Content Warning: Mental Health, Body Image

I’ve been thinking of circles lately – where do they begin and where do they end?

I’ve been running around in circles for my whole life, trying to get away from myself.

Body Dysmorphic Disorder. The name alone sounds hideous. I was officially diagnosed in 2023 just shy of my thirty-first birthday, but I’ve known about the condition since I was nineteen.

When it started, I thought that it would be fleeting and I would grow out of it. But I’ve found myself going back to that feeling over and over again, like a cycle in my life that I can’t get out of.

I knew one day I would get found out.

The lines are keeping me imprisoned, and I can’t find a door to get out. At
one stage, my condition got so intense that during a particularly bad skin break-out, I picked my face so much that I caused a huge scab to form across one of my cheeks, the scar from which I still have today. While time and treatments have helped it to heal, it is still there, serving as a reminder to me of the lengths I went to in my quest for perfection. I had pretty much perfect skin throughout my school years, except for the odd spot or two.

This was a blessing that I didn’t appreciate at the time, given that I caked on layers upon layers of makeup every day, and took said makeup off with an alcohol wipe at the end of each day (sacrilege, I know). When I left school, the circle of my life caught up with me as my mother suffered from acne for years, and my skin seemed to deteriorate.

How do I stop running around in these circles, and will I ever find a way to extricate myself?

No matter how much I took care of my skin or how many cups of green tea I consumed, I would break out and it affected my ever-fading confidence to no end. I dealt with this for years until finally, at the age of twenty-two, my GP prescribed me Duac, a benzoyl peroxide cream that was like magic in a bottle. Seemingly overnight, my face cleared – but I was still left with the deep and unyielding hatred about my appearance.

No amount of proclamations from friends, family or even potential suitors that I was pretty would stop me from the truth I knew deep inside – that I was hideous, a fraud. I knew one day I would get found out. For years, the Duac worked a treat – sure, every so often I would have to change birth control pills or take an antibiotic, but for the most part, I had pretty clear skin and I managed.

While time and treatments have helped it to heal, it is still there, serving as a reminder to me of the lengths I went to in my quest for perfection.

This all changed when in 2022, just a few months before my thirtieth birthday, I developed an allergy to my holy grail item, and started breaking out in severe rashes every time I applied it. The irony wasn’t lost on me here, by the way. The very thing that had once made me feel beautiful was now the same thing that was making me uglier than ever. I was lost. Where was I to turn to, when the one thing I had always relied on to make me feel pretty was no longer an option? I tried everything, from skincare to exceptionally expensive facials, but everything only worked for a short amount of time and my confidence was spiralling.

I hated what I saw in the mirror every morning. The breakouts were back in full-force. On good days I would simply stare at the condition of my skin and cry. On bad days, I would pick – my previous self not having learned from the trauma I had once caused. Eventually and after months and months of being prescribed topicals and antibiotics, I was prescribed Accutane – the optimum of acne treatments. People kept telling me it isn’t that bad but it didn’t matter.

Do young people have any hope when this is what they are being raised with?

No amount of my partner telling me I was beautiful would help me to fight this internal voice that was telling me how ugly I was. I hated going to sleep because I would imagine what it would feel like to wake up in the morning – to look in the mirror and see how repulsive I was. I wanted to avoid my ugliness, to hide away from it – yet somehow every morning, I felt compelled to look. I would wonder how much easier things would be if I was pretty.

The months on the Accutane were tough, as they caused a purge – basically making my skin break out worse than it ever had, something that was difficult to deal with in my already precarious mental state. But I kept having to remind myself it was all part of a bigger picture, that I would eventually get to wake up to beautifully clear skin, and it would all have been worth it.

Of course, there was some respite when eventually after months of this medication, my skin did clear. But it was short-lived because now I was more conscious of the scars that my acne had caused, or the weight the medication had forced me to gain. I still didn’t feel beautiful, and I was exhausted.

Feeling ugly became a way of life to me, and it didn’t matter what anyone else said. I was repulsive – but why was I the only one who could see it? Were they seeing someone else to the person I was seeing in the mirror each day? Who was staring back? Now I’ve been off of Accutane for six months, and my skin has started to break out again. 

Where was I to turn to, when the one thing I had always relied on to make me feel pretty was no longer an option?

This has brought back with it all of the old feelings of shame and insecurity, that were somewhat quietened in recent months. And I have all of those old feelings of fear when I go to sleep, afraid once more of what repulsiveness will greet me in
the morning, in the cold light of day. I’m told I’m not seeing things accurately, that I have a condition. That it really isn’t that bad at all, so why then can I not stand the face I see in the mirror each day?

Recently, I was watching Tinkerbell with my partner and I pointed out to
him how curly and long her eyelashes were, how clear her skin was and how shiny her hair.

How do I stop running around in these circles, and will I ever find a way to extricate myself? Do young people have any hope when this is what they are being raised with? With filters everywhere and aesthetic treatments becoming a thing of the norm, will I ever stop seeing myself as a monster? Or am I doomed to live a life of never truly feeling alive, always wishing I had some other mask to portray to the world?

Am I doomed to be ugly forever, running around in these circles, unable to find a way out?