I am a progressive evolution. Even to this day I struggle to find a balance. I used to be strong out of necessity not out of courage. Thankfully this waxes and wanes day by day. I hate to be objectified, but I feel self-conscious when no one is looking. I am not conceited but I know that there is something different with me, different from so many people. Maybe it’s the way I view the world, maybe it’s the way my actions don’t usually fit into a mold. Maybe it’s the woman I was trained to be. I refer to myself as Perfectly Imperfect, as in I am perfectly flawed. I know my weaknesses and I try to challenge them especially when I don’t have the strength too. I push myself not to feel less than, maybe I can fake it until I make it.
Like so many my childhood left me broken. Forgotten by her, abused by him, judged by the others. I couldn’t control where she was, I had even less control when she came home blacked out. She was being eaten by her disease. How could she have known how many times he came into my room. To tell the truth, I don’t even know how many anymore. I couldn’t control when and if he came to me, but if I sent my mind somewhere else my body could make it through or that’s what I told myself; I would pretend to sleep while he rubbed himself on me. Other men catcalling and grabbing at my 10-year-old body fit for a 16-year-old. My mind wandered all the time. When I was at school I couldn’t focus, I didn’t understand. Thank god I was pretty, there was hope for me yet. “Don’t eat that, you’ll get fat. You need to eat your fruits and veggies, so you can become a model when you grow up”. It made sense. So, there I was age 10, sexy, stupid, violated and alone.
As a teen my breasts were fuller than most, my stomach was flat, and I had a decent can, “Malibu Barbie” Which was fitting because I was living the teenage nightmare… I mean dream. I was finally everything I was supposed to be. My grades were up thanks to those catholic school skirts. Cheerleading captain dating the QB/Captain of the football team. He liked me because I could look like the girls in porn. He had me watch them over and over, so I would know how to look, how to move, what sexy was supposed to be. And I did just as I was supposed to. I had to stay thin like they were, I finally found something I could control, to eat or not to eat. So, I didn’t. It was perfect, this way I would stay what he wanted. I watched, I learned, I became one of them. He wanted to record me, why not… then he could watch me instead of them. I moved the way I was taught, I moaned just the right way to please his ears. I gave award winning performances time and time again. Finally, I was exactly what he wanted. I had the control. Ha. I had no control. His love controlled my mind, while he showed off his perfect robotic sex doll. I couldn’t control him showing the videos. An enslaved girl in a zombie hunger for his affection. I couldn’t control when his friends were whispering in my ear how they wanted a taste of what they had seen. I couldn’t control him showing the girls he cheated on me with. I couldn’t control my mind giving into him every time. I couldn’t control my own weaknesses. There I was 16, too thin, casting couch quality, and damaged.
As a young adult I worked hard and played harder. I never did drugs, I was naturally the battery powered bunny I didn’t need the chemical assistance. Out in the world, I enticed, and I got what I wanted without even knowing I was doing it. I worked in corporate restrictive jobs that controlled my movements. I battled against the “man” from the inside out, with silent acts of rebellion like a teenager wearing a thong without her parent’s permission. I controlled where I lived, what I said, and who I fucked. I picked man after man to fill the hole inside of me that was void of self. This freedom of mind and body was foreign and uncomfortable, I hated it and I hated myself because I didn’t know how to think or act on my own. I searched for my next loss of control. I found it. I married a man who spoke enough on his own, that I didn’t need to. He berated, yelled and controlled through violent tantrums. I let him. It just made it easier for me, more like home. There I was being an adult, brainwashed, and numb.
A constant battle of give and take still wages in my mind. I am so much more than full breasts and thick thighs, though I still use my body as a mousetrap to manipulate the forces surrounding me. I can act like I hate being objectified, and deep down I know I do but there is something peaceful in being nothing more than Aphrodite and broken.
