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Interviews with a Big Black Broad: Session #5

One Woman's Unique Insight Into Body Dysmorphic Disorder

By Anarda NashaiPublished 5 years ago 8 min read
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Interviewer: After college, did you find entering the "real world" difficult while attempting to self-medicate your BDD?

BBB: I had no idea what I my was in for when I left college. I would no longer have the distractions I depended on over the past few years while I attended school, and as a result of having no therapeutic support, my twenties were a blur of major psychological breakdowns. Also, I was diagnosed with a hormonal imbalance at 19 that would cause me to pick up even more weight and make me even more susceptible to emotional instability. By age 25, I had ballooned up to 230 lbs. At 5'8", I was slovenly obese. In addition to cystic acne, my face had started to develop cradles that no one could see but me, apparently. My entire body seemed to be covered in stretch marks. I fried my kinky hair into silky submission using straightening chemicals and hot irons and wasn't satisfied until it was bone straight and full of body. Others in my hometown didn't see my weight gain as a big deal. Those who noticed my growing self-consciousness reminded me that there were several girls where we came from who were just as big or even bigger than I was. It didn't matter what anyone else looked like. It didn't matter what they thought I looked like either. All I could focus on what how ugly I was compared to everyone else.

My first job out of college was really great. I joined a team of museum curators and played my part in creating a fraction of world history while I was there. I met more extraordinary people for the most part. It was here that I met the first person, besides myself, who also suffered from issues with self-image. We got to talking one day during our many daytime trips to and from the Big Apple for business. She confided in me that she was waiting to be approved for gastric bypass surgery, which would be followed by a face lift, before she would attempt to find a date. She was convinced that she would never find a decent man until she had accomplished those things. She was heavy, but curvaceous. I was shaped like a huge square with no curves. She had long, shiny curly hair. I had chemical burns to the scalp trying to achieve what she was born with. She was doe-eyed and had a great smile that seemed to appeal to everyone in the office. When I smiled, my eyes disappeared into my chubby cheeks. As much as I enjoyed her company, I started to resent her for complaining. How could someone as beautiful as she feel ugly? Perhaps she could tell that I was harboring similar thoughts and decided to bait me during casual conversation in hopes that I would open up to her about my feelings. But I never admitted that I felt the same way about myself as she did. I sat, listened, and offered a few templated words of encouragement just so we could get off of the subject. I also made sure that we were never alone together so that I wouldn't have to listen to any more of her whining.

My social life was active but trying during this time. I'd lost touch with most of my high school and college associates, so my coworkers would have to suffice. And this wasn't a problem. We would hang out during lunch, grab drinks after work, and on rare occasions, we would get together over the weekends. I was more of an observer when I wasn't participating as the comedic relief of the group. Also, the advantage of hanging out with coworkers was that there were no expectations that our relationships should deepen beyond casual banter. We would watch the same t.v. shows, read the same books, so we always had plenty to talk about that had nothing to do with who we truly were. We never discussed anything too personal, and I appreciated that.

My problem was at home. I cried on the way to work because my nights were horrible. I cried on the way home because I knew what misery awaited me when got back. At home, I was confronted with who I was: my looks, my failures, myself. I was late to work most mornings because it took me hours to settle on which clothes to wear. It took even more time to layer my face in makeup in order for me to be able to leave the house. This caused issues with me managing or even keeping jobs throughout my crude battle with BDD. I spent most evenings glaring at my grotesquerie in the mirror, crying myself to sleep because I hated what I saw. I hated myself. Most nights, I read books or watched t.v. alone while I gorged myself on junk food and sweet red wine. Food was my only reprieve. While I approached my 30s, I became trapped on an emotional hamster wheel. Negative thoughts kept me up at night. I developed insomnia for weeks and drank daily in order to pass out. At least then, I'd get a couple of hours of sleep. Sometimes, I would have angry, violent outbursts as a result of severe intoxication. When I couldn't muster the energy to pretend I was happy in public, I wouldn't even try to leave the house. These moments would leave me stuck in the inside alone for weeks at a time. I became angry when anyone suggested that I was depressed and needed help. How dare they demand anything from me? They couldn't possibly understand my plight, which is why I didn't even bother to explain. Besides, I didn't need help. I just needed to be left alone to accept my fate: Ugly girls end up alone. Period. In the span of a decade, anyone who tried to befriend or confront me about my "situation" became my enemy.

You mentioned your interactions with friends during this time. How was this chapter of life perceived by your family?

One of the biggest mistakes I could have made while trying to hide my BDD was that I fluttered around like a social butterfly while I felt like I was dying inside. The real trouble began when I stopped fluttering. At family functions, I would go out of my way to pretend that I was OK, and eventually, my false sense of cockiness was misinterpreted as conceitedness. Socially, I felt like I was always trying too hard, or not trying hard enough when it came to interacting with my family. I was usually too overdressed for the occasion when we gathered. I was always laughing way too loud at things that were not even funny. They began questioning my mom about my odd behavior. Poor Mom. I watched her try desperately to hide her embarrassment whenever I was in the room. It was often suggested that she was in denial about my debilitated state of mind. I felt terrible for causing her additional stress and worry, but I felt that there was nothing I could do besides stay to myself. Out of sight, out of mind.

No matter how anyone tries to explain the existence of mental health concerns within the African American community, the truth is, if your behavior does't exhibit what it means to be "normal," then, you're "on some other shit," which is slang for insanity. It's slowly becoming publicly irresponsible to admit to this communal stigma outside of the black community, but the narrow-mindedness is still present. Popular African-American comedians have launched successful careers as a result of making fun of crazy people. The same mocking takes place at family cookouts and Christmas dinners. This is why we keep our own mental issues to ourselves if we can. My mental health "crisis" would not be tolerated by my family without me feeling several degrees of shame and ridicule. Have you ever entered a room, and immediately, the entire atmosphere turns awkward? I couldn't handle it after a while. As a result, I didn't attend several family events for a long while.

I had become the cautionary tale of the family whether I was present or not. As far as they were concerned, I was as aloof as I appeared to them. I spoke less and less when I came around, and pretended not to hear their passive-aggressive insults when I did make an appearance. I would also endure direct insults to my intelligence because I was viewed as emotively incompetent. Once, a teenage cousin snidely compared me to an autistic character in a movie because I was "different like her." About 10 years later, when this cousin got engaged, her mother made a speech at the bridal shower where she mentioned how grateful and proud she was for "never having to worry about her daughter's well-being in the same way other mothers had to." The room grew silent, as everyone tried not to stare at me directly. It was clear to me and to everyone in the room who she was referring to. By now, they all knew I was crazy, they just didn't know what my problem was. I had not yet confided the real issue of my breakdowns to anyone, so I figured I deserved their skepticism. Again, all I could do was leave the room to avoid further humiliation. Out of all the times where I felt completely alone, these were the loneliest moments of my life. When I was surrounded by them, I felt even lonelier than I did when I was by myself. In the end, I hold no animosity. They reacted to my changes as best they could with the information I provided them, which was basically none. I certainly couldn't blame them for me being a psycho.

Like your coworker, did you ever feel the urge to try to alter your appearance with plastic surgery or any other drastic cosmetic solutions?

BBB: I tried all sorts of looks throughout my struggle with BDD, none of which gave me the results I was looking for. Only time would tell what I was truly searching for when I looked in the mirror.

interview
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About the Creator

Anarda Nashai

"Chocolate. Cabernet. Bicoastal Resident. Pseudo-Punk Life. David Foster Wallace!"

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