I’m Naked Over Here [Part II]
Wow. Just going to jump right in here. If you haven’t checked out Part I, I would do that first. Otherwise, this might be confusing.
Realistically, it may very well be confusing regardless, haha.
Just like my butt, they’ve always been too big for my frame. I had the hourglass figure, that’s for sure. But it was uncomfortable and made me very self-conscious.
I never could tell if anyone was talking to me or my breasts. People just couldn’t help but gawk at them.
My breast surgeon told me to wait on the reduction until after I finished having my kids, to avoid any complications with breastfeeding. Little did he (or I) know that my breasts were completely dysfunctional when it came to feeding my children.
I was ashamed. They had one job, and they couldn’t deliver. [This requires an article of its own. I’ve come to terms with it now, but it was a difficult time for me.]
After my son was a year old, I had scheduled the reduction. Unfortunately, my gallbladder wanted all the attention and almost derailed my breast surgery. I ended up never having had surgery in my entire life, to having two major surgeries in a matter of three months.
I still have scars, but they’re not too bad. Kind of like FrankenBoobs. They are just the right size now. We’ve come a long way. I’m hoping they stay around for a while. (My mother had to have a double mastectomy and I still fear that one day I’ll suffer the same fate.)
Arms, Back –
Nothing too exciting here.
My upper body is covered in random aggregated constellations of freckles and spots. Front and back.
My left pinky is a little wonky. I broke it when I was younger trying to splash my dad in the pool. It was hanging off the side of my hand and my dad kept trying to push it back up into place to tell me it was fine.
It wasn’t fine.
I broke it at the growth plate. So, it sort of does its own thing. A little social distance from the other digits. My other fingers are naturally a little crooked. I wonder if everyone has crooked fingers? I never paid attention before. Mine are like trees that got caught in a hurricane. But they all don’t groove in the same direction.
This is a delicate part of my body. I’ve got a lot of feelings going on here.
Part of me thinks they stem from another life (if that sort of thing exists…).
Right above my left clavicle I have a little piece of cartilage below the skin. A random nub. When I was a kid I used to tell people that it was from when I was intubated at birth. However, as I got older, I started questioning my own story. At that point I had been telling it for fifteen years or more. I don’t think I actually asked my mother about the details of my birth story until I started writing Life after Life.
I still would like to get a hold of my medical records. She isn’t sure if I was intubated, because I was immediately removed from the room. I was without oxygen, and I spent weeks in the NICU, but neither of my parents know exactly what went down. So the nub remains a mystery.
After years of derm checkups, my doc just noticed it for the first time in 2021. [I’m actually due for a visit. Good reminder.]
The last time I was there, they removed a mole from the middle of my neck. It was my spot. Part of my identity. Smack dab in the middle. I finally decided it needed to go. It had grown, and it needed to be sent for a biopsy. One of the many. Turned out to be benign.
The story is a little strange though. After they removed it, I had a sudden thought of James, a dear ‘friend.’ At that time in my life, I hadn’t been in touch with him for about 6 years, except for some very minor communications on Facebook messenger (Maybe 6 words in 6 years…).
He had a similar mole in the same spot. I don’t know why, but I always connected it to him. Maybe we talked about it on the boat when we were kids? No clue. Can’t make the tie. But when they cut it, my initial thought was “James is going to be pissed at me.”
Why the fuck I had this thought when we did not exist in one another’s life is beyond me. But this was my thought. I had a kind of sadness, like getting rid of it was going to disconnect me from him once and for all. Little did I know that eight months later I’d be back in touch with James in our most furious reunion yet.
I finished up in the office and they bandaged me up. I went out to the car and started to have a panic attack. I hadn’t had one in a while, but it came on quick.
Suddenly, the bandage was full of blood. It was dripping down my neck and collecting on my shirt. It looked like I had been shot. I ran back in holding my neck and they rushed me into the back room. They weren’t sure why there was so much blood, it could have been a capillary bed underneath?
Now a year and a half later there is only a faint scar. [I read once that there are marks on our bodies that we carry to our next lives. I’d love to look into this more. Anyone know anything about it?]
Okay, up to the tippy top!
I have to get closer to the mirror for this one.
When I was a teenager and we started experimenting with mushrooms, the rule was to never look into your eyes in the mirror while you were tripping. Otherwise, you might be lost in that stare forever. We took this very seriously. If anyone got too close to a mirror, we made sure to save them from themselves.
Looking into the mirror right now, I get it. I mean I’m sober as hell. Haven’t had a drink or drugs in God knows how long, but looking straight into my own eyes is a little unnerving, I’ll admit.
The windows to the soul.
I’ve always had really big eyes in comparison with the size of my face. Kind of like my boobs, they were big, but they didn’t work.
I was considered legally blind but was able to see with corrective lenses. In September of 2021, I got Lasik. That procedure almost made me blind, LMAO….kind of defeating the purpose. But we got it all sorted out and I can see now.
I still suffer from constant visual distortions from my derealization. But luckily, it doesn’t send me in to spirals of panic attacks anymore and sometimes I even forget about it. The hope is for it to gradually fade away entirely. I live for that day.
I have some bald spots on my eyelids due to a bad case of the chicken pox when I was in the second grade. A little mascara does the trick to hide it. I’m not big on make-up though. Rarely wear it. Usually just mascara.
My cheeks are a little rosey. Is it scars from my teenage acne? Or is this the Irish side of me coming through?
I’m back and forth about my wrinkles, which are settling in nicely. Each one brings a friend along. If I squish up my face I can imagine what I’ll look like in twenty years (ten years???yikes…).
I won’t get injections. Sometimes I put cream on, to pretend that I’m attempting to make a difference. But mostly, I just let them be. Aging means I’m not dead, so I like that reminder.
I used to dye my hair. All the time. Before I even needed to. Every color. Then I stuck to just maintaining the roots, so the grays wouldn’t pop through. But last summer, I gave up. Just letting the grays grow out. See where they go. They’re more white than gray really. I kind of hope that it’ll make me look like a dope old lady, rather than a raggy old lady. I guess we’ll see what comes of this experiment.
Okay. I think I’m done for now. I’m ending this weird ass experience by looking at my naked self in the mirror and telling myself “I love you.”
You hear that Christine, I love you, ya weirdo.
I was going to tag some people here to see if they’d like to try this naked stream of consciousness mirror work, but I wasn’t sure how it would be received. So, if you want to sit and stare at your naked body and blog about it as you do, please tag me. I’d love some company in this arena.
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