Vices. We all have 'em. Renee over at Cutie Booty Cakes wrote a post about vices that inspired me to look deep down (real deep, let me tell you) and discover what my worst vice is. I have discovered it and it is that (OK, deep breath) I AM VAIN. Well, at least that is what I thought at first. Then I looked up the definition of vanity:
vain // adj. vain·er, vain·est
1. Not yielding the desired outcome; fruitless: a vain attempt.
2. Lacking substance or worth: vain talk.
3. Excessively proud of one's appearance or accomplishments; conceited.
4. Archaic Foolish.
Well, once I saw this, I realized that I am not, in fact, vain and I set to work to find out exactly what it is that I am. Let me just explain, I am NOT excessively proud of my appearance; quite the contrary, I am NEVER happy with how I look, and I think about it ALL too much. I have been this way my whole life. I have always felt that if I could just get down to that perfect weight, or get my hair to be "just right" and my skin flawless that I would reach this appearance nirvana that would bless me with happiness and virtue forever and ever. Needless to say, I have never reached that point. There is always something I want to change or improve, and I am hard pressed to find something that I haven't tried to improve my appearance.
When I look in the mirror, all I see are the rolls around my middle, the dark freckles on my face and the fact that my hair doesn't quite get straight enough. So I spend countless hours searching for the miracle diet supplement, the complete concealing makeup and the super rockin' hot iron that will help me achieve my goals. I feel "less than." I feel like what I look like is a direct reflection on who I am as a person, even though intellectually I know that this is JUST NOT RIGHT. I know that beauty is only skin deep. And I don't judge others on their dress size, how their skin looks or how pretty their hair is. But for some reason, I hold myself up to a completely different standard, one that forces me to pick at my faults until my soul practically bleeds.
So now you are probably thinking that I need a big, brown leather couch and you need a psychotherapy degree because I need a lot of money's worth of therapy, not a silly post on an even sillier blog. You are probably right. But, considering that I don't have the time or money for a therapist, I am going to use my own intelligence and internet savvy to diagnose myself (and you will be my unwilling and reluctant audience). In my research of why I can't seem to stop tearing myself apart piece by piece just to rebuild again, I found the term "body dysmorphic disorder." Some of you may have heard of this already; maybe you even know someone who has it. Here is the definition:
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