The other morning lying in bed with The Boyfriend, I was telling the story of the scars I have, mainly physical (but we all know they're psychological as well), as he listened. He likes my body. I've heard it before, but there's so much wrong with it. Here's a list for all to read:
- I have stretch marks on my upper inner thighs, ass, hips, breasts and upper arms.
- I have cellulite on my legs and ass. Total cottage cheese.
- I have scars around my belly button from allergic reactions to nickle in belt buckles that I wear. (My skin is EXTREMELY sensitive.)
- I have many acne scars on my face.
- I have bike accident scars on the right side of my face.
- I have a scar from stitches on my left eyebrow.
- I have calluses on my toes and the insides of my hands. (Strange, I know. The Boyfriend affectionately referred to them as "Workers Hands" and it made me really self-conscious.)
- I have fat legs.
- I have dry skin.
I could go on and on. I need to love my body thoroughly before I can accept the love of it by another. It's something I've been working on for so long and I think I'm there and then . . .
this. It's stupid I know. As wonderful the compliments I've received about my body are, I still can't help but be reminded of all the mean things that people have said to me, including and perhaps especially ex-lovers. Sometimes I wish I could just escape it somehow.
The vulnerability I suffer from my body is nothing compared to the other vulnerabilities I have made myself vulnerable to with this new other human being I'm becoming vulnerable to and it's scary as hell.
Sometimes I feel so damaged and raw that I wonder if I'm just setting myself up for disappointment and a new scar . . .just as the other ones have began to heal.