Prisoner of Your Own Mind

A Mirror Image

My self-esteem suffered a serious blow back when maintaining a good reputation and having strong qualities was important to a young person discovering themself. These elements were crucial in resulting into a mentally healthy, confident, and proud individual.

I never had that opportunity to smell any whiff of confidence or taste the splendors of being an adolescent, free-spirited person. Somehow those pleasures and experiences past me by. If there were any warning signs of hope and enjoyment of my young life, they were too obscure and hidden to see. Several factors had strong roles in keeping me at bay from escaping an otherwise tortuous, vindictive life.

One factor, which can be scientifically proven to be the dominant catalyst for my painful moments of self-hate, was my OCD. Not aware of its existence in my cerebal cortex or other complex areas that were hard to pronounce, it shielded me from the obvious truth of my irrational reality. It lurked within the fibers and soft tissues of the brain, and when given the opportunity, took complete control of the core of my brain.

OCD's trickery has also distorted my visual perceptions of myself as well as the world around me. It has actually brainwashed my retina's by lying to me about my physical appearance. When I would look into a mirror, no matter where one exists, I saw a distorted version of myself filled with self-hate and remorse. I would take several glances in the mirror and inspect certain noticeable features of my face that did not satisfy or live up to my standards of what handsome was.

My focus would generally fall in the eyes, nose, and ears sections of my face, each screaming out flaws and insults as I hesitantly gaze into my reflection. This would become a constant habit or what phyciatrists like to call rituals. The frequency at which these so called "rituals" occured was almost life-disrupting. Any chance I'd get I would take a quick peek at the defining features of my face, only to squal back in disappointment and embarrasment.

It became such a daily preoccupation that I could not concentrate on anything else but my disfigured face. When the day was through, I would take one last glance at what I have would probably seen more than 10 times that day and look in disbelief and concern. I had to assure myself that no such features were displeasing to me before I went to bed. That assurance never came those nights but instead came apprehension of the future and vulnerability to a nightmarish world.

Upon waking up to the glare of the morning sunshine, I would immediately realize what lays ahead for me that day. The feeling I had at night would be the same in the morning. Little was I aware what strange and scary world awaited me. This misery of sorts couldn't have happened at a better time during my early years of college. A place where one excels in academics, intramural events, and sex appeal, I was left wondering whether I could join the ranks of the normal, well-rounded, party-loving, college student.

Maybe it would have been different if I wasn't blessed with the distressful mental disorder that so convienantly reminded me of how I was not to be spared. Perhaps I was in a dark, dreary, lifeless prison trying to escape from fear and thought. A prisoner of my own mind, held against my own will to rationalize and realize what was right in front of me. I could not realize that when I would so often look at my appearance in the mirror, it was not my heart and inner soul that was ranting epethets of criticism, it was my imprisoned mind.