So, today's session deals with image (warning...this one may be lengthy).
Last night I posted pictures of myself and all night, I dealt with the regret of doing so. In fact, today, I logged on several times to delete said photos from the post. Why? Because I've got some real issues with my self image. (Blah, blah, blah...it's been said before, I know.)
It's not a new story. Other women have dealt with the same shit I have. It's really all fairly simple. My father was (is) a prick. Nothing was ever good enough for him. Not my mother, not my stepmother and none of the numerous women in his life since. None of his four children could ever be perfect enough for him, but I got special treatment as the "smartest" of his biological spawn. There were great expectations for me and I jumped through flaming hoops to make daddy happy...which never happened.
I married a man just like him. Then married another man just like him, whom I thought was different because he wasn't like the first man I married. The common denominator there was the "selfish asshole" factor, but it would take me a while (and the help of a Saint) to understand. In the meantime, I also dealt with being a victim-of sexual molestation and assault, of adultery, of mental & physical abuse, of severe depression and attempted suicide.
Ain't that a bitch?
Somehow, some fucking way, I'm still here. I'm one of the very (well aware) lucky ones. I'm so thankful for what I have, but I still have some shit to work through.
I don't look in the mirror and see the resemblance to Julia Roberts (???? really???? LOL!) or a pretty person at all. I see every fault imaginable and wonder, when Saint Jason will see it too. And it scares me.
My living room walls are filled with photos of my children; literally dozens of pictures of all four of them throughout the past fourteen years of their lives.
(The Wall of Fame-this is just one wall)
You won't find very many pictures of me, though. I don't like to be in pictures. I hate, literally hate, seeing myself. Except when I'm with my kids.
(These are the first of four snapshots of me with each of my kids. The top is me with my oldest son, Josh. He is almost 14. The next one is me with my Cale, who will be 12 in a few short months.)
(Then we have me with Princess Elena...she will be 7 in nine short days. And then my baby; little man Ian...he's 3.)
What you might notice in all of these, is that none of them, not one, shows my body. This is an issue for me. There was a statement made to me once (that I have forgiven, but never forgotten):
"Maybe if you lost 40 pounds, I wouldn't have to go to a strip club to get excited."
For someone already carrying a lot of scars...this one statement cut deeper than I could possibly explain. Again...FORGIVEN.
It was not the comment that crushed my self esteem into the ground. Not the statement that destroyed me forever. Just another reminder that my 5'2" body isn't model perfect. And not to be graphic or share TMI, but every now and then, when I'm with Jason...I think about these things.
I remembered today about an article I saw last year...it was an article in Glamour magazine that featured plus sized models in a nude photo shoot. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. So today I Googled it and found the image again.
Ok, so maybe not quite so "luxurious long locks of hair" or "smooth skin" and "clean shaven" (because I'm sorry, but that shit takes time and money that this bitch doesn't have. Come on, you didn't really think I'd make it through the entire post without profanity, did you?)
Anyway...see the model on the bottom row-right? See how her boob sort of sags a bit? So do mine. 38-DDD. That's me. Not perky at all anymore. And stretch marks galore. And see the creases and rolls on the one on the bottom left??? Yep, I have those too. Not to mention a hip to hip scar from the 3 c-sections I've had. I will never have a six pack...ever. NEVER.
I have stretch marks so bad that I look like a mountain lion has had his way with me.
But here is what I know for sure (and God help me if my mother picks this post to show my grandfather how great a writer I am, because he's going to drop dead right now)...Jason thinks I'm sexy.
I know this; am positively convinced of it, not by what he says, but by the way he looks at me when I'm with him. (*WARNING--TMI COMING!) I can see it in his eyes when we are in the middle of having sex, because he never takes his eyes off of me. He thinks I am beautiful. He thinks I am hot. He thinks I am amazing and wonderful and perfect.
I don't get it. I don't understand it and I am still trying to see what he sees, but I trust him with everything I am...that means I believe that he is not some certifiable nut job who's lost his fucking mind and eye sight.
So, there you go. How about tomorrow, we stick with something simple...like landscaping?
p.s. If you want to read a simply bitchy rant by me...just go here. It's much douchyer (my word, don't fuck with me) and lighter reading.