forty-eight: curved

i don’t know why, but all day, i thought of this word in relation to the beauty of the human body.

…the curved line of her jaw when i look at her in profile

…the curve of his arms, hidden partially in shadow

…the curve of her cheek, as i pull her closer to me

for whatever reason, it feels like a sensual word, and not in a way that feels awful and bad, for once. it happens so rarely that i’ll just take it, tonight, no questions asked.

Curved

This makes me think of women’s bodies. Curvy. Not necessarily always, but typically, we are curvy. Wide child bearing hips, breasts. The differences that come with growing up. No longer flat chested, no longer straight up and down.

I have no problem with other women’s bodies being curvy, I can find it beautiful, certainly. And yet I have always despised my curves. I hate my hips, my thighs, my curves and my softness and my squishy parts. I hate my breasts. I never wear proper bras, only sports ones, because the very last thing I want to do is wear something that I feel like accentuates them. I want them to be small, unnoticeable, not something I have to deal with. I wear men’s clothes more days of the week than not. Large t-shirts, and so much of the time, big jumpers. If they are longer, go over my hips, even better. Hiding all of my sins…my boobs, my waist, my hips.

And I don’t understand this about me. Why would I want to look child-like? When that’s when I was hurt? And it’s not that I feel like I’m in the wrong body, I’ve always been a bit of a tomboy, but have always felt comfortable as a female, it’s certainly how I identify.

I don’t know, makes no sense. But I like curves on others, but on myself… I feel like taking a knife and cutting them away.

Pain #2

Reading pc’s post again tonight brings tears to my eyes. She writes beautifully about the ugliest of things and she’s put words to things that I had zero desire to try to write about yesterday.

I want to add some more. And I suppose there are two types to this. The physical pain, and far worse, the emotional. I’ll start with the former.

  • The bruises on a body from ‘kids being kids’.
  • The feeling of suffocating when your head is held underwater and however much you flail and try to get out of their grip, you can’t.
  • Or when their hand is over your mouth and nose, or around your neck and you can’t escape.
  • When their body is on top of yours, pinning you down.
  • When your arm or leg is held so hard you end up bruised.
  • When you are hit or pushed down or threatened without the requirement of words even leaving their mouth.
  • When their penis is down your throat and you cannot escape. When you gag and can’t breathe, and the only air you can get into your lungs is when they release the pressure of their hand on the back of your head and you can pull back just long enough that you can breathe through your nose again before they thrust your head back forward and you’re suffocating. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat x 100.
  • When you disappear to wherever you can, because the things they are doing to your body are more than you can cope with.
  • When doors are slammed on hands. Objects thrown at faces. Plates and glasses smashed on the wall behind you.
  • The sweet sharp pain that is self inflicted in order to try to bring yourself back to the present, or punish yourself, or just feel *something*. Or rather, actually, to so often feel nothing, to numb everything happening in your brain and body, to remove yourself from it all.

And yet, the actual physical pain and fear is short lived right? Ha. No, not really. Because the emotional pain brings them back all the fucking time. Periods become triggers where your body feels like it’s still happening, over and over, where your memories torment you. And all of these things come back, out of nowhere, when you least expect it, when you might be having a good day, and then SLAM. Hit in the face with this shit, out of nowhere, for no reason that you can pinpoint.

And as pc has said, all of the other shattering things.

  • The fact that they chose him, yet again. The fact that you’re not chosen. The knowledge that you won’t ever be.
  • The fear that has your knees curled up to your chest whilst you sit on the floor of the shower for half an hour hoping that the water will wash it all off of you.
  • The birthdays, the christmases, the fathers days, the mothers days, the lunches, the dinners, the family gatherings, the celebrations.
  • The never ending silencing.
  • The earth shattering loss of parents that can make you feel orphaned, and alone and like you won’t survive it.
  • The shame. The white hot, flushed cheeks, sweaty bodied shame.
  • The fucking ocean of grief. And the ocean of grief that you haven’t been able to cry for in years.
  • The years spent taking care of yourself because nobody else will. The putting yourself to bed and the crying yourself to sleep at night.
  • The feeling unseen, unheard, unappreciated, unloved. Unloveable.
  • The taking all of it on so that you can retain some semblance of control.

There are so many more. This list isn’t even close to exhaustive, but I have another post I need to write.