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So, I have been thinking (ahahaha, I know, right? Because we ladies, we NEVER do that too much. Sigh). And it was because of the Jezebel post about the MTV True Life episode, which I just watched, on Body Dysmorphic Disorder.
And, you know, it's MTV, so it's not the most tasteful or thoughtful show, but: I don't really want to talk about reality TV. I was thinking about how being feminist and being aware of privilege makes me really struggle with my own BDD.
I was diagnosed four years ago. It's definitely gotten worse as time as gone by, and exponentially worse after the rape. It's also not a disorder that stands alone; it ties in to my bipolar disorder, my anxiety problems. But also, really, what woman DOESN'T have BDD to some degree? Every woman I know dislikes something about herself, thinks she is too fat, hates her hair, despises her ankles. It's always something. And we ladies think, god, if we could just lose that weight, or fix this, or look like that, we would be fine. Or, at least that is how I think. I fantasize about being beautiful and imagine I would be that whole new person and have the courage to go out and feel pretty and meet people and find someone to date and get an "A" in every class and everything would be all fucking magical!
And, of course, I know I am full of shit, but I still partake in those fantasies. Like I bet an awful lot of women do. For many of us, this is just a fact of being female and moving through the world, sadly. And the fact that we ALL as women have to manage with these feelings of self-hate means that this is a symptom not of our own but of some larger cultural disease. That part is what's easy for me to intellectualize and understand.
But I still wouldn't go to the prom-y type thing my law school has, because I felt too fat to get in a dress. And even though I love to swim, I won't get in a bathing suit to go swimming at the gym. And I cannot go shopping without every single time, even when I am thinking I am compensating for my BDD, picking out clothes that are two sizes too large. And I won't wear tank tops, because my arms are too fat. And sometimes, I stop eating. Or I won't go out with people, especially to a party, because I will go and look at all the other women and feel like the ugliest thing that has ever walked the Earth and want to run back home and hide. Sometimes, I will feel so hideous I will not leave my house and cry. I hate and hate and hate on my body so much occasionally I have considered dying as an option, because then I could escape it. So I can intellectualize, but I can't get over it.
Good therapy has been essential to managing it (also, to hiding it, let's be real). I hear that voice in my head and think, "Gayle, SHUT UP NOW." I know my thoughts are not based in reality. I know it is a disorder. I remind myself that there are people starving on this earth and that I am one of the most privileged people on the planet, and I am not actually physically disabled or have any serious illnesses, and I need to fucking just get over myself already, JESUS. But I will still purposefully go all day long without looking at my face. Every time I go to the bathroom and wash my hands at the sink, I will never look up into the mirror.
The disorder is both bolstered by and bolsters my disassociative disorder (rape: the gift that keeps on giving). Basically, I cut my head off from my body. I believe I am a decently capable, smart individual, and I can walk into many situations thinking that I will be able to manage them, or be able to rock them even,
