There is something about trauma that wipes the brain of memories. So much so that even parts of yourself go with it: your sense of joy, your sense of having a worthy body, the fact that you feel like a person at all.
For years I hated pictures of myself. I picked apart each body part, avoided the mirror, spent hours pinching and slapping my thighs and hips hoping they would be different.
I avoided dresses and really anything that made me feel delicious for being delicious was my sin I was told and the repercussion was not being allowed back into my body.
I just floated above it for years. Watching some woman overfill my stomach with junk, fill my heart with empty promises, my mouth with transitory kisses.
Waiting for permission to return back to my body, to own it, but it never came.
I saw my bodies through others: if they liked it I liked it. If it was “too sexy” bringing me painful attention, I was repulsed.
I’d like to say the relentless love of a good man helped me put up shop again in my skin, but it didnt.
It wasn't the years of therapy, workshops, all of the books I read, my graduate degree, the ones I loved or the ones I let love me.
It wasn't the way I found God again in the shower, when I cried, when I kneeled in fields. Though that helped and began to breathe life back into my lungs.
It was simply my willingness to say “YES, come back in” to my soul.
By admitting I am not an angel, nor demon, I am not banished to wonder the lands of the half dead.
I am only human. And that is enough.
This dress is a celebration of all of that. Not for you or them or anyone else but the soul in me who has decided its best to be here than anywhere else. And I might as well live it up and feel damn juicy doing it.
My heartfelt suggestion: stay with your body and no matter how many times you must leave, always come back.
She is waiting for you.