(no subject)
It’s one of those days again. It’ll get better in a few hours. ...I feel I should try to explain myself. If nothing else, to try to better read my own head and understand why I’ve gone so downhill. I’m happy, I’ve been having a great time with good people... In that sense, I feel very loved and I am thankful. ...but there’s still that problem that’s been there for a few years now.
I’ve been studying and, well, people with my problems tend to just kill themselves. People with Madelungs... usually a little worse than mine... especially people that used to use their hands a lot... like piano players... They kill themselves. Or people who always had it and never got the chance to really hold another persons hand with love? They kill themselves.
People who were abused as children. Ten years I was. They sometimes kill themselves. Guilt... Feeling dirty... Feeling alone. Whatever.
Mostly though... and this ones a little different... People with Body Dysmorphic Disorder tend to instead get hundreds of needless surgeries in an effort to remove some unseen imperfection... Or to simply not feel so ugly anymore. The problem? One day they sit down and realize... No matter what they do... They will never be beautiful. Even if they look perfect after all the surgeries, they will be fake, and therefore, not really beautiful. And then they kill themselves.
Mine was early on, I think. At least, the seed for it was. I was tiny and deformed and hideous. I could not speak or hear or smell or taste... I could see. I could see everything that happened. I could feel every single inch that happened to me... but I could not say a word. Imagine if I could have switched brains with my sister. My mind in her body. ...before she let herself go. I remember being thirteen, having the plastic surgeon tell me he could give me a whole new nose... make me look like Anna. I remember thinking, “then no one will love me for me.” Then I wished to just be her. She was always the beautiful one, the smart one... the perfect one... No one knew what she did while drunk. I don’t think anyone even fucking cared. We’d go outside... Out into that big scary world I detest... That world I’ve grown so afraid of... They’d pity me. They’d see my crooked, stupid, ugly body and they’d fucking pity me. They’d look to my mother and allow her to cry over the death of her child that had not yet died and my sister... My sister was praised. Admired for her beauty. I hate her so much for that. Put aside when I was seven. Put aside everything. ...I hated her for losing what she had that was so precious to me.
heh... I am so completely screwed. It’s like some outside force is telling me, well... Yeah. I was supposed to die. So... anytime now would be great to fix that. But I don’t want to die. I don’t want to get the surgeries that my parents are so willing to pay for either. I want to feel real again... If I ever did. I think I did. I can be happy. I’m not depressed. I’m not even angry... I just wish I had something I don’t think I’ll ever have. I already started it. That’s what’s scary. I already cut something off my back and off my ear. I think it was going to a plastic surgeon at 13 instead of a regular doctor that tipped it off in the first place. It was seeing all the people grovel at Anna’s feet... and then it was my doctor telling me they could make my arm look better, but it would make it feel worse. Or even worse than that, I wouldn’t feel anything at all. I would wish for my life back, but really? I just want someone else’s health. For a day, I want to have someone else’s face, someone else’s hands and arms, someone else’s legs... Everything. I want a body that works correctly and doesn’t hurt and isn’t deformed. People are going to answer this. They probably shouldn’t. I need you all to know that it’s not your fault and there’s not much you can do, if anything.
I do need help, but can you imagine a group meeting of people with Body Dysmorphic Disorders? It’ll be a room of girls hating themselves for being the ugliest, and hating everyone else for being beautiful. How awful. How awful to feel like you will never be loved because of how you look. If I had never had the pain, maybe this wouldn’t be a problem. Then again, most of it I didn't notice until I finally had a day without it.
I know it’s not true. I know it can’t all be true. Logically, it can’t. That’s the thing. My arms are not so crooked as they were, or else I would not have Madelungs now. But in my head? They are curved and crooked and bent and all the other words I was before. They are also deformed and missing a piece and broken. Words I hear now. I keep cutting off moles. I keep ripping off pieces and chunks of my fingers and back to be something else... In hopes I’m someone else underneath it all.
I’m sorry for anyone that reads this. You are my friend and I apologize. I am so sorry for all I’ve said and what I do to myself, but don’t worry about this. I’m just trying to get it all out. I always have been.
I’ve been studying and, well, people with my problems tend to just kill themselves. People with Madelungs... usually a little worse than mine... especially people that used to use their hands a lot... like piano players... They kill themselves. Or people who always had it and never got the chance to really hold another persons hand with love? They kill themselves.
People who were abused as children. Ten years I was. They sometimes kill themselves. Guilt... Feeling dirty... Feeling alone. Whatever.
Mostly though... and this ones a little different... People with Body Dysmorphic Disorder tend to instead get hundreds of needless surgeries in an effort to remove some unseen imperfection... Or to simply not feel so ugly anymore. The problem? One day they sit down and realize... No matter what they do... They will never be beautiful. Even if they look perfect after all the surgeries, they will be fake, and therefore, not really beautiful. And then they kill themselves.
Mine was early on, I think. At least, the seed for it was. I was tiny and deformed and hideous. I could not speak or hear or smell or taste... I could see. I could see everything that happened. I could feel every single inch that happened to me... but I could not say a word. Imagine if I could have switched brains with my sister. My mind in her body. ...before she let herself go. I remember being thirteen, having the plastic surgeon tell me he could give me a whole new nose... make me look like Anna. I remember thinking, “then no one will love me for me.” Then I wished to just be her. She was always the beautiful one, the smart one... the perfect one... No one knew what she did while drunk. I don’t think anyone even fucking cared. We’d go outside... Out into that big scary world I detest... That world I’ve grown so afraid of... They’d pity me. They’d see my crooked, stupid, ugly body and they’d fucking pity me. They’d look to my mother and allow her to cry over the death of her child that had not yet died and my sister... My sister was praised. Admired for her beauty. I hate her so much for that. Put aside when I was seven. Put aside everything. ...I hated her for losing what she had that was so precious to me.
heh... I am so completely screwed. It’s like some outside force is telling me, well... Yeah. I was supposed to die. So... anytime now would be great to fix that. But I don’t want to die. I don’t want to get the surgeries that my parents are so willing to pay for either. I want to feel real again... If I ever did. I think I did. I can be happy. I’m not depressed. I’m not even angry... I just wish I had something I don’t think I’ll ever have. I already started it. That’s what’s scary. I already cut something off my back and off my ear. I think it was going to a plastic surgeon at 13 instead of a regular doctor that tipped it off in the first place. It was seeing all the people grovel at Anna’s feet... and then it was my doctor telling me they could make my arm look better, but it would make it feel worse. Or even worse than that, I wouldn’t feel anything at all. I would wish for my life back, but really? I just want someone else’s health. For a day, I want to have someone else’s face, someone else’s hands and arms, someone else’s legs... Everything. I want a body that works correctly and doesn’t hurt and isn’t deformed. People are going to answer this. They probably shouldn’t. I need you all to know that it’s not your fault and there’s not much you can do, if anything.
I do need help, but can you imagine a group meeting of people with Body Dysmorphic Disorders? It’ll be a room of girls hating themselves for being the ugliest, and hating everyone else for being beautiful. How awful. How awful to feel like you will never be loved because of how you look. If I had never had the pain, maybe this wouldn’t be a problem. Then again, most of it I didn't notice until I finally had a day without it.
I know it’s not true. I know it can’t all be true. Logically, it can’t. That’s the thing. My arms are not so crooked as they were, or else I would not have Madelungs now. But in my head? They are curved and crooked and bent and all the other words I was before. They are also deformed and missing a piece and broken. Words I hear now. I keep cutting off moles. I keep ripping off pieces and chunks of my fingers and back to be something else... In hopes I’m someone else underneath it all.
I’m sorry for anyone that reads this. You are my friend and I apologize. I am so sorry for all I’ve said and what I do to myself, but don’t worry about this. I’m just trying to get it all out. I always have been.