I can participate in humiliation and degradation in spurts of time as long as I know that part of me will fall away eventually and I’ll return to a place of peace. I can remove those parts of me like taking off a costume. Slipping into an uncomfortable skin is fun for me because I know that skin comes off. The uncomfortable feeling is something I enjoy, actually, but it isn’t real. Therein lies the key. It isn’t real.
Real things that I know deep inside myself, those things that could hurt me or make me weak, it’s much harder to wear that skin. Even worse when others see me in my real skin. My real skin is something to behold.
The very first person that I took my clothes off with physically recoiled from me. It is a scar that runs deep. The punch to the gut when a guy says that he googled mastectomy scars to prepare himself isn’t something I can easily shake off. To say that I have body issues is a drastic understatement.
I always felt like I was a burden to look at. My husband tried his best, he never said anything negative about my body or scars. Each pregnancy that I grew bigger and bigger, and the scars that covered, he never said a word. I tried to put my low body image aside. But it would always creep in.Goodness he tried. My former Sir said it was fine. But his phone and computer were full of beautiful naked women and his Tumblr shrine to his other girlfriend was proof enough that his words and actions didn’t match. He was always talking to someone younger, prettier than me. My body wasn’t something that excited him. I was never comfortable naked with him.
Every lover I’ve been naked with I’ve always covered myself with a sheet or shirt, I would tuck myself small. Trying to disappear so my puckers and dimples would be minimal. Turning the lights out so the shadows would hide me. Taking a real shower where you shave and bend this way and that was out of the question. I was always careful to pose with the water running over my shoulders. I always requested a shirt to sleep in, to wear lounging around.
Then a few things happened to me. It was sudden like a Spring rainstorm and a flood and a clear Summer day all together to confuse me. I looked at my puckered, damaged, scarred, fat body and fell in love.I fell in love with the struggle and the pain. I accepted everything that I’ve been through that left it’s mark on me. Daddy looked at my body without flenching and needed to touch me. I saw the need for his hands to be on my skin. I can’t remember a man needing to touch my skin desperately. He touches my knee under the table, drawing circles. He traces the stretch marks across my hip with his fingertips. His tongue slides across my scar before he drifts off to sleep.I joined a gym and looked at other people in various states of sizes working hard. When someone weighing 400 pounds is next to someone weighing 100 pounds and they are both in the same boat, it made me feel like I could accomplish my fitness goals. (Now if I could stop getting distracted…) That’s a powerful feeling. I can accomplish things in this body.
So let me be honest. I’m the biggest I’ve been in 10 years. I’m 41 and not getting any younger. I have just the one boob. Lots of cellulite, stretch marks, sun spots, scars from birth and reconstruction. I can safely say this is the “worst” I’ve looked and the best I’ve felt about myself. Odd.
I’m okay being naked. Naked by myself, in front of people, intimately. I want to be naked. I even wore a see through shirt at a party. This is important to me. I want to remember how I feel in my soul when my brain gets in the way.
I want to be naked. Naked alone. Naked in a pile of Littles and Pets. Naked cuddled with my friends. Naked standing in the kitchen fixing coffee, looking down at my scar, with my belly resting against the counter and my feet feeling the cold tile.
I want to be naked with him. I want to be pickle jar naked with him. In the shower, in the bed, especially in the bed. In the kitchen. I want him to look at the dimples scattered across my ass and itch to touch me standing in the kitchen, fixing coffee.
I want to be naked. Pickle jar naked. With him.