On my way home from Soul Full I came to a realization. This isn't the first time. In fact it's a fairly common occurrence to have some sort of revelation after a good night with my crew. Same thing happens every time. We go out, we chat, we laugh, we part. I drive home on my dark and winding country road, my thoughts bending and curving like the asphalt, only partially illuminated by the glow of headlights, glimpses of objects seen, assessed, then forgotten. I climb my gravelly driveway with this new-found thought in the forefront. Drop my bags, strip off my jacket, and sit down here to write.
Our conversation scattered and jumped as it always does. At one point we touched on the topic of my newest piercings and my recent desire to simply want to get home and disrobe, rather than dress up. I know that sounds odd, as it's so unlike me for the most part. There's something about this new adornment that makes me feel pretty... er. As expected, JP challenged me on it, mockingly, that I wouldn't dare to go bare at Wickerman again this year. It would, of course, be out of character. But I wish I could...
It's not that I haven't considered it. In fact I've considered it more than ever these last few weeks, now that I feel I have something worth showing off. Something that makes me feel my body is a little... less unsightly? I know. That sounds terrible. But it's true. Booby jewelry takes the focus off the belly. Or so I figure.
This wasn't the realization. That came later on the drive home. I was mulling over this conversation, tumbling it around in the cement mixer upstairs, when I realized...
That makes me feel incredibly sad.
So now I sit here wondering... will I ever be content with myself, if I can't be content now? If I fixed everything that was "wrong," would I not still find things to fix? You see those people addicted to plastic surgery. If I had all the money in the world, would that happen to me?
If I can't be content with myself now, comfortable in THIS IMPERFECT BODY, how can I ever be? Can I possibly resolve to not make fat loss a goal until I am at peace with my fat? Could that mean *gasp* baring it all at Wickerman, showing everyone how unpretty I am under the fabrics? What is it going to take for me to finally get past this?
I wonder if this is how people with terrible, disfiguring scars feel. It must be. At least they have a story, a reason. What's my reason? I'm fat. I used to be fatter. I can't control my appetite, and my body tells my secrets.
To say my appearance doesn't matter is one thing. It's all well and good to say I'm happy no matter what, that I'm content with myself. Strong is the New Skinny, and all that jazz, but unless I can stand there bare, it must not be true. I wish I could stand in front of somebody, be it friend or stranger, and not feel shame for what I've done to my body.
Very few times in my adult life have I ever been exposed and not felt shame. Strangely enough, one of those times was when I was being pierced. I didn't feel shy, or embarrassed. I thank the piercer so much for that! He might never know how grateful I am that it was such a positive experience. It was in it's own away, a ritual. I was incredibly nervous, but I did it, and I feel I've grown.
I feel I need some sort of ritual to mark this much needed change. I need to end an old way of thinking, step through the threshold, and be reborn. A rite of passage, a coming of age... something to say "This is me, and I will not be ashamed!" Will it be at Wickerman? Perhaps. I may need to enlist these friends, these confident, beautiful, courageous people to heal me, and help me become whole.
What, I wonder, does the Goddess say?