Love letter to myself

You are…

breathtaking.

From the soft half-moon cup of your breasts, gentle waist curve (made for stroking), to the strong line of your hips, you are perfect.

A masterpiece of biology, breathing, beating, moving, eating, you work so magically.

You are strong, with defined shoulders, muscles growing under skin, high bum, powerful legs, defined calfs, you move like you were made to, lifting and cycling and swimming and hiking and running and jumping and stretching and pushing and dancing.

And being. Alone in your bed at night you softly stroke your belly, the skin on the inside of your wrists, holding your own small, soft, slender hands, listening to yourself breathe so quietly, so gently, you’re amazed at how tender you can be.

And in the morning the first thing you see is your beautiful face, all blue eyes, cheekbones and freckles, bow lips and the cutest little nose, eyebrows arched so softly, framing your perfect, unique face and you breathe to yourself:

I love you deeply

I love you forever

You are perfect.

These violent delights.

He has big features. He once said that to me, over a dazed breakfast. “I have big features. I have big hands, and big feet, and big facial features. People have told me that before.” He was right. His hands could fit (almost) all the way around my

throat.

He is a chef. (Was? I haven’t had any contact with him for over 8 months). He worked as aggressively as he fucked, by the sounds of it. Keeping his staff in line with verbal backhands, rewarding with a dirty joke, drinks and a joint.

You have to know what he looked like. He was stocky, formidably strong, with a chest you could punch and kick and your fist would meet flesh and warm, solid muscle. You’d be cringing, because the look in his face was

“You’re going to fucking get it now”

But, I don’t want to give the impression that he was a ranting, angry guy. He was sharpened as delicately as one of his knives. His aggressiveness was always under the surface, and if, like me, you were sensitive to picking that kind of stuff up then you could definitely notice it. The potential for him to fuck you up was very real, very present. But, he was also hilarious. God, he would make me laugh! He spent a lot of time thinking, wrote affirmations to himself on his bathroom mirror, had 2 tiny fluffy dogs, worked out, smoked weed, socialized, travelled, had girlfriends. We went to a party together, dropped some MDMA and danced and laughed and tried to pick up women.

We brought out the darkest in each other.

He made me bleed, by holding my jaw open and fucking my mouth so hard that my teeth cut a long, thin slice into my upper lip. He slapped me until he bruised my cheek and jawbone, which clicked for weeks. (By chance, a friend of mine who was an osteopath did some work on me, and after running his fingers down the sides of my face exclaimed, ‘huh, you’re a bit out of line’, and jolted my jaw back into place). He bit me so hard that I screamed “Red” (the only time) and  the bruise, the size of my closed fist, purpled my thigh for close to a month. He would work his fingers inside me until I would

bleed

and then go harder. While I’d be screaming in pain and

ecstasy.

Now, 8 months later, in therapy. I start making the link between

the prevalence of self-harming tendencies that she began acting on in her teenage years, and

asking this man to fuck me til I cry.