Tag: bodies

“We hate ourselves for hating ourselves. Confused? Well so are we.”

As I write this I am sheepishly munching on chocolates, not even an Eastenders-episode after polishing off a steak. It is now, with my belly full, that I finally feel guilty enough to write this (uncomfortably) personal entry on body-image.

I am currently on a diet – one that allows steak. It is a no-carbs diet (apart from the more-than-occasional bowl of porridge and drunken McDonalds). This makes declining offerings of carb-loaded food slightly awkward. ‘You mean you don’t want crisps?’ my friends will say. I should stress the confused faces of those closest to me when I decline their offers. I am an open lover of food (proudly boasting a record of 7 plates of food at an all-you-can-eat buffet). So it is understandable that they cannot fathom how I, of all people, can be in the midst of a surprisingly successful (by my standards) diet plan. They ask for an explanation. So I lie – or tell the truth. It’s a gamble as to what answer you’ll get. Consistently though, people are shocked to discover that I am unhappy with the way I look.

But to me it is obvious: I mean, take one look at my moon-sized derriere, mammoth thighs and 3-month pregnancy shaped belly and the answer it literally staring you in the face; taking up the entire of your peripheral vision.

The average dress size of women in the UK is 14. I am a size 10 – but this is still a size too big. I find myself non-erotically staring at women’s bums, either in complete worship or disgust. “How is hers so small?” I think to myself. Lucky bitch. If I’m being Jeremy-Kyle-honest, the sight of a woman with a ‘perfect’ figure sends pangs of resentment and mild hatred pulsing through my body, all the way to my eclipse-sized bum.

The sisterhood, then, is largely a myth. As women we do not stand tall by one another, burning our bras – united through retaliation, strength through struggle. We are, sadly, in competition with one another – survival of The Flattest Stomach.

I don’t like to think of how unhappy I am with my appearance, when I do I seem to inflict some Orwellian-style think-torture on myself. I sit in my room for hours at a time, stirring thoughts of self-loathing around my mind whilst my friends get drunk downstairs.

So that’s me. A case for the shrink? Maybe. A unique case for the shrink? Of course not, I bet my entire student loan on that. The poor shrink could recite a diagnosis. Especially when you get your head around the fact that 97% of British women are unhappy with their bodies. That’s pretty high, eh? Shocked? You shouldn’t be. Body-hatred has become a right-of-passage for the majority of Western females. We are a generation of self-haters. Hating ourselves for that slice of cheesecake, for not going to the gym, for not looking like a Victoria’s Secret model…

But here is the irony – we hate ourselves for hating ourselves. Confused? Well so are we.

Thanks to forfreddie.blog.com for this piece. The original post can be found here.

Posted on by pinkapplejuice 1

“I suffer from high self-esteem.”

Hi, I’m 23, female and I suffer from high self-esteem. I love my body, I just cant help it.

I’m really very lucky – I have 20/20 vision, all my natural teeth, a fairly strong constitution, ten fingers and ten toes.

When women ask me, What do you hate most about your body? or If you could change anything, what would it be? I really have to think about it. After a lengthy pause I usually shrug and say, My feet are pretty big? Truth be told, if I could change anything it would probably be my body clock, so I could survive on 6 hours sleep and not be a moody bitch. Either that or change my digestion so I would take a dump at 7 every morning and not have to go when I’m on a bus or at a party.

But back to the body stuff: There are several things wrong with these kinds of situations. For starters, they happen waaaay too frequently for my liking (that they happen at all is truly horrifying). Secondly, that most women I know are locked and loaded with their answer. As soon as the question is asked its like a bomb goes off and body parts are suddenly flying across the room. I hate my thighs. My boobs are too small. My arse is so flat. When did hating your body become a hobby? And third, why does loving your body now equate to narcissism? This may be a cultural thing, I’m not sure – in Australia we have a national case of Tall Poppy Syndrome and if you value any of your natural assets, you are swiftly deemed “up yourself”.

In any case, when will women start giving themselves and each other a break? The girl who loves how she looks is not an egocentric maniac and the girl who hates how she looks is not digging for compliments. We are not a threat to each other! We live in a hostile, media-saturated environment and are constantly told we’re not good enough. We are so good at being down on ourselves and consuming (make up, clothes, anything to attain an unrealistic ideal) that we perpetuate the cycle and convince others to do the same. The system is rigged. We’re actually doing advertisers’ jobs for them!
Let’s not make it so easy for them. Let’s reframe the question… What do you love most about your body?

Posted on by taithannah 4

“The most important thing that came from recovery was a newfound, unshakable, almost instinctive respect for my body. It never fails to amaze me just how strong my body can be, and how fine-tuned it is to my needs.”

*Trigger warning for self-harm/anorexia/bulimia*

This is a cliché, but it is difficult to know where to start when writing about my body. From existence? We talk about ‘bodies’ as if they are somehow separate others, yet what am I if not purely my body? Perhaps that scares me more than if my body and mind were separable. Growing up my body was me, always – I ran, or grew, or was damaged in a playground fall – yet at the beginning of the inevitable slide into puberty bodies become something else; untrustworthy objects that swell and act defiantly out of our control, things to be scrutinised and unwillingly accepted with time.

Since around about 2nd year, I increasingly saw my body as something I should use in some way to express myself – whether by trying to distort it to somehow show the ‘real me’ or (this came first) by using it as something which I could use for emotional release. I got into the habit on binge-eating after school to deal with stress and general teenage angst (and then grew increasingly horrified at the weight gain, which felt completely unconnected to my actions); later, when that didn’t help, I got a release from pocket scissors in the webbing of skin between my middle and ring fingers. I wore gloves to hide any marks, but eventually stopped after a mortifying moment when holding hands with a friend.
Every year, I made a secret New Year’s resolution to lose weight, and gain control over my body, and eventually, in 2009 I gained ‘control’ in the form of an eating disorder that effectively lasted for two years, and which still lingers in some ways. The mind-set of these things is incredible – the only way I can describe it is to compare it to an addiction where control, starvation and listening to the commands that eventually occur unprompted in your head are the drugs. The first six months are now a sort of blur of rules and numbers, and a thrill in feeling my body shrink that increasingly gave way to exhaustion, and the unwilling realisation that I, in fact, was no longer the one who had any control at all. Recovery was longer and slower than I ever expected it to be, and in many ways lasted longer than the disorder itself. But the process taught me so much. Calorie-counting is insane! A calorie is the measure of the energy required to heat 1 litre of water by 1 degree C. Thin doesn’t mean healthy, fat doesn’t mean unhealthy. If you listen, physically, bodies tell you what they (you) need. Scales are inaccurate and weight fluctuates by kilos. Most importantly, advertising is mad: for years I failed to see that women are beautiful when they are healthy and confident, not when they starve and pout. I still have difficulty doing this sometimes, but at least I can now see it’s a lie.

The most important thing that came from recovery was a newfound, unshakable, almost instinctive respect for my body. It never fails to amaze me just how strong my body can be, and how fine-tuned it is to my needs. When I starved, my metabolism slowed right down; my periods stopped to save energy; the hair or my arms and face grew longer and faster to keep me warmer; I craved food until I binged. Despite my best efforts it held on to every ounce it could, and kept going. That alone, and the disparity between how I felt and how I feel, have made me eternally grateful for my body – regardless of the occasional hatred of my body’s appearance or new weight – new hips, new boobs, the sour disappointment of ill-fitting clothes – I can’t help but love some small, deeper part of it simply for being alive and strong.

Posted on by taithannah 0

“I have faith in my naked body for all it can do, and I look forward to what I’ll go through with it – as scary as it all does seem.”

I think what I’m struggling with is the fact I am a lot slimmer now than a few years back and I’m not used to it. I still feel chubby and squished. People often tell me how slim I’m looking and I don’t really get it. I don’t feel any slimmer, and I sure as hell don’t eat like I’m slim – I enjoy cake and pizza on a regular basis. So although I am slimmer, I still wobble and have podge because I don’t really exercise (because I don’t want to, I’m a waitress so am on my feet all day and I tend to walk everywhere). Sometimes I wonder if I should exercise, my body would be healthier, I could be toned or at least shape up, but I don’t want to lose weight, I often feel embarrassed when people comment on my weight as I don’t fully understand why I am this size.

I used to be pretty curvy, although I had a small waist. My boobs were massive, as were my hips. I don’t really remember it bothering me to the point where I did much about it, although I recently found a diary entry where I’d written tips from a ProAna site, and that sort of bothered me. It was like I wanted a quick way to get slim, but I was too lazy to even do it properly. The weight did start falling off me when I was about 18 though, I was dancing a lot more and changed my eating habits unintentionally – I stopped snacking, which was a big problem for me when I was 14-17 (echo bars and a lot of cheese especially). Then I think I had another unintentional weight loss after the break up from my last boyfriend. I just sort of lost my appetite, and it’s not really returned. I basically eat what I want when I want, which is usually little and often, and I think my body reflects this. Thing is, I talk here about losing weight, and my weight is often on my mind but, I really don’t care. I find that I am happier when I eat and do what I want (or not do if it involves exercise), my body constantly changes and I try not to keep up with it and be too involved but I think that is where I need to change. I don’t see myself as slim because I don’t know my body, I don’t even feel like I have much control over it. But yet, sometimes I worry I may be too controlling. I would never not eat another biscuit or cake because I was worried of the fat content, but sometimes I just forget to eat and a small voice inside says “that’s probably a good thing considering all the crap you ate last night”. It’s like the chubbier girl I once was is wanting me to be slim and the person I am now doesn’t care but is still listening to that part of me. I went from no hips or boobs when I was 13 (I vividly remember being laughed at for not having to wear a bra due to them being so small) to having these massive boobs and curvaceous hips, and then to lose them (sort of) – part of me is like ‘yes!’ and part of me is like ‘no!’. I’m still as self conscious of my body, which makes me fully aware of the fact that being slimmer does not equal happiness. I think being healthy does though. I don’t want to look like models or actresses or whatever, but it doesn’t stop me from gazing at their smooth blotch-free legs and wishing mine were a bit more like that. But it’s fucking unrealistic and what I’ve recently come to believe is that flaws are what make woman beautiful. Real women can never look flawless and that is a good thing! That’s what makes us beautiful.

I guess what I’m trying to say is my feelings towards my body have been quite confused, are quite confused, but I’m hoping to sort that. With time, I know these things don’t happen over night, nor do they stay consistent, but I have faith in my naked body for all it can do, and I look forward to what I’ll go through with it – as scary as it all does seem.

Posted on by pinkapplejuice 0

“Being naked, I feel like I have nothing to hide behind, literally and metaphorically.”

It took me a long time to write this. This was partly because I wasn’t sure if my feelings about being naked made sense in the context of this project. I have never really liked how I look, but it isn’t really to do with my body from the neck down, but (to put it bluntly) my face. So what could I say about being naked? But I know I often feel uncomfortable being naked, even on my own, and I couldn’t put my finger on why. I read the wonderful and brave posts here and tried really hard to think about how I feel about my body. It was difficult. Writing this down is an attempt to clarify my incoherent thoughts.

I have an OK body. I have always been quite skinny, thought that brought with it its own dissatisfactions, especially when I was younger (namely, I wanted bigger boobs!). I do worry about putting on weight, though it’s mainly because I feel it goes straight to my face, which I know is irrational. But I wouldn’t ever say I “love” it, perhaps because on bad days I feel disconnected from everything, including my own body. I am trying really hard to love it – to be happy with the way I look in general – and sometimes, when it helps me dance all night, or carry heavy bags of shopping all by myself, I do, just because I realise how lucky I am to be young and healthy and to be able to do everything I want to.

But to my feelings on nudity. This is the conclusion I reached: I hate being vulnerable, whether it is exposed flesh or exposed feelings. And somehow over the years, nudity for me has become intertwined with emotional vulnerability. Being naked, I feel like I have nothing to hide behind, literally and metaphorically. I am protective of my body, scared of letting anyone – friends, men, the mirror – that close. I can never be proudly naked, never embrace it completely. There’s always a part of me casting about for something to cover myself with. I don’t stand up straight. I find that the more protective I become of my feelings, the more shut away my body feels.

Maybe this is a ridiculous, clichéd parallel to draw. I’m not sure. I definitely don’t think I’m explaining myself that well. I also worry that I am coming across as a repressed prude, which I’m not. I love sex and have had wonderful naked experiences with people who made me feel comfortable and safe and right in my own body, with my own nudity. And not just because they liked the way I looked naked, but because I could trust them with all parts of me. In one case, this trust turned out to be misplaced, which I suppose could have something to do with my protectiveness now.

I don’t want to be like this – I want to love the way I look and the way I am – and I am trying really hard. Because nudity is beautiful, in all its forms, and our bodies are amazing – for what they can do and how they look – as this blog has reminded me. And vulnerability can mean incredible freedom.

Posted on by pinkapplejuice 2

“I think we need to let go of this control.”

I think for a lot of woman we feel we need to take control of our bodies, that in order to be happy with how we look and feel we need to reign in each part of it and mould it into something we feel comfortable with. This is just insane because we are trying to mould ourselves into the same woman, the same figment of the media’s imagination and obviously it’s an impossible task. This attempt to control our bodies is destroying us, I don’t know one woman who honestly doesn’t wish in her heart of hearts she could just be thinner, or taller, or have that perfect hair. I think we need to let go of this control, just let go in general, but it’s so difficult when we have been coerced into feeling this way all our lives. I can’t see anything changing in the media, or in the population at large; let’s be honest, someone is making a lot of money out of our self-loathing. But, if just some women can change how they feel about their bodies then they can pass it down to their daughters and there will be some girls saved from this quagmire.

I can say that right now I am almost happy with my body, most of the time, well, some of the time. I have scars and hairs, all the things that make women hate themselves (and men feel proud). But I feel happy being naked, I’m comfortable changing in front of my friends – although sometimes their horror at glimpsing my naked body makes me wonder. I will sunbathe topless if I can when abroad, though sometimes I am a little uncomfortable around other naked people. I haven’t always been happy with myself, I remember lying in bed horrified by the realisation that I would probably have to diet for the rest of my life to be a normal size. I was completely wrong, and I learned that dieting didn’t make me thinner, just more miserable and inevitably led to comfort eating and yo-yoing weight. I don’t diet at all anymore, but I know so so many women whose lives revolve around it. I still look at pictures of gorgeous women and feel a twang of regret, why wasn’t I born looking like that? I still walk behind tall, statuesque women and hate them a little, and hate myself for feeling that way. But, I have come such a long way from looking in the mirror and hating what I saw, willing myself to be different, from clutching at towels to cover every inch of my naked body so no one would see even a bit of me. I feel freed from it, it is an amazing feeling to just let go of all that bitter pain and just be exactly who and what I am. I would love for the women around me to let go of it too, because they are beautiful and healthy and perfect.

Posted on by pinkapplejuice 0

“…I fucking love the human body and I guess that includes mine.”

*Trigger warning for mention of sexual abuse and discussion of abortion*

When I was 11, other girls liked my body because I was thin and I had started growing breasts.

Someone else liked my body and coerced me into sharing it with them when I didn’t want to.

All I wanted was to get my period and be a real woman.

When I was 12, I bled for the first time and every month from then on, I hated my body because it caused me pain. Once I started menstruating, I wasn’t thin anymore, either.

When I was 23, I had the worst period I had ever had. It was summer and it was hot. I was pacing and crying and moaning in agony.

That was the last period I had for a while.

When I took the pregnancy test and it was positive, I just laughed. I had taken the morning after pill. It had made my breasts hurt. I knew then that it wasn’t working and that I was pregnant, but I ignored it. Finally a friend forced me to take a test.

There was never any question of continuing the pregnancy. I was single, homeless, on the dole and mentally ill. It was the first and only time I had ever had unprotected sex. It had happened on the most fertile day of my cycle. And my body did something amazing and started to grow a baby.

I started the process of being referred for an abortion the day I found out. I secretly delighted in the life inside me. I relished in every symptom of pregnancy that I had. I worked out my due date. I followed the progress of the embryo.

I was pregnant and single, and maybe it was hormones, but as I waited the ridiculous delays and jumped through the ridiculous hoops that would allow me to terminate an unwanted pregnancy, I had the most and the best sex of my life. I had a lot of orgasms of my own, and I gave a lot to other people.

I’m not pregnant anymore.

Sometimes I’m sad about that. But it taught me a lot about my body.  I learned that my body was capable of miracles.

I know I can create and carry life. I intend to again one day.

I know I can endure incredible pain. Never let an anti-abortionist tell you lies about women getting abortions on a whim, for a laugh, and using it as contraception. I have never experienced such pain and physical trauma. Pacing and crying and moaning in agony a thousandfold.

I know I am capable of experiencing and giving incredible pleasure.

I didn’t know these things before.

My body is hairy and wobbly and a lot of the time I feel ashamed of those things. But my body is warm and strong and life-giving and pleasure-giving and when I’m naked with a lover, all I do is laugh because I fucking love the human body and I guess that includes mine.

Posted on by taithannah 0

“When you’re a girl, every body is similar. When you’re a woman, every body is completely unique.”

Quite recently, I realised something very important. This realisation changed not only how I felt about my body, but also how I thought about my personality and my future. It gave me both contentment and drive, and has made for an altogether happier me. That realisation is this: at the age of twenty four, I am a woman and not a girl. Yeah, so maybe that does sound a bit daft, but let me explain.

When I was a girl, I was an acrobat and a diver. I was required to train daily at home, and every day at either the pool or in the gym, or both. I was very flexible and strong, and thin too. But even then I would pull out bits of skin on my stomach thinking it was fat. I would cover my thighs in shorts when the others would be comfortable in leotards, and I would wrap a towel around myself the moment I got out of the pool.

Because of all the training, I saw the girls at school begin to change shape long before I did. Where they had breasts and hips, I had the straight-up-and-down body I had always had, and I was fine with that. When my breasts eventually did develop, I was embarrassed by them and was glad that they were small. The body that I wore until I was around eighteen was slim, almost entirely curveless, and small-chested – a girl’s body.

Of course, once all the training stopped, that quickly changed. It was like my body breathed a great big sigh of relief and just got comfy. My weight began to fluctuate, my boobs grew, I began to develop a more feminine figure, and I lost muscle tone. I wasn’t happy and I damn sure wasn’t going to accept it, so I locked the fact of the matter away into a box and set myself into a weird form of denial. Somewhere in my subconscious I decided my body was just bizarre and nothing would look good on it anyway. I dressed masculine and had a masculine haircut, unwilling to match my outward appearance to this body I had been lumped with.

My first big wake-up call came when being measured for a bra when I was twenty two. My B-cups, it turned out, were actually a very squashed pair of Ds. It felt like the end of the world! No more hiding these bloody things, I thought. But that day of shopping with my mum really opened my eyes to the nonsense in my head; all that had changed was my perceived bra size, and only in my mind. The bra lady had hit me with what I was shutting my eyes to. My boobs were not going to change, I realised, but my mindset sure could.

The first time someone calls you a ‘lady’, as in “Mind you don’t bump into that lady”, is pretty weird. And for me the first time I called myself a woman was pretty weird too. But the word fits me now. I am an adult woman, and it’s high time I got used to it.

I like my body. It works the way I want it to. There are some achy bits and little nicks and scars, and always a bruise or five, but they are all there because of something that I did with it. I can do some cool little party tricks with it, and I absolutely adore its tastebuds. I could live without the spots, but I can also live with them, and I’d hate it if I didn’t have cracky knuckles and toes. I would like to lose a little weight and tone up, but I won’t suffer for it – I’m working on it in a way that I really enjoy. There’s nothing better than drying off naturally and nakedly in bed when you get out of the shower, and when I look in the mirror, I’m happy with what I see.

As for comparing myself to others, we all do it, and again it is something I’ve come to accept as fact. In a way, it is comforting to know that while I might wish I had her long legs, she might wish she had my eyes. We’ve all got best bits, and we’re all our own worst critics.
I love to be naked with my boyfriend. I enjoy the closeness and intimacy of it, it makes me feel sexy and free. But I have no desire to spend any length of time naked in a group. I admit I would probably feel quite uncomfortable in such a situation, but I don’t foresee group nudity in my future, so that discomfort is unlikely to hold me back. As yet, none of my platonic relationships have been sullied by a lack of nudity, and though I bet it is an amazing feeling to overcome that fear, it simply isn’t something I’ve ever really felt an urge to do. Maybe one day I will, or maybe it takes guts that I just haven’t got. Either way, I’m cool with it.

When you’re a girl, every body is similar. When you’re a woman, every body is completely unique. Embracing that has made the world of difference to me. I will never be so confident with what I’m rocking that I go shouting it from the rooftops, but that isn’t what I need. All I need is to feel good in myself, and I do.

by an anonymous woman, aged 24

Posted on by taithannah 0

“This is the story of how I came to love being naked, and how I came to love my body.”

This is the story of how I came to love being naked, and how I came to love my body.

I didn’t always love my body, and there have been plenty of times when I’ve hated it. When I was a teenager I would see all the things I hated about it when I looked in the mirror. I compared myself to the lithe girls in my ballet class whose stomachs were flatter and whose thighs were more slender than mine. I compared myself to the girls at school who were more popular than me. But these were the bodies I saw clothed – and naked I could only compare myself to the toned, polished, photoshopped bodies of the media. And that body – for really, it is only one body that we see in the media – didn’t look anything like mine.

I am a woman of average healthy weight, neither thin nor very voluptuous, and average height, but my body was nowhere to be seen. My breasts, like many women’s, are neither perfectly round nor exactly the same size. My tummy isn’t flat, and it pudges out when I sit down. My bum is big and it isn’t firm like the bums in underwear adverts; it wobbles when I bounce up and down, or run, or dance, or fuck. My thighs are squishy and I have a touch of cellulite. I don’t go to the gym and I love to eat cake, but I try to eat a decent meal or two and I use walking as my main means of transport. My body is normal, but I didn’t know that and so I hated it.

Sometimes I hated it enough to cut its skin in anger at its imperfection. In time, watching scars heal would come to be the first small step towards realising my body’s strength and function. It could make itself new; it could grow new flesh to fill the gaps that I had made. My body wasn’t the perfect body I thought it should be, but it worked.

A little older, a little wiser, and perhaps as a result a lot happier, I left home to go to university in Glasgow when I was eighteen. In the five years that followed, I had myriad wonderful experiences that brought me to loving my body. My degree was in theatre studies, and I became very involved with the theatre society. I hung out with people who were comfortable with their bodies and found myself at parties where people would end up naked in a totally non-sexual way, just hanging out and chatting, drinking and smoking (carefully!). I saw other women’s normal breasts. I saw naked bodies that hadn’t been photoshopped. They were all different and they were all lovely. I could look at another woman’s body and just see everything that was beautiful about it, not pick out the flaws I saw in my own mirror. It made me start to realise that if all of these varied bodies were beautiful, then maybe mine was too.

When I was in my third year, I was cast in a production of Cleansed by Sarah Kane, a role which would require me to be naked on stage. I was honestly quite excited. We all had naked rehearsals together, since everyone had to be naked at some point in the play, and it quickly felt normal to be naked. We were just people not wearing clothes, rehearsing and chatting and laughing as usual. It wasn’t possible to feel shame in this situation; when you’re all naked together it becomes natural. It begins to seem almost strange to get dressed. Once you’re all naked, you wonder what you were worried about. On stage, when I took off my dress, it didn’t cross my mind for a second to wonder if people thought my body was weird or ugly. I was proud that this was my body.

In my final year, I took part in an incredible project called Trilogy. Despite how comfortable I had already begun to feel in my own skin, it still proved to be a transformative experience – in many ways, but especially regarding my relationship to my body. A performance art triptych, the first part of Trilogy culminates in an exuberant naked dance performed by volunteer women of all ages and shapes. Leading up to the performances, we participated in a week of workshops where we eased in to being naked in a completely emotionally supportive atmosphere. I can say without reservation that it was one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life. To look around a circle of dozens of women and see slim women and big women and women who’ve had children and women who have scars, and to see the beauty in every single one of those bodies, rid me of any last vestiges of hatred for my own. This dancing wasn’t about looking sexy, it was about loving how your body feels when it dances. It was feeling your body wobble and loving it. Absolutely, purely rejoicing in the way your body moves and in its strength and power. I loved every moment.

Since Trilogy, on a couple of occasions I’ve gone with some other women to climb a hill and be naked at its summit. I have found such freedom in moments like that. In being naked I become aware of all the other things about my body apart from how it looks. I can feel the warmth of sunshine on its skin, and the breeze, and the grass. I can make it spin and run and dance and love the way it feels. I can just enjoy being in my body.

I still sometimes catch myself looking in the mirror and comparing my body to perfection. But I push the thoughts away. My body is not a photoshopped image – it’s a million times better. It’s soft and warm, and it can breathe and bleed and run and sweat and fuck and cry and laugh and think and dance.

My body is real.

by Hannah, age 23

Posted on by taithannah 0

“Although I don’t particularly dislike my body, I much prefer it covered.”

Although I don’t particularly dislike my body, I much prefer it covered. I don’t feel particularly comfortable naked but I do want to be. I am not ashamed of it, but I wish parts didn’t wobble so much, or that there wasn’t stretch marks or cellulite. But fact of the matter is, it’s perfectly natural for my body to not be completely smooth and toned, but the only images I see of women’s bodies are (usually) perfectly smooth, and almost seem sculpted; not a lump or a bump, a mark or a scratch. And that is what is not natural! I should not be embarrassed, or uncomfortable with myself naked, even when I’m on my own. But I am, and I don’t even really like seeing myself in the shower. I am trying though. For the past year or so, when I feel OK with myself I’ll maybe not get dressed straight away after a shower, or I’ll take my time getting dressed and try to ‘hang out’ with myself naked. Something I have never done before. I don’t know what was a turning point for me to realise that I wanted to get over my naked fear, I just started to want to be happy with being naked.

I don’t really know why I feel so uncomfortable being naked, I don’t really feel uncomfortable being around people who are naked, not that i have much experience with being around naked people (and maybe that’s what I’ve been missing!) but I would struggle to be naked myself, I would sit in a certain position so that I’m mostly covered and I’m not sure why. Maybe I feel indecent, but it would only be indecent if I was being naked in a situation where it would be inappropriate to be naked! I think I’ve only been naked in ‘public’ (and that was at a party with a mix of people I did and didn’t know – not just out in the open!) once or twice, I was probably drunk and I think I only got my boobs out, I did feel a sense of freedom but also fear. I don’t want to feel that fear.

I’ve also recently started taking baths with a close girl friend and I think this will be something that will also help me become more comfortable. Hanging out naked is something that I haven’t done often, and maybe not something I want to do on a regular basis with just any old soul, but with the right friends/woman it’s something that I could really benefit from and see being an enjoyable experience. But it’s all about baby steps I think, or at least this is what works for me. And I’m not doing this so I can just strip off in a big room full of people and be completely ok with it, but I want to be able to be myself in my own skin and not feel like there is something wrong with me, which deep down I know there isn’t, but it’s breaking down to that point where my conscious thoughts feel and think that way. I know I’m not fat, I’m not skinny, I’m not muscular or toned, I’d say I have a healthy body so why am I not happy with it? What is it I want it to be like? I don’t know the answer to that question, I couldn’t say what I wish my body was like as I don’t want another body… I just want to like/enjoy being naked with the one I have!

When I’m naked I feel a bit cheeky and silly, there is a certain thrill that comes with being naked, even when I’m just on my own. This sort of changes when I see my naked body in a mirror though, because I then just analyse every bit of it, whether good or bad. And actually, I can’t remember the last time I looked at myself properly in the mirror whilst fully naked (I’ll be in my underwear at least as I don’t have a proper mirror in my room and am definitely not ready for hallway nakedness). I don’t seem to analyse my body when there isn’t a mirror though. I don’t really look at it, but I am very aware of being naked. I’d like to enjoy naked time, and I believe with time this will come.

I hope this blog can be the start of a great journey for me, and for many woman, who want to be more comfortable with the body they are in, or want to celebrate the body they’ve got so we can all love and glorify all that is natural and beautiful with the female form!


Posted on by taithannah 0