The Man in the Mirror: My Struggle with Body Dysmorphic Disorder

A father's introduction – Steve Phillip

In December 2019, my son Jordan died by suicide. He was 34 years old.

Jordan was an intelligent, sensitive and thoughtful young man. He had a law degree, enjoyed

music, sport and spending time with friends and family. He also had a wonderful sense of

humour.

I remember a short video of him messing around on an old stairlift in the house he had recently

bought. Pulling faces at the camera, he eventually announced, with perfect comic timing, "And

that's how you get down the stairs!"

It still makes me smile.

That was one of the many sides of Jordan we knew and loved.

But there was another side to his life that we didn't fully understand.

In the months following his death, we discovered a box in the attic containing his personal

journals, workbooks and handwritten notes from therapy sessions he had attended some years

earlier.

Among those papers was something we hadn't fully understood during his lifetime: the extent to

which Jordan had struggled with Body Dysmorphic Disorder (BDD).

BDD is a mental health condition in which someone becomes intensely preoccupied with

perceived flaws in their physical appearance, often flaws that other people barely notice or

don't see at all. It can cause significant anxiety, shame and distress, affecting relationships,

confidence, work and everyday life.

As I read Jordan's notes, I began to understand just how much of his life had been influenced by the way he saw himself.

But I also discovered something else. Jordan had been working hard to challenge those thoughts, understand his feelings and change the way he viewed himself.

What follows is an imagined first-person account, reconstructed from Jordan's own handwritten reflections and therapy exercises. Some passages contain his actual words; others bring together the experiences he described.

I hope that by sharing his story, other men experiencing similar struggles might recognise something of themselves and, importantly, realise that help is available and change is possible.

The man in the mirror – Jordan's story

Have you ever looked in the mirror and seen something that nobody else seems to see?

Something that bothers you so much that it becomes difficult to think about anything else?

For me, it was my skin. The marks, blemishes and scars that I believed made me look different.

Unattractive. Abnormal. Sometimes I could look at my face and think it wasn't too bad. Fairly normal, even. But when I

looked at my body, I saw something very different.

In one of my therapy exercises, I wrote: "My face – not too bad, fairly normal. Body – ugly, scarred."

That's how I felt about myself. And the trouble was, those feelings didn't disappear when I stopped looking in the mirror. They followed me everywhere.

When appearance takes over your life

Imagine going into a shop or restaurant and worrying about whether the lighting will make your skin look worse. Imagine speaking to someone and wondering whether they're looking at your face, noticing something you desperately wish they wouldn't see.

Or feeling anxious about taking your shirt off, even in front of someone who loves you. These were everyday experiences for me.

During therapy, I was asked to rate how anxious different situations made me feel, on a scale from zero to 100.

Being shirtless in public, perhaps at a swimming pool or on a beach, scored 100. Taking my shirt off in front of my girlfriend scored 85.

Even being in a shop or restaurant with what I considered bad lighting scored 60. Talking to my parents? Just 15.

Looking back at those figures, they reveal something important.

My anxiety wasn't simply about how I looked. It was about how I believed other people would see me. I worried that they would notice my skin, judge me or think less of me. Sometimes I felt convinced that people were looking at the very things I was trying so hard to hide.

And the more I worried, the more self-conscious I became.

The exhausting business of checking

I spent a lot of time checking my appearance. Looking in mirrors. Examining my skin. Feeling for blemishes. Looking for signs that something

had changed. Sometimes I would check my reflection repeatedly, hoping that this time I might feel better about what I saw.

But reassurance never seemed to last.

If I noticed something I didn't like, I'd become anxious. I'd look more closely, perhaps touch or examine the area again, and then worry about whether I'd made it worse. The checking was supposed to help me feel more in control. Instead, it often made me feel worse.

Through therapy, I began to understand how this cycle worked.

Something would trigger a negative thought about my appearance. That thought would make me

anxious or depressed. I'd respond by checking, avoiding a situation or trying to hide whatever

was worrying me. And those behaviours would reinforce the belief that there really was something wrong.

It was exhausting.

One of the things I began learning was that I didn't have to respond to every uncomfortable thought by checking my appearance. Just because my mind was telling me something didn't necessarily mean it was true.

What if people don't see what I see?

One of the hardest things about my experience was how convinced I could become that other people were judging my appearance.

During therapy, I was encouraged to test some of those assumptions. In one exercise, I considered what might happen if I removed my shirt in front of someone. I was almost certain they would notice the marks on my skin. I expected them to say something, stare or react negatively.

But when I tried the experiment, something surprising happened. Nobody said anything. That didn't immediately make my anxiety disappear. I still felt self-conscious. But it challenged what I'd been so certain would happen.

In another exercise, I shared my concerns about my appearance with someone close to me. I worried that she might agree with my negative view of myself or find me less attractive. Instead, she was understanding and supportive. These experiences made me question something I'd previously taken for granted.

Perhaps other people weren't examining my appearance nearly as closely as I was. Perhaps they were seeing the whole person, rather than the individual imperfections that dominated my attention.

I was more than my appearance

One of my therapy exercises involved writing down things about myself that had nothing to do with how I looked. At first, that might sound like a strange thing to need to do. But when you've spent so much time focusing on what you dislike about your appearance, it can become difficult to remember everything else that makes you who you are.

So I started writing:

I'm empathetic.

I've got a good sense of humour.

I'm sensitive and emotional.

I'm polite. I've got good manners.

I've got a law degree.

I'm a brother, a son, a cousin, an uncle and a friend.

I enjoy music, sport, walking in the countryside and a good cup of tea.

I've travelled. I've experienced different cultures. I've achieved things.

I care about other people.

There were so many things about me that had absolutely nothing to do with my skin. Yet I'd allowed one part of my appearance to occupy such an enormous space in my mind.

One exercise asked me to consider how much importance I placed on different aspects of myself. When I drew a circle to represent my identity, appearance occupied almost all of it. Intelligence, personality, behaviour and manners were squeezed into the remaining space. Seeing that on paper was revealing.

Was that really how I wanted to define myself?

Surely there was more to me than how I looked.

Learning to question my thoughts

Therapy wasn't about somebody simply telling me that I looked fine.

I'd heard reassurance before. The difficulty was believing it.

What I began learning was how to recognise the assumptions I was making about myself and other people.

For example, I might think:

If people notice my skin, they'll think I'm unattractive.

Or:

If I take my shirt off, everyone will stare.

But were those facts?

Or were they predictions based on my own fears?

One of the things I wrote during therapy was:

"Nobody looks perfect. We all have flaws." It sounds obvious, doesn't it?

But understanding something intellectually and genuinely believing it about yourself can be two very different things. I also began to recognise that everybody has good days and bad days with their appearance. Sometimes we feel confident. Sometimes we don't. That doesn't mean our appearance has fundamentally changed, or that other people are judging us differently. It might simply mean that we're feeling more vulnerable or self-conscious that day.

I began learning to notice those thoughts without automatically accepting them as the truth. And I started challenging myself to do things I'd previously avoided.

Change doesn't happen overnight

I wish I could say that once I'd understood what was happening, everything became easy. It didn't.

There were times when I made progress and times when old habits returned. I still worried about my appearance. I still found myself checking mirrors or focusing on my skin. But I was learning.

I became more aware of the situations that triggered my anxiety.

I started recognising when I was comparing myself with other people.

I worked on reducing the checking behaviours that had become such a big part of my life.

And I began trying to be more open about what I was experiencing.

In one of my reflections, I wrote: "I'm being more open & honest about my problems."

That mattered

Because when you're struggling with something that makes you feel ashamed or embarrassed, talking about it can be incredibly difficult. Especially when you're worried that other people won't understand. But keeping everything inside doesn't necessarily make those feelings go away.

Sometimes the most important thing you can do is allow someone else to understand what you're going through.

What I would want other men to understand

If any of this sounds familiar, I hope you'll recognise something important. You're not vain because you're distressed about your appearance. You're not weak because you find social situations difficult. And you don't have to wait until things become unbearable before asking for help.

Body Dysmorphic Disorder is a recognised mental health condition. It isn't simply being unhappy with how you look. It can affect how you think, feel and behave, sometimes taking up hours of your day and making ordinary experiences feel overwhelming. But there are treatments that can help.

Specialist cognitive behavioural therapy can help you understand the patterns of thinking and behaviour that keep those fears going, and gradually develop a diTerent relationship with your appearance.

You don't have to believe every thought your mind produces.

You can learn to question the assumptions you've made about yourself.

You can begin to reduce the behaviours that keep your anxiety alive.

And you can rediscover the parts of yourself that have been overshadowed by your concerns about how you look.

I spent so much time worrying about the person I saw in the mirror. But there was always more to me than that reflection. And there is more to you, too.

A father's closing reflection – Steve Phillip

Reading Jordan's handwritten notes after his death was an emotional experience. There was sadness in discovering just how deeply he had struggled with his appearance, often in ways that weren't obvious to those around him.

But there was also something profoundly moving about seeing the effort he had put into understanding himself and challenging the thoughts that caused him so much distress. His therapy notes revealed a young man who was thoughtful, sensitive, intelligent and self-aware. Someone who wanted to feel better about himself and was taking steps to achieve that.

And they reminded me of something else.

The Jordan whose private thoughts I was reading was the same young man who, in 2014, stood nervously in front of family and friends to deliver a humorous reading at our wedding. He stumbled at the beginning and, clearly self-conscious, said, "Let's start again." But he carried on.

I don't know how much of his nervousness that day was connected to the struggles he was experiencing with his appearance. Public speaking can make any of us anxious. But looking back, knowing what I now know, I find that moment particularly moving.

And then there's that short video of Jordan on the stairlift.

Watching Jordan joking with the camera reminds me of his humour and the ordinary moments of happiness we shared.

Those moments matter.

They remind me that Jordan was so much more than the difficulties he experienced.

He was a son, a brother, a friend. Someone who loved and was loved. Someone with hopes, plans and a future he was trying to build. And yet, alongside those experiences, he was carrying thoughts and feelings about himself that could cause him enormous distress. That's something I believe we all need to understand better.

We cannot always see the battles someone is fighting within themselves. A smile doesn't necessarily mean someone is happy. A moment of laughter doesn't mean they aren't struggling.

And someone who appears to be getting on with their life may be carrying thoughts and feelings that those closest to them know very little about. Jordan's handwritten reflections offer a glimpse into that hidden world. They remind me how important it is to become more curious about what people are experiencing, less willing to make assumptions based on what we see, and more prepared to listen without judgement.

Jordan's suicide was a tragedy, but it would be wrong to suggest that BDD alone explains his death. Suicide is complex, and no single experience or diagnosis tells the whole story.

Neither should his death lead anyone to believe that BDD is something from which people cannot recover. They can.

With appropriate treatment, understanding and support, people experiencing BDD can make meaningful changes to how they think and feel about themselves, and go on to live fulfilling lives. That is the message I hope you will take from Jordan's story.

If you recognise yourself in any of his experiences, please don't dismiss what you're feeling or assume it's something you simply have to put up with. Talk to someone you trust. Speak with your GP. Ask about specialist support for BDD. And remember that the person you see in the mirror is only one small part of who you are.

You are worth so much more than your appearance.

For details of support relating to Body Dysmorphic Disorder, please visit this resource page.

Steve Phillip is the founder of The Jordan Legacy CIC , a suicide prevention organisation established in memory of his son Jordan.

Through education, collaboration and campaigning, The Jordan Legacy works towards a society in which fewer lives are lost to suicide.