Unapologetically Naked - Miriam Mack

“To be naked is to be oneself. To be nude is to be seen naked by others and yet not recognized for oneself.” -John Berger, Ways of Seeing
 
You desire to be unapologetically naked. Bare. Exposed.
 
Naked, not nude.
 
 Nudity is the flaunting peacock, unruffling its quivering feathers in an alluring display. Nudity is the exotic dancer. Nudity is to be naked but seen as something separate from yourself. Nudity is nakedness seen through the lens of desire.
 
Nakedness is to be natural, to be one’s true, impenitent self. For a brief time in your life, this was once so simple. 
 
As a child, you wriggled, crawled, walked, ran, all while in a state of blissful nakedness that you hardly remember. You were exposed before friends and family and God Almighty without fear or inhibition. You sucked your thumbs and chewed your toes. You knew how you liked to be held and where you were ticklish. You owned—you valued—who you were.
 
Eventually, you lost this freedom. You became ensnared by the rulebooks of humanhood.
 
Some of us cling to our liberty longer than others. Some have it snatched away unnaturally, long before the typical time when grown-up structures and shames snuff out the dwindling flicker of innocence.
 
Eventually, we all grow up.
 
You clothe yourself with the words you speak, the thoughts you think, the religion you practice, the religion you shun, the opinion of others as they survey your attire in search of a loose thread. They hunt for an opportunity to unravel the patchwork you have so intricately woven over the course of your life. You desire nakedness, but you know every crease, crevice, and curve could cause you humiliation. 
 
You undress yourself before anyone might sneak a peek.
 
You strip down. It is better to expose than be exposed.
 
You become nude.
 
You persuade others that your nudity is nakedness, and you begin to believe this yourself.
 
You tell your partner that your day went well. You do not tell him you are overwhelmed or that you cried in the bathroom, just like you used to in high school, how the word “imposter” rang in your brain and started the headache you are currently swallowing Tylenol to subdue. You know he has his own scars to mask. There is no need to burden him with your bareness. You want to be clothed in strength. You remind yourself you are an adult. Grow up. There is no need to acknowledge the wound you have packed tight with ego and feigned confidence.
 
You tell your mother that yes, you finally went to church again. Yes, the sermon was touching. Yes, being back there felt good.
 
This makes her happy.
 
You do not tell her that you sat in a back pew, not in the front like you did as a family, when you looked perfect before God and the congregation, knowing full well that your parents had been fuming moments before ushering you and your shell-shocked sister inside. You do not tell her how you resent those first rows of pews, how you both hate and love the memories that smell of incense and sweet Communion wine. You do not tell her that a silent rage toward the faith you cherish has been burning since she and your dad had their marriage annulled. You do not tell her that you think the ordained should mind their own business or that the church is restricting and misogynistic in your eyes.
 
That would worry her.
 
You see a therapist because trying to live in the nude is exhausting.  You tell her yes, you are happy with your family. Those relationships are better than they used to be. Yes, you are happy with your partner. You don’t tell her that you have been physically sick worrying that your relationship will turn out like your parents’. No, you don’t worry about having kids someday. You don’t tell her about the cysts on your ovaries or your irregular periods. You tell her yes, you are happy with your life. You don’t tell her that you second guess every decision you make, that it took you fifteen minutes to place an order at Panera, that you stared at the kiosk like you were illiterate as you grappled with every potential fallout of ordering soup and a salad versus a teriyaki bowl, that you worried over spending an extra $3, that you questioned whether or not you are deserving of a cookie. You don’t tell her that you can’t trust your gut because it is always screaming, because something can always go wrong.
 
She does not ask if you are happy in your sexuality. You wish she would. That is not a conversation you want to initiate, though you want it to be had. She does not ask, so you do not tell her you have been with other women. You do not tell her about the time you and your friend were drunk and fell on the floor laughing, how her long hair spilled across the rug and rippled as her chest convulsed in tear-inducing hilarity, how the curves of her face dipped and swelled in the dying sunlight, how you rebuked the urge to roll over, roll closer. You don’t tell her how you poured another glass of wine to silence that screaming wish. You don’t tell her how your friend had another glass of wine, too, how you both slumped on the sofa, how your hand happened to cup her breast as her lips brushed yours. You don’t tell her how she tasted, how she tingled, how, the next morning, she said to forget it ever happened. You don’t tell her this hurt or the self-lie that it was for the better, that acting on that voice defies everything you were taught to believe about sexuality and “God’s plan.”
 
You sit in front of a fan, wearing underwear and a tank top. Silence does not burden you today, not when your mind is clear and you have a day off tomorrow. You gaze at the window and see a fly desperately ping-ponging its little body against the glass. You finish your cup of water, wait for the bug to sit still for a moment, just a moment, then inexplicably capture it. Sealing the cup with your hand, you carry that vivacious intruder to the screen door, which you open with your bare toes, painted pink, and remove your hand from the rim.
 
You watch the fly fly off, a liberated little speck against the sun, until your eyes burn and yellow circles cloud your vision. You stand in the doorway as your bare skin is caressed by rays that traveled ninety-three million miles just to touch you in that moment.  You step onto the deck, lay on your back across the warm wood, and expose your breasts to the sun. Your nipples tingle in the warmth, and you wish society would let you bare your breasts to the light like men can. The deck fully shelters you from any peeping neighbors, so you slip your underwear to your thighs.
 
A rush of warmth pervades every crease, crevice, and curve, no longer confined, and you weep as you begin the process of undressing.