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I have never been comfortable with myself. Since I was 10 years old I have never thought of myself as pretty. I was heavier and everyone around me knew. I was made fun of countless times. I cried myself to sleep on a day in middle school I was told by a boy that he wouldn't square dance with me because I was fat and disgusting. I was 11. I thought this was normal. When I was in high school the weight issue seemed to be imprinted in my mind. I had a job as a lifeguard. I loved swimming and thought this was a good way to exercise. I was made fun of by my peers I worked with. That summer I lost 20 pounds. I refused to eat. I wouldn't be happy with myself until I lost weight. I started sophomore year as a size 2! A size 2... I still didn't feel good enough. Boys still didn't like me and I didn't like me. I'm now 26 and could have been in a awful headspace if it werent for my loving family, friends and peers. Women should not have to think about this constantly. Women have to look a certain way to get a guy? Or keep a guy!? It truly scares me how image obsessed we are. This is what makes girls (and guys) have eating disorders body dismorphia and the feeling of never being good enough .... I felt compelled to say this because I worked at the boys and girls club and mind you this person is 9 years old. This little girl told me she didn't want to go to a water park for her birthday because she would have to be seen in a bathing suit. She is 9!!! This little girl missing out on life because of her concerns of how she looks to other people?! What have we done.

I thought he was the first person who could see me, but he was just the first person to speak about me with any authority. Told me he knew what I wanted more than I knew myself. He made me feel like a girl in a rock song, sugar turning to something poison. He loved to be the thing that poisoned me. He always said that. I told myself I wanted to be a good friend, but really I would have done anything for a boy to like me. When I looked outside of myself I knew that I was valid and worthy and good. I got straight A's and I was the newspaper editor and I was a cheerleader and I had enough friends that I wasn't totally alone. But I craved. Everything was happening to anybody but me and I was born with this big dumb body five sizes too big and if I could have skinned myself like a carrot I would have. There was not an inch of myself that I did not hate, did not want to hack off piece by piece until I was a bloody mess with a heartbeat humming a Taylor Swift song. By the 8th or 9th grade I realized everyone was sick of hearing me call myself fat and so I stopped. I did not give the feeling a language and kept it deep in a hollow inside myself. Would walk past a mirror and pinch my skin—arm, face, elbow, hand, it didn't matter—and wish it would be gone. Fall asleep at night trying to put my face on a skinny girl's body. Night after night I could never make the image make sense. I would have to start over, shave off piece by piece until I got a version of myself I could live with. Wonder how many pounds it would take to do that, and always assume it must be a thousand. Feel trapped in this stupid flesh that I never even signed up to inhabit. Never ask to borrow my friends' clothes, because it will not fit, and then I will die. So when a boy with black hair and brown eyes and a smile like it knew my secrets wanted to touch my heaving earthquake body how could I ever say no to that? It did not matter if he would leave me waiting for hours or if he would pick fights or sometimes call me things like a dumb slut stupid whore just it admit you know you are one. Because sometimes he would press his forehead against mine and trace his fingers against every inch of me. I want you so bad he would whisper with his hands full of my skin and for a moment, gasping, I would believe him.

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Our national mythos may center on reinvention, but our collective consciousness cannot be wished away by obliterating our scars. We have to wear the markings with pride and celebrate their existence. My second husband does not understand the concept. “I want you to look like you never had children.” Frowning, he points to the excess skin and stretch marks on my abdomen. “I don't find you attractive otherwise.” I sigh with frustration. This man, who recently entered my life, desires nothing more than to erase the forty-seven years that came before him. Through plastic surgery, he wants to cut away the excess skin around my abdomen from carrying children and pull tight the remaining stretch marks until they disappear. If I choose to wear the scars where they landed, I will lose my second husband. “I don't find you attractive,” he says, which explains why we no longer make love. At first, under the blush of newness and the dimness of bedroom lighting, he ravished my body with the urgency of someone who had come to the table dying of thirst. Now, he pushes away from the table, refusing to sip from the same cup he married. How absurd, I think. Over the next two years, we argue and argue. The wedge between us widens until the dog sleeps between us, a physical reminder of our sexual abstinence. Eventually, in the third year, he threatens to file for divorce. “I don't understand why you won't have the surgery done.” He tosses up his arms in exasperation. “I'm paying for the expense. I'll hire a nurse to take care of you. I'll hire a chef and a housekeeper, so you can stay bedridden for the full three to six months of recovery.” I place my hands on my hips and broaden my stance. Narrowing my eyes, I counter. “My body is my history. It's the only thing I have left from the divorce.” Lifting his gaze toward the ceiling, he raises his arms. “That's exactly why you should want this mommy makeover as much as I do.” Shaking my head, I sigh. He doesn't understand. “Keep your money. I don't want the surgery.” He shook his fist. “I'll file for divorce.” Lifting my chin, I stare into his eyes. “Is that what you really want?” I step closer, wrapping my arms around his waist, pulling him tight against me. His pulse gallops against my chest. “No.” He slumps forward, his face falling into my hair. “Not really.” For a moment, we call a truce. I don't know how long it will last. I wish my husband understood I am comfortable in my skin. My body is the only thing I have. My scars are the only reminders of the children I bore, the same children my husband does not want to acknowledge. To keep the skin and scars is essentially saying, “Here is my history. Here is my legacy. Here is all I am, and all I am offering you.” When my husband refuses to see the beauty in my scarred body, I seek validation elsewhere. After stripping for another man, I sit naked on the side of his bed. He kneels before me like a disciple before a goddess. Tenderly, he kisses my breasts, my stomach, and my thighs. He gazes with adoration and declares, “You are beautiful.” The softness in his brown eyes mirrors the gentleness in his deep voice. I am beautiful, just as I am, no plastic surgery needed. When I refuse to alter my body for my husband, what I am really saying is, “Please, do not erase me.” I want to be seen with the eyes of the artist lover who called me beautiful. I want to be with a man who does not want to change me. I want to be with someone who allows me the freedom to be me just as I allow him the freedom to be whoever he is. We should not want to wipe away a difficult history and start fresh. W should embrace our past and reconcile our future. Will my husband ever get right with my body—the excess skin, the stretch marks, the cellulite, the age marks? Or will he seek someone else with a less difficult history? Only time will tell. For whether we want to or not, time changes us. All we have is our history.