Small disclaimer: I have body dysmorphia. Signed, sealed, delivered, diagnosed. It's not a cry for help, it's not a cry for attention. It's something I deal with every single day of my life, and it manifests as a desire to destroy and recreate my body from scratch. I've never written about it because I'm terrified by it. I'd like to start.

"We're going to be late...again."
My roommate is yelling at me because we're going to some party at some frat boy's house. I had no interest of my own, but she'd been frightened to go alone because of the boys who'd be there that would pull her aside and blame her for the nights she left them hanging. I wouldn't expect her to understand what happens behind closed doors, because she's beautiful. Slender, classy, with blonde hair coursing well past her shoulders in gentle, well-tamed waves. She was the ringleader, the most beautiful girl in the room. All she had to worry about was not getting shards of teenage boy hearts stuck in her feet as she walked down the streets at night.
That's what I'm for--sweeping. The janitorial staff for her heart and mind, keeping things neat and tidy.
She screams through the keyhole of the locked door of our dormitory bathroom. The overhead light is buzzing and fading in and out; I'm humming an old song that I don't remember the words to. I'm sitting cross-legged on the counter, my face pressed close against the mirror as I pick my skin with my fingernails, forming little red spots on my olive skin. My make-up is intact and no one else sees what's wrong with me. She knows what I'm doing, but I lock the door anyway.
I'm seventeen and my dad asks me, "do you smoke?" and I tell him "No sir" and he shows me the cigarettes that he found in my car and the ashes on the inside of the driver's side window and the burns on the headliner. I'm caught, but I deny it still. I lock the door to my room and blow smoke out of my window. I only light up the back roads from then on.
That was then, but it's the same here. She thinks I'm silly, I'm stupid, I'm crazy, and I wouldn't disagree. The fact is...well, that's why I'm here with my feet in the sink. I'm crazy.
I'm the sidekick--the brunette, the one with the "good personality." Uneventful green eyes; sallow, pale skin; thick, dark curls; the good music collection; and the need to be directed by the strength of a beautiful girl who will make me feel worthwhile. Something like that. I look into the bathroom mirror and I see her face superimposed over mine. I chip it away with my fingernails until I'm bleeding and I can't find anything new to pick away. I smile at the skeleton below, but it doesn't recognize me.
It doesn't make sense, why I do things: going days without eating, being unwilling to get out of bed for fear of seeing the body I'm in now, picking, and smoking, and swearing. My friends assure me that it's in my head, a chronic figment that I can't chase away. She tells me that too, but she doesn't understand what it's like to constantly have a candle putting light on all the wrong angles of your face, making you gain fifteen pounds for the camera. My best friend is a blacklight, highlighting my acne and the roots showing from my last dye job. She doesn't mean to. It's not her fault.
I press my forehead against the cool mirror and turn out the bathroom light. I let my face and mind calm before I exit the room and face her. She compliments my top, and with that, we sneak over to the house on Farmer. I light up a black cigarette and watch it smoke itself as we drive.
When we walk in, the gaze shifts to us. We're beauty and the beast, the heroine and her sidekick and this is all I'll ever have. I catch a glimpse of myself in my old lover's eyes as he smokes out on the couch and I see myself as I was, but none of that exists anymore. I missed the moment, let myself go. There's really no forgiveness.
He doesn't blink and I'm not beautiful.

Labels: "beauty", bdd, body dysmorphia, picking, starving