Living With Body Dysmorphia
By: Reuben Salsa
Tags: Body Image, Body Dysmorphia, Mental Health, Drugs, Addiction

Eventually I left home. Away from my mother’s cooking.

I settled in a village in the heartland of Wales. About as far as I could possibly get from London. It was here that I discovered drugs. Proper Class A drugs. And rave music. Hardcore bass-thumping rave music.

I swapped my 4XL, Indie, long-sleeve and hide tee-shirt for bright and tight tees. I ate very little. I danced a lot. I lived life. I managed to reinvent myself in a place where nobody knew who I was previously. I came out of my shell.

But still, that nagging fat hung off my stomach. Every time I looked down, all I saw was this huge round belly that refused to be tamed. I still weighed myself and hated what I saw. I wasn’t thin enough. I wasn’t cool enough. I wasn’t me enough.

Confidence grew with the drug dependency. Grades suffered. There’d be a couple of arrests and twice I had to work over summer to convince the teachers to let me stay for another term.

I moved from Wales to Portsmouth. I grew my hair long. I smoked faster than a French fashion model. I devoured noodles as my main food source. I had even managed to get my weight down to a respectable 55kg (121lbs)*. I still didn’t feel good.

I lacked energy without the drugs. It was probably the lack of food. I would pat my belly and reassure myself that I’m nearly there. I had lost sight of where there was supposed to be.

Pretty soon I crashed.

Paranoia crept in. Dizzy spells. I wasn’t coping with life.

Somehow I managed to get through University. My grades were embarrassingly low compared to my peers. My drug habit had spiraled. I was consuming daily.

Even now, looking back, I’ll tell you I wasn’t an addict. I wasn’t shooting up. There was no chasing dragons for me. This wasn’t Trainspotters. I knew I could stop at any time. But I didn’t.

The paranoia became too much.

I remember one evening clearly. I had lost my rhythm. My love for dance was in tatters. I could feel eyes staring as I struggled to capture my old joy. My coordination was shot. My legs were no longer nimble. I heard every voice talk about me and point at me. I needed to get out. Get off the dance floor and away from the crowd.

I stumbled out of the venue in a panic. My apartment was only across the road. Literally a two minute walk to safety. But I had somehow convinced myself that I was being followed and I couldn’t let anyone know where I lived. I took a circular path. A long-winded route that led to the seaside. A brazen forty minute hike in the wrong direction.

I sat alone on that beach, huddled as tight as I could get. The voices had finally stopped. I didn’t want to go on. I didn’t like being me.

In the distance, the fishermen had begun their night shift. Red lights blinked across the water. And then they began to blink in time. It appeared to me like they were getting closer. I imagined sirens. I could hear the low rumble of the coastguard. Hear the squawk of their radios. Overhead a chopper circled, possibly looking for a weirdo who’d left the club an hour into the night. I looked around and saw couples making out on the beach. I swear they all stopped and looked at me, whispering, asking why I was the only one on the beach without a partner.

It was this embarrassment that saved me. The perception of onlookers mocking my attempt at suicide that stopped me from walking out into the water.

It all sounds ridiculous. Far-fetched. This was the highlight of my paranoid days. Even beats meeting my future-self at a party that began my whole downward spiral.

I raced home. Again, taking the long way.

Back in my loft, four stories below, I could still hear a crowd talking about me as they passed by.

I knew I had to get away. As far as possible. After-all, this was exactly my pattern of behavior.

An opportunity arose for me to travel with a ‘friend’ to Australia. I leapt at the chance. A clean break from an environment that was slowly destroying me.