I went to my post about my history of sexual assault just now and noticed at the bottom three “Related” links.
One was clearly related (I may give mixed signals, but No still means No) and two were completely unrelated (Noodle and I are gonna give The Neighbor a double blowjob and I get fucked for days). I get fucked for days is what made me cry. Thank God I live in a city that’s too cool for itself and a crying woman at a table isn’t worth looking up for.
I cried at the reminders of my desirability. I cried at the memories of the dinner party, Downstairs Neighbor who’s long since disappeared from my life. I cried at the connection, the real mother fucking connection, that I shared with The Neighbor. I cried because it was so so sad to see how contorted I had become to make it work with him. And I cried because I have absolutely none of that beauty in my life anymore. Not like that, I don’t; I live on scraps and stolen moments.
I feel hideous and undesirable. That pic I posted the other day is one of the most awful things I’ve ever shared about myself and has given that wicked inner voice of mine a platform from which to scream at me about my ugliness, my oldness, my fatness. My zero-ness.
I don’t use PhotoShop on my images, but I clearly put my best foot forward with a good pose and some filters. Baring what I fear to be the ugly truth about myself has peeled back my skin. It’s fucking horrible.
I have avoided all the dizzingly beautiful responses because it’s too painful to address; I know that what everyone has said is true, but it feels so impossibly fantastical that my runaway brain has shut it all down.
I know I am more than my looks.
I know that I am more than my body.
I know that I am worthy, wonderful, capable and lovable.
I know that if this were someone else I would find it a breathtaking image of beauty and reality.
I know all of this, but tell that to the sad, lonely, rejected little Hy inside of me that tries to make sense of her solitude, loneliness, and abject rejection. She wants to point at that flabby body and ridicule it, slash at it with razors, dehumanize it.
If it’s because of my body then it makes me feel a little more in control. I can “fix” that, you see?? It’s separate, solvable.
I know the logic is faulty and ridiculous and reaching: juvenile, but it’s my go-to line of thinking when I am strung out and spinning emotionally. Reading that old post sucker punched me on so many levels I can barely breathe. I’m still gasping for air.
I put on a good show for you all. I share my body online in order to see myself through others’ eyes, to see my own beauty – it’s what Boobday is all about – but here I am admitting that I have yet to master my own cruel inner voice when the stars align just so. I feel fragile. Please forgive me for that; I wish I were stronger.
I am admired by so many from afar, lusted after, admired, loved. I don’t know what my life would be like with the absence of so much beauty and acceptance – it’s a priceless gift which makes me weep with happiness. I just wish I could make it manifest in real life, here on the ground in the city that’s too cool for itself. Next to me and for real. For always.