Dating with body dysmorphic disorder had always been excruciating."
He imitated what I apparently looked like something between a piranha and a chipmunk.
For most people, this might not have been a big deal.
But for me someone with a long history of body dysmorphic disorder, this was devastating.
She messaged me one afternoon with concern.
Im seeing a lot of selfies of you with the cats, she said.
Are you getting out with your friends and meeting new people?
On her next visit home, she helped me set up a profile on a dating app.
Jordans profile pictures revealed a handsome man with deep hazel eyes and a full dark mustache and goatee.
Dating with body dysmorphic disorder had always been excruciating.
Its estimated that in the United States,5 million to 10 million people sufferfrom this disorder.
My BDD revolves around my face, specifically my nose, jaw and teeth.
Like other mental illnesses, BDD varies in its severity, affecting everyone differently.
Left untreated, it can lead to devastating effects, including anxiety, depression and suicidal ideation.
It was a cool March evening when I pulled up to the Bonfyre Grill.
Our eyes met and he smiled.
He was shorter than his pictures revealed, but other than that, he looked much as Id expected.
Jordan told me he moved to the U.S. in the early 90s to attend law school.
We both had kids, though I had only one, and she was off at graduate school.
Jordan had two a daughter in college who lived nearby and a younger son still at home.
Forty-five minutes later, I reveled in how well our date was going.
He was also a passionate conversationalist with a deep voice and British accent I found uncommonly attractive.
As we relaxed into our second hour and another drink, Jordan inched his barstool closer to mine.
Now facing each other with our knees brushing, he reached out and took my hand.
I relished our mutual attraction as we planned for a second date.
I immediately froze up in shock.
Before I could gather myself, he made another joke-like comment about my nose.
I tried to play it off, but it was too late.
A freight train had been let loose, and it was headed to a deep, dark oblivion.
My struggle with body dysmorphic disorder started decades ago after suffering a mental breakdown at 28.
As is common with this disorder, I didnt trust the doctors diagnosis or recommendations.
I didnt need psychotherapy or medication.
I needed a plastic surgeon, an orthognathic surgeon and an orthodontist.
The only way to stop the obsessing and mental pain, I believed, was to fix my face.
That was the beginning of a long and painful road.
A year later, I was no longer having panic attacks, but the obsessions were still strong.
I now had depression added to my diagnosis from struggling so long with no reprieve.
Unable to see the light at the end of the tunnel, I became desperate.
I didnt want to die, but I didnt know how much longer I could go on suffering.
The mental pain had become more than I could take.
I began an early morning routine of prayer and spiritual reading.
I meditated and visualized myself healthy, happy and defect-free.
I read self-help and BDD recovery books, feverishly highlighting passages and going back to those helpful parts regularly.
Many of those books became lifesaving.
Slowly, I started to have good days.
Slowly, the fog lifted.
The pain of living that existential death was worse than living with an imperfect face.
I decided it made no difference whether or not I was deformed.
But at that moment, staying in his presence was too painful.
Do you still want to get together midweek then?
he asked as I was putting my coat on to leave.
Sure, I responded, knowing I never would.
I stopped interacting with Jordan and went back to therapy.
Ive been thinking about dating again.
Matt is five years younger than me, fit, tattooed and handsome.
A military veteran now working as an engineer, hes been sweet and gentlemanly in our messages.
Weve made plans to meet for lunch on Sunday.
Im not cured of my body dysmorphic disorder and may never be.
Further, there is no guarantee the date will go well.
But what lies ahead of me is a choice.
I choose to live struggles, imperfections and all.
Tammy Rabideau is a writer living in Madison, Wisconsin.
Her writing has been featured in The New York Times, Rebelle Society, and other publications.
She is working on a memoir based on her New York Times Modern Love essay.
it’s possible for you to follow her on Twitter at@TammyRabideau2.
This article originally appeared onHuffPost.
