It used to represent freedom and absolute comfort. I never had my own space, never had privacy—not really. The very idea of being able to strip down and slide, naked, between the sheets of my bed, was tantalizing and titillating on its own. I’ll admit that it was deliberately to tease, when I first mentioned it to him. Just a casual remark completely in keeping with the tone of the conversation. Oh, sometimes the reason it takes me so long to answer my door is that I sleep naked and I’m slipping into some clothes. I relished in the response received, in that feeling—so new to me, so difficult for me to believe—that I was desired.
Similar, the first time I allowed him to see me naked. Lying there—nervous, yes, but also so very excited, almost catching a laugh upon my breath as I thought upon the reaction he’d have when he pulled back the covers of his bed only to find me waiting there, more ready for him than he had any reason to expect. Sharing myself that way was a choice all my own. It wasn’t forced upon me, it wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t expected or even outright requested. I knew that it was something he wanted, something he would like, something he would appreciate…At least, I thought that I knew that. Looking back, did I ever really know anything of his thought or feelings? Part of what pains me most now is the fear that I never did, not really. How much--just how much—was false? Whether my own misconceptions (false hope, assumptions) or deliberate deceit, the end result was the same.
What moment was it, that something which once empowered me, which I once chose to share, became a crippling prison into which I’d allowed myself to be forced? When did something so harmless, so freeing, become a prison unto itself?
It’s amusing to see how in film nudity is so frequently, so studiously avoided. Lovers who never quite seem to get naked in bed, women who ridiculously sleep without removing their bras (as though that weren’t the first thing to come off at the end of a long day): it’s just one of the ways that media doesn’t quite map on to reality. Equally unrealistic, in my experience, are films where a captive is tortured or ridiculed while remaining clothed. Nothing matches the feeling of vulnerability that comes from being altogether naked. Nothing.
Unprotected. Unable to run. Humiliated. Cold.
The chill settled within my stomach, an unshakeable ache that my hands, my arms, could not soothe away. Any sort of cover would have been welcome—even the ability to curl upon myself so only my back was exposed to the chill (indifferent) air would have been a blessing. Clothing, comfort, cover of any kind were all barred to me. I stood, naked, shifting my weight from foot to foot, bending subtly to try to shake the pain gathered in my spine, trying to be silent, to seem totally still.
Yet, obeying sometimes made it worse. Don’t obey and risk beating, bruises, blood. Obey too long and risk the same. How to find the balance? How to know whether or not it’s safe, now—at least somewhat so—to crawl into bed, or to possibly at least sit upon the floor? Perhaps bed was allowed, but no blanket? If I slumped to the carpet, would I be beaten, filthy fool that I was, and forced, again, to bathe until my skin was itchy, raw, tormented by the torrent of now-cold water—warmth long gone? If I slipped into bed, would I awake to cuddles and the pretense that this didn’t happen, doesn’t matter, is at least over for now? Or would I awaken to a sudden blow, to split skin and bloodied sheets and desperate scrubbing--out damn spot—to forestall stains even as I wipe the blood and tears from my aching eyes? Or would I flinch from a blow sensed, but not yet landed, and so earn a beating even if one were not actually imminent prior?
Damned reflexes that betray. A hideous guessing game where, even when I gained some small reprieve, I always lost. There was no chance of winning. Not there. And so I stood—naked, vulnerable to him in every possible way, trapped by the equal powers of fear and indecision.
Looking back, the moments blend together. I see myself…
The time I thought maybe I’d leave, after all. Downstairs, desperately pulling a long wool coat on over my nakedness, cowering in the entryway. Reaching for the door only to be pulled back, yanked down, left gathering the scattered fistful of hair I’d lost; penance, perhaps, for the attempt.
The countless times I was denied cover—whether lying in bed without a scrap of blanket or standing at attention. Not allowed to sit, to crouch, to lie down, to move, to think too hard about just what I’d come to--mustn’t think, mustn’t cry, mustn’t run, mustn’t flinch, mustn’t speak, mustn’t let out the scream that’s welling up inside. Even when it is warm, cold will settle into your belly if you give it such chance to do so. It will ache.
How must I have looked, huddled within the dripping confines of the tub in our bathroom? Hair hopelessly tangled, curls turned to knots and loose strands caught up with those still attached to my scalp. Snot and tears and blood running together in a mess that progressed from damp discomfort, to itching, to a burning, unrelenting sting.
Wanting to shower, but then also wanting to stop. Neither one my choice to make—oh, certainly, I was left to make it. Yet, with such harsh penalties for making the wrong choice and only one correct selection I was supposed to somehow discover—what choice was it, really?
Just how many times did I sit so long damp in the shower after bathing that I had to bathe again in order to feel clean? Even once already one time too many; I truly could not count, could not guess the hours.
Whatever the situation my memory places before me, elements remain the same. Desperately trying to distract, to change the mood, to wait it out, to gauge what action (or inaction) will lead to the least amount of pain, of punishment. Hating my own flesh for its weakness, hating him for exposing that weakness, and hoping he’d never see some telltale flash of fire to speak to that hate, that resentment that smoldered deep within my being, that said this is wrong even when the rest of me failed to fight. Hoping my own thoughts and feelings—so very opaque to me—weren’t just as naked to him as he kept the rest of me.
Elizabeth Wilcox. Writer, Avid Role-Player, Amateur Mixologist. Survivor.