroom cubicles and feeling too ugly to go outside meant that I couldn’t attend that sixth form any longer. In fact, I don’t particularly think they minded. They didn’t think I cared about school. The complete opposite to how I really felt.

Picture now that it was weeks later, and I was burning my skin with spot treatment and spending days buried under my duvet in the dark. Other issues were occurring in my life, and I felt selfish that my body dysmorphic disorder was still consuming my thoughts. I would spend hours on plastic surgery sites planning my new face, my new life as an attractive person. I have nothing against such surgeries whatsoever, but I was certainly desiring them for all the wrong and unhealthy reasons. One evening, I was perched on the end of my bed, thinking about all the opportunities I would take on if I was ‘pretty’. “I would be at university, if I was pretty” I sighed, “I’d probably study English. Or history. Or maybe politics or something.” But that was for everyone else, not me. I’d have more friends if I was pretty, too. I’d maybe have hobbies. I could do fun things without fear. I wasn’t allowed the same life as other people, though. I’m below all of that.

Yet for some reason, on that particular day, something finally made sense. A fault in the workings of my disorder. I thought about everyone I’d ever met. I thought about if I perceived them as 'ugly'. I didn’t. So if I didn’t think that, did they? Sure, some people might not think I’m pretty, but is that going to change anything? Does that boy, who wanted me to feel belittled and small when I was twelve, get to dictate whether or not I feel pretty? I glanced in the mirror another time. But this time it was different. This time I didn’t see a monster, I just saw a girl. She was like any other person, she deserved a chance. She looked scared, borderline uncomfortable but eager to escape the entrapment my mind had created. There was nothing to be ashamed of, it was just a face. A face like any other, a body that meant I could have my mind and that I could live amongst everyone else.

From this point my life seemed to change. It wasn’t one defining moment. I didn’t wake up one day and all of a sudden feel good enough. It was a collection of little moments, of people, of experiences. Suddenly I felt I could take on the world. I went from having no A levels to having four. I went from feeling too ugly to go out in public, to attending my dream university. I allowed myself to make friends who loved and appreciated me. In the end, I grew to appreciate myself. I was alive. This very realisation was overwhelmingly beautiful. I understood that if anyone ever wanted to call me ugly again then the issue was with them, not me. I finally became free from the torment of inside my head and I was interacting with the world. I could make people smile, I could help people. I was benefitting other people’s lives. Being a good friend, a good daughter, a good student. That was what made me feel beautiful. Knowing that I was no longer scared to be seen, to be heard. I existed and that was okay. There was no shame in my face, in the same way that there was no shame in anyone else’s.

I still have body dysmorphic disorder, It’s a part of my anxiety. I couldn’t banish it completely. But now I can live with it. Yes, live. I can go out into the world and experience life, finally. People always ask me whether I’d choose to completely alter those horrible experiences if I had the chance, and there’s no simple answer. Obviously I wish I could take the stress away from my family members, who had to watch me suffer. I wish I could remove all the stress I ever caused them. Equally, it would be easy for me to say I’d love to have never gone through it all, but that’s not realistic. The point is that I have, and I’m still here. I’m a much more empathetic person now. I take great pride in how I treat other people. My aim is to make others feel special and valued, because I know what it’s like to feel the opposite. I want everyone I meet to know that they are beautiful because they exist, and strive to make those around me comfortable.

There’s a quote from one of my favourite shows, the Norwegian web series SKAM. It’s a piece of paper stuck on Noora’s bedroom wall that says:

“Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind, always.”

If there’s anything I want people to get out of reading this, it’s to know that you have the strength to battle against whatever torment your brain is putting you through. Live for the experiences that give you positive energy. Don’t let those who want to bully you make you feel like you have no worth, you do. You may have gone through traumatic experiences in the past, but you can get up and go spread your kindness through the world that will allow you to help, listen and fight for others.

You deserve to exist and do great things.