The Last Hurrah

Before I start, I guess I’ll preface by saying that I’m not really used to doing this sort of thing—that is, writing out my problems to anonymous internet users. Hopefully it is way better than talking to my phony therapist, getting paid 100 dollars an hour for absolutely nothing.

Where to begin? I guess I’ll just say I was diagnosed with Body Dysmorphic Disorder, or BDD. Except that is hard for me to believe when I actually show signs of ugliness. If this phenomena of BDD didn’t even exist, I doubt I’d be writing this now. There would be nothing for doctors to pawn off as a psychiatric issue, when in reality, it is a genuine problem. I like to say I have Body ProMorphic Disorder because there is nothing Dysmorphic about my perception. There is nothing delusional about my thoughts, and to be labeled as delusional makes matters so much worse. You begin to wonder if your sanity is going, when the fact is, when you look in the mirror you see what you see. Ugly, acne, scars, the works.

As vein as it sounds…yea, that is primarily why I can’t really move on. My family is always bringing up burn victims, one legged handicapps, etc, exclaiming how they can live their lives without worrying. With confidence, something I lack. Well, I cant. I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t do it now, and I can’t do it ever. We live in a world where looks are LITERALLY everything, despite what everyone says. People that say otherwise are usually the ones that were gifted with good looks. It’s the first thing people think of you. It’s fact.

Whatever, to the more important things. I am 21, a guy (which makes being concerned about my looks even more “MetroSexual” I guess), and have lost all of my friends. I’m barely getting through a top university, having no contact with everyone I have met freshman year (acne started sophmore year).

I’ll cut this short as it makes me feel upset writing it. My family is sick of me. I can’t keep living with my parents. I feel bad. But at the same time, I have no where to go except 6 feet underground. I’m not going to sit here and kid myself. I won’t get better. There is no better for me. No shrink, no medication, will change my perception of me. As much as I hate Dr. Phil, perception really is reality. I can’t go on seeing my reflection in a car window, wanting to end myself, right there, on the spot. I can’t keep living thinking people are staring at my acne scars, whether they are or they are not. I don’t have a purpose. I would like to leave this planet having done something meaningful, but unfortunately, I haven’t done shit. I grew up in a middle class family, went to college like literally every other person in my town, and couldn’t even finish that. I am a failure. An ugly failure.

Sorry about the grammar/spelling/incoherent rant, I couldn’t give a bakers fuck about that right now. I guess, thanks to anyone who reads and understands. May peace be with you.