From Becca Trabin: Body Delusions
The main idea I’ve tried to put forth so far as a writer on this blog is that mental illnesses are inherently tied to the ruling norms and taboos of the surrounding culture. The mental illness I want to talk about today is very important to me, both as an individual with mental health issues and as an outgrowth of my particular time and place.
I want to talk about body dysmorphic disorder.
From the Mayo Clinic:
People with body dysmorphic disorder have a distorted or exaggerated view of how they look and are obsessed with actual physical characteristics or perceived flaws, such as a certain facial feature or imperfections of the skin. They often think of themselves as ugly or disfigured. People with body dysmorphic disorder often have problems controlling negative thoughts about their appearance, even when reassured by others that they look fine and that the minor or perceived flaws aren’t noticeable or excessive.
Some studies show that BDD is as prevalent among men as women. However, the manifestations of the disorder vary according to the idealized body type for each sex. Men tend to have Muscle Dysmorphia, where they believe that their muscles are puny, no matter how normal or even excessively large they are. Other common BDD issues for men are baldness, chest size, and obsessions with chins, noses or other facial features.
For women, BDD manifests itself as extreme dissatisfaction with breasts, hair, skin, nose, eyes, legs, and weight. BDD goes hand-in-hand with anorexia and bulimia as disorders involving highly distorted self-perceptions. BDD also goes hand-in-hand with contemporary American culture, which provokes the individual, particularly the female, to be obsessed with with her appearance to the detriment of her well-being.
Psychology Today conducted surveys on body dissatisfaction over time:
In 1972, 23 percent of American women were dissatisfied with their appearance but by 1997 that figure had risen to 56 percent. In 1972, 15 percent of men were dissatisfied with their appearance but by 1997 that figure had risen to 43 percent.
This rise in body dissatisfaction stems from the capitalist response to women’s liberation of the 1960s and ’70s. Whereas corporations and ad agencies had previously profited off of appliance sales to housewives, career women had little use for each new home improvement widget. As a response to decreased consumer interest among women in general, capitalist industries led by the women’s magazine industry shifted the focus to the female body.
In The Beauty Myth, Naomi Wolf writes, “Stripped of their old expertise, purpose, and advertising hook, the magazines invented … a ‘problem’ where it had scarcely existed before, centering it on women’s natural state, and elevating it to the existential female dilemma.”
The other main contributing cause was, of course, patriarchal fears about the potential outcomes of women becoming truly liberated. But what no one foresaw in this feminist backlash was the bleeding over into the territory of the male body.
In the last decade, gay male culture and metrosexual culture have brought body obsession back around to the people who were supposed to be benefiting from the Gaze. We’re now at a point in our culture where the individual is so heavily bombarded by images of bodily perfection that a certain percentage of the population, namely those people raised to look beautiful by their parents and those already inclined to OCD, are debilitated by their distorted self-perceptions.
BDD is often confused with social anxiety disorder because people with BDD feel so disgusted with a particular part of themselves that they can’t stand to be seen by others. They will take drastic measures to correct their flaws, including unnecessary plastic surgery, peeling and scratching at their skin, and wearing excessive makeup or clothing. BDD leads some sufferers to suicide.
The reason why I write this lengthy post about BDD is because I used to feel immense shame and anxiety about a part of my body that I secretly thought looked hideous. It took me years of torment before I finally confided in a friend about my deformity, only to be shocked when my friend, who was very surprised herself, reassured me that I looked fine, that people didn’t stare at me or have conversations about any one part of my when I left the room. I continuously have to reassure myself that this is the case.
Body dysmorphic disorder is a mental illness just like any other, but it’s also a social problem specific to certain cultures, just like eating disorders (which America exported to less developed nations over time). In an environment where obsessions with physicality are allowed to flourish, it is important to discuss the internal and external aspects of the situation in unison: my obsession-turned-self-distortion isn’t just in my head, it’s in magazines, on TV, in films—it’s everywhere. Only by discussing our mental illnesses in the context of the environment that fertilizes them can we begin see the full picture to address these problems head-on.
liz | 5:28 PM | Uncategorized
God, Help Me
Speaking of claustrophobia, I’ll be going out today to cover the Phillies parade. I had to wend my way through the insane crowds to get to work — two hours before the parade, mind you — and it was already packed with people who were, oddly, holding alcoholic beverages at 9 a.m. The funniest line I heard this morning was a guy on his cell phone trying to meet up with his friend. He was describing his coordinates, and then he said, “I’m wearing a red cap.” Well, that narrows it down.
liz | 10:51 AM | Uncategorized
This Guy Is in Love With Me
Area Man Saddened To Realize Short Jewish Women With An Interest In Theater His Type
liz | 2:10 PM | Uncategorized
Coming Down From a Wild Ativan Trip
Yesterday was quite taxing. I went to the MRI place with Paul. I was clutching my stuffed animal the whole time, and as soon as she slid me into the face cage, I started to cry. But oh my god — Nancy, the MRI tech (correct language?), was the nicest human being in the whole world. She was so patient with me about the whole thing and let me try several different positions. Her kindness changed the whole situation from fear and desperation to challenge, a sort of “You can do this,” self-pep-talk.
She put blankets on me because it was too cold and put the headphones on my ears so I could listen to music. She even tried to get NPR for me on the radio, but it wouldn’t come in, so we did B101. She slid me in so that the little mirror inside allowed me to see Paul’s face, and I could even wiggle the stuffed piggy in the window to make myself feel better. I was somewhat embarrassed to be such a pussy, but on the other hand, I’m incredibly brave about other procedures, so I figure it all evens out.
I had tested the Ativan the night before, and found double my normal dose didn’t even come close to quelling my anxiety. So to be super duper sure, I took three Ativan, which amazingly kicked in right as Nancy slid me in to start the tests. So that’s when I fell asleep, and every time she told me I was doing great, I wanted to say, “Can’t you see I’m sleeping? Stop waking me up?” But in a very drugged way.
The funny thing about Ativan that I’ve experienced in the past is that once you’re over your initial exhaustion, you can stay up for a long time and you behave sort of bizarrely and without a thread and then don’t remember any of it. So apparently after the MRI I went to lunch, bought a CD of someone I’ve never heard of — who’s Ray Lamontagne? — and came to work, and I hardly remember any of it. The sedation/amnesiac wanderings continued into the night, and probably influenced my inappropriate decision after we won the World Series to run out of the house with a video camera — while wearing my pajamas.
I ran along the streets in those pajamas, videotaping people, jumping up and down and shouting, “Yay! Phillies!” and then came home and ate a box of cookies. I guess it’s like being under the influence of Ecstasy or something, but since I’ve never used recreational drugs, I have no idea. All I know is that when I woke up this morning and put several clues together, I thought, “Dear god. Ativan + first Phillies World Series in 28 years = total lunacy.”
I got to bed so late I’m still out of it, but at least the Ativan is out of my system.
All that being said, if I ever have an MRI again, will I take the Ativan? You bet your ass I will.
liz | 11:35 AM | Uncategorized
Yes We Can!
Above, the Philly fans going crazy — so crazy they’re all out of focus.
Perfect forecast: Phillies are champs (1-5) (5-1)
Thank you, Cole:
liz | 10:18 PM | Uncategorized
Good Point, Dano
TTWS reader Dano MacNammarah just reminded me that I’ve had ECT. So why the hell am I so worried about the MRI? I will kick its ass! Yes! Right in the ass of Siemens!
Or perhaps I’ll kick the asses of the friendly people who will, according to this photo, put me and my cute blond self in the machine. (Though I am not a cute blond, I hope to be drugged up enough to think I am.)
My ex-husband Paul is coming with me for support. Like he didn’t have enough of this shit during our marriage?
The next time I’ll blog for you will be tomorrow after the exam is done and the Ativan has worn off. Thanks for all the support. Claustrophobians, unite!
liz | 4:20 PM | Uncategorized
Washington Post Clearly Regretting Layoffs, Buyouts
Because now they have to publish this offensive claptrap about an old “lunatic asylum.”
Haunting History at an Old W.Va. Hospital
(Originally found on Alison Hymes’ blog.)
liz | 3:12 PM | Uncategorized
T-22ish Hours and Counting
Until the MRI. The anxiety is coursing through my every nerve ending. Zip! Bang! Boom! I’m hoping for a KO with the Ativan tomorrow morning.
liz | 1:08 PM | Uncategorized
From Becca Trabin: Bipolar Disorder for Dummies
Question No. 1 in our series: What’s the difference between Bipolar I and Bipolar II?
According to the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance:
Bipolar I is “characterized by one or more manic episodes or mixed episodes (symptoms of both a mania and a depression occurring nearly every day for at least one week) and one or more major depressive episodes.”
Bipolar II “is diagnosed after one or more major depressive episodes and at least one episode of hypomania, with possible periods of level mood between episodes.” Bipolar II is further characterized by more rapid cycling between depression and hypomania.
In short, Bipolar I patients are more manic, and Bipolar II patients are more depressed. Bipolar I is more severe in terms of frequency of psychotic displays, while Bipolar II is more severe in terms of frequency of suicides.
-For all intents and purposes, why distinguish between the two?
A misdiagnosis can lead to improper treatment, as people with Bipolar I benefit from higher doses of mood stabilizers and antipsychotics, and people with Bipolar II benefit from higher doses of antidepressants. Those with Bipolar I who are not treated for manic episodes will continue to get worse, as will those with Bipolar II who are not treated for depression.
However, it’s important to keep in mind that all of the taxonomical distinctions in the DSM IV are fluid and subject to revision (i.e. homosexuality is no longer a mental illness). The human brain is highly complex and capable of many feats, especially with the aid of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Diagnoses of mental disorders are best viewed as stepping stones leading to effective treatment, not life-long labels under which to suffer.
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liz | 12:33 PM | Uncategorized
Overheard on the 34 Trolley Oct. 28
“The whole city has a massive case of Phillies blue balls.”
To explain:
The key factor this guy doesn’t mention: God hates us.
liz | 10:38 AM | Uncategorized
