This weekend was scary. Terrifying. I can’t quite get my head around it. The last time I was in such a dark place, I’m not sure. It’s usually bad everyday, but I manage to keep the façade up. No chance of that this weekend.
I couldn’t get out of bed. I physically could not move. It was like I was paralysed, a dark wave crashing down onto me and washing away any strength I had left to fight this thing. Thoughts of death, of literally cutting the ugliness off my body, of just giving up . I was drowning in them. My mind was working in the weirdest of ways: maybe if I have scars on my face, someone will come up to me and say, hey, I‘m like you, so let‘s be friends and get through this together. Maybe if I cut more, I’ll become good-looking in a rugged, bad-ass way.
There’s no logic behind these thoughts. But in the grasp of a huge BDD attack and depressive episode, there isn’t any room for logic. Anything seems like an option at that point. You just wanna get better. You want to look better by any means possible, and you want the depression to get the hell outta your body before it completely devours you and you become the physical representation of the voice that won’t leave you alone in your head, the voice that puts you down every opportunity it gets.
I need to put on weight. This isn’t a BDD thing, I genuinely do. I’m bordering on underweight, and I think I would be happier with a bit more meat and muscle on my bones. I couldn’t get out of bed though, could I? Which meant little-to-no food. So I messed that up. At the time, I didn’t care. I would have been quite happy to just waste away in that bed and listen to Evanescence, wrapped up in my problems that no-one takes seriously. That’s such a cliché, isn’t it? A depressed individual, sat in their dark room, self-harming and listening to music that ‘speaks’ to them. Music about being isolated and alone, living a life filled with so much agony that it’s almost unbearable to think a day ahead, let-alone into the far future.
Well, it’s a cliché because it’s true.
So I broke my ’no self-harm’ resolution. I lost three days, meaning I messed up my diet and have fallen behind on my writing. My sleeping pattern is messed up after months of trying to get it sorted, meaning this week is gonna be horrendous. I’m gonna be knackered at the gym, my concentration is gonna be shot, and worst of all, I’m gonna look and feel so ugly, more-so than usual… it’s gonna be hard.
But I don’t care. I’ve had my three days of sorrow, and they rank amongst the darkest days of my life. Enough is enough. I’m sick of this monster clawing away at my life, feeding off my despair. It can piss off if it thinks I’m gonna carry on taking this lying down. This weekend was a small blip. I acknowledge that. But hell if I’m not diving straight back in.
I’m gonna go to the gym like usual. I’m gonna eat properly again. I’m gonna lose myself in my writing and enjoy myself like I know I can, and I’m gonna look forward to going to University and meeting people with the same interests as me.
Show me an unstable image, I dare you.
Let people stare at me for being ugly, for daring to go outside where the pretty people reside.
Let them judge me for not being at least average-looking.
Let that voice in my head put me down. That I’m not worth anything. That people would be better off without me. That I’d be better off lying in a ditch somewhere. That I’m crap at writing, the only thing I’m passionate about. It can say what it wants, because I’ve had enough.
I know I’ll be back in that dark place again, I don‘t doubt that. Sometime this month, I’ll wake up and think ’What’s the point? I’m ugly. I’m worthless. I deserve this pain, these scars that I‘ve given myself.’ and lose a couple of days. Heck, as I’m writing this, I’m wavering already. But this isn’t an insincere display of bravado. You can drag me down again this month and the next month and the next. You can drag me down as many times as you want, but I’m just gonna ke...

[ Continued ]

Just like me. Having a stupidly dramatic title. Can't do anything without pouring angst over it.
I've come to realise that I'm disconnected.
From everyone.
From everything.
I don't have a connection. No matter how hard I try, I can't understand or even begin to comprehend why people are the way they are. The best way of putting it, I think, is that it feels like I'm on an alien planet, surrounded by a different species that acts in the oddest of ways.
Is this the BDD? The depression? The anxiety?
I really don't know, and I'm only a few steps away from caring.
Anxiety means I don't like talking to people, meeting and making new friends. or socialising in general. The depression is an odd one. I don't know quite how much it affects me. Maybe all the morbid thoughts I have, thinking that I have nothing to offer anyone... maybe that's just who I am? And the BDD? I still disagree with my doctor. I went shopping today and everyone was staring at me. They were. There was no doubt about it. And my mother, the only person I give a damn about away from the internet, is getting more and more frustrated by my constant pleas for validation.
'Why is everyone staring at me?'
'What's wrong with my face?'
'Why did I have to be born ugly?'
'Do I look alright? But do I? Really?'
My heart hurts, knowing how much it must upset her. No parent should have to hear their child ask questions like that. My heart hurts more, knowing that over the years, with the overdoses and self-harm, I've done more damage to her than she'll ever admit.
But I still can't stop. I don't know what will make me stop.
And the scariest thing?
I don't know if I want to stop.
Because once everything stops, it becomes real.
I'm just one of the many lost souls in the world, too afraid of hurting the person I care for the most to walk away from life.
And too battered, bruised, angry and sick of myself and the world to find out who I really am.

Not related to BDD, really, but I want to write about it.
There was a programme on Channel 4 last night called 'Cyberbully'. The hour-long (roundabouts) film revolved around a teenager called Casey who, after seeing a tweet from her ex-boyfriend telling everyone that he's not surprised that she's on antidepressants, decides to get her own back. Through the help of a friends, she hacks into his twitter and sends a tweet saying he has erectile dysfunction, which is immediately met with ridicule.
The friend that helped her though, is not who Casey thought it was.
What follows is an incredibly tense and at times uncomfortable watch as the hacker hacks into Casey's webcam and begins to make demands of Casey. Secrets are revealed about Casey and her true personality. Who is the real cyberbully? Casey, or this mysterious hacker?
Casey trolled a fellow student's video in the past, which saw the video flamed by a lot of people. The girl who was the subject of the online abuse, Jennifer, moved schools, started to self-harm, and eventually killed herself. When the hacker revealed this, Casey broke down. How was she to know that a 'harmful little comment' online would cause someone to kill themselves? As she said 'everything gets slated online!'
And I guess that's what I took away from the film. You can't know what the words you put online will do to the person who reads them. Everyone is fighting a personal battle that you know nothing about. I'm sure I've upset people before on Twitter and sites like that by posting what I thought was a harmless comment. And watching Cyberbully made me feel sick: what if I'd said something worse, and they ended up hurting themselves, like Jennifer?
There's that old saying: 'If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all'. And in this day and age, where people can put anything online, this rule applies even more.
Don't slag people off. They've done nothing to you. Don't be a 'keyboard warrior'. If they post a video of themselves singing or something, give constructive criticism. Don't just say 'Haha too **** even for x-factor lol'
We don't know what damage our comments can cause.

I'm struggling quite a bit at the moment. I don't think being diagnosed with BDD has quite sunk in yet. I argued with the doctor about it at my last appointment, saying I'm just ugly and a narcissist.

Apparently, this is exactly what someone with BDD would say, and I'm not a narcissist because they basically adore themselves.

As a lover of English, I was ashamed that I'd gone years without knowing the true meaning of narcissism.

Anyway, it's so difficult to talk about. I tried talking to my best friend about it, but I ended up downplaying it so much when, in reality, I just wanted to break down in tears and tell her how hard it is. But my brain wouldn't let me do that. It won't let me be myself around people, around anyone.

It scares me to think that I'll never be allowed to be myself because of this. That I'll never be comfortable around anyone, be able to relax and be open. Even little things, like going to the cinema with a friend or going to a music concert, without BDD taking over my every thought. It's upsetting and demoralising.

Oh well. Keep on keepin' on, right?