Gender Dysphoric Body Dysmorphic

Summer time undoubtedly brings on anxiety for many people. The thought of having to suddenly reveal the body you have comfortably hidden under winter clothes can be devastating for some. Those of us with Body Dysmorphic Disorder will find ourselves begging for just one more week of sweatshirt weather. The more clothes and accessories you can wear, the easier it is to cover up the presumed inconsistencies and flaws.

Everyone has a part of them they aren't happy with. Body dysmorphic disorder goes beyond the typical criticizing we all do in front of the mirror. BDD dominates the life of the sufferer. BDD is a preoccupation with perceived defects of the body. For me, the preoccupations control my daily life. They come first, everything else revolves around them. Coupled with fluctuations in gender perception, my day can be quite confusing and always uncomfortable.

I, unlike most BDD suffers, avoid mirrors. I do not know who I see in the mirror. I do not understand why anyone would want to know what I see in the mirror. When I picture myself in my head it is not what I see in my reflection, both in looks and body shape and size. I like who I am inside yet extremely dislike what the majority of the world sees.

My heart breaks for those that live in a completely wrong body. My gender may not fit all of the time, but it does fit some of the time. I cannot imagine the pain and misery of never relating to the body you travel in. And while not all people with gender identity issues have BDD, I would have to think that it runs rampant in that community.

According to the professionals, BDD sufferers can spend upwards of 8 hours of their day comparing the unattractiveness of their body with the body parts of others. I spend a considerable amount of my day doing this. Each day I hope to find someone that looks like me. Someone that I can say "Hey they have the same defects and they are comfortable with themselves." Unfortunately that day has never come. Each day I look at every single person I pass or see. And each day I see that no one looks as bad as I do. No one has the defects I do. Each day I know every one of them is saying "I am glad I don't look like that" about me.

I am a highly intelligent person. I have spent numerous years in a therapeutic environment for many "disorders". I can rationalize the nonsense of BDD very easily, yet I cannot escape it. Just as I cannot make myself fit my gender completely, I cannot make myself be OK with the things I obsess about regarding my body.

I am gender dysphoric and body dysmorphic and I am hoping summer never gets here.

I Won't Care if They're Gay

I don't know if they named me
But papers call me Liam
I'm not sure who I look like
I never got to see them

I've been to many houses
But none have stayed my home
Just when I'm feeling settled
I find myself alone

I want a bed
I want a dog
I want somewhere to stay

I want a home
And family
That loves me every day

I had straight parents from the start
Yet both just walked away
If new ones love me endlessly
I won't care if they're gay

Next time the laws come up for vote
Remember how I feel
The loneliness inside my heart
Is something very real

~EB 2011

I have you all to thank

"I love the you no one gets to see but me." A line from a movie the other night that my wife repeated to me several times that evening as well as emailing it to me the next morning. Each time she said it I answered in my head or aloud "that's about 90% of me." I have never been someone else to most people, I just have never allowed most people to know who I am completely, or at all. Most of my life has been spent staying in the role that people can relate to easiest and without much question. The most controversial thing I am to most is a lesbian. Some days that is hard enough for the majority to handle.

Since I began this blog less than a year ago, I have allowed you all to travel my journey of self discovery and acceptance of who I am along with me. I have gone back and reread some of my entries realizing I am still finding things in those words about myself that surprise me. Sometimes it feels like I am reading a stranger's writing. I find myself captivated by the words and feeling a bit uneasy that I displayed them for the world to see. I get to know me each time I write and again when I read it. Its a never ending process that I would typically never allow people to join me in.

Since I use anonymity in my blog and my columns, I suppose I get a false sense of security. Somehow I assumed a fictitious name would keep people from knowing me. Until now I didn't realize the name had little to do with it. I am still putting myself out there. I am still taking this very real journey. I am still discovering who I am, all names aside. And I am still allowing anyone interested to take the ride with me. For the first time in my life I feel free of a lot of things. Free of a lot of anger, resentment, self loathing and misunderstanding. I feel free of shame and the need to hide. I am finally free of the pounding desire to share who I am with people and not just little tiny pieces to fit into most social circles appropriately.

My wife will always be the only one that knows me, the complete me. Her repeated statement "I love the you no one gets to see but me" holds steadfast. However I am finding there are so many people that do relate, that do see me for most of who I am and haven't run screaming from the complexities. I am no longer 90% inside myself. And I have you all to thank.

Repeating the Cycle

I have spent a lot of time in thought while working on my memoir. This morning I was remembering how emotionally absent my mother was and how mentally abusive her actions and words were. I recalled a time in my life that I made excuses for her behavior. I read reference books explaining the cycle of abuse and self help books that reminded me she too came from somewhere not so pleasant. I spent years putting myself in her shoes, as a child and as a mother. I tried to believe that what she did was because she knew no different. And I continued to believe that, and excuse her behavior, for my entire life. Until now.

I know my mother was raised with a very strict mother herself. I know that perfection was the only option. I know she was told again and again that what she did and how she acted was a direct reflection on her mother. I know that she could never have reached the bar that would have been set too high. I know this, and I lived in the same moments a generation later. I feel for her. I feel sorry for what she endured. I feel sorry for the person it made her and the way she loathed herself to the point of mistreating others for comfort. I know she was a child once, a sad one. I know her story like a book, because it is written in my own.

Looking back on my traumatic childhood; the pain my own mother caused and the pain she refused to acknowledge that others put me through, I can easily see what shaped many of the obstacles I still struggle to overcome. But the thing I see clearest is that I too grew up in the same environment yet with much worse additions than she did. I too felt the wrath of a obsessive compulsive manic. I felt it so much I became it as well. However the books forgot to mention that just because it typically trickles down and repeats itself, it doesn't have to, and it didn't.

Instead of repeating the cycle, I became the mother I never had; the mother I wished I did. Though exhausting mentally and physically, I overcame the challenge of giving into behaviors my childhood created because I knew they were wrong. I put myself second, always, even when I was screaming for someone to put me first. I have spent my entire life trying to understand why such a strong willed person such as my mother was too weak to do the right thing. I no longer make excuses for her. I no longer feel sorry for where she came from. What I feel sorry for is that she couldn't find a way to sacrifice a bit of herself to make sure I never had to feel like her. I know she couldn't have liked how it felt.

I am not a perfect mom or a perfect partner. But I am not a casualty or a victim. Everyday I struggle to make it to the next day with everyone I am responsible for feeling OK. And although my closet still holds its skeletons, repeating the cycle will never be one of them.