Sometimes I love my body. Sometimes I feel like the sexiest freaking person in the universe. My husband thinks I’m sexy and we have awesome sexy times together. He’s the only one I’ve ever been with that has made me feel that way about my body. He appreciates me and my body…. not me despite my body. He is my best friend and he has helped me in my journey towards self-acceptance. My husband is my hero.
It hasn’t always been this way. I’ve been in a few relationships where my body was not sought after. Times when my body was used against me. When I was told it was ugly and not worth the passion I was willing to give. I believed that I was not worthy of love and that I should be grateful for any kind of affection that I received. As my high school crush so “eloquently” announced to the entire class, “No one wants a big fat cow.”
I guess that’s why, the night a man, my date, decided to rape me, that I translated it as love. He must love me if he was willing to have sex with me. Who would want to sleep with me unless they loved me. Who cares if he pinned me down and took off my clothes with tears in my eyes and a no on my lips. Who cares if he was so rough with me that he made me bleed and then yelled at me for doing so. He must love me, right? That’s why I stayed and endured his abuse for some time. He never cared that I cut myself because my heart ached so bad and I just wanted something to dull the pain in my soul.
I look back on that girl I used to be and she seems like a stranger. I don’t understand how I could have valued myself so little that I thought that I deserved to be treated with such hostility. I wish I could go to that young woman that I was back then and tell her that she was beautiful. To tell her that the size of her body didn’t define the worth of her life. I wish I could have told her that she didn’t have to hate herself. That it was okay for her to have sexual desires (because she felt ashamed and unworthy of those desires). Though I cannot, I cradle her in my memories.