Note: I was taught, whether by my parents or evangelical culture or whatever, that my body is not my own. As a person, it belonged to God. As a female, it belonged to my father, then to my husband. This is me working through that starting place to believing that my body can be my own.
Note 2: I write that my body is “my own,” when I actually don’t believe in a self beyond the body and brain. I believe my self IS my body, actually, not that it is a vessel for something more authentically me, as I don’t believe in souls. But the metaphor can be useful in understanding things sometimes.
I am my body. My body is my own.
My body is not:
made for someone else
a decoration for others to look at
a thing to be covered in shame
a thing to be displayed as if in a store
for the pleasure of anyone else.
My body is for my pleasure.
I can take it and make it run. I can make it stronger. Not for anyone else, but solely for my enjoyment:
to enjoy the feeling of moving my body
to enjoy the feeling of hiking up a mountain
to enjoy breath in my lungs and my heart beating faster.
Simply because I want to. Not to make it more enjoyable or appealing to others.
It is my own. I am my body.
I can share it for sexual pleasure. I can choose who I share it with for my own pleasure.
I can choose not to share it with anyone.
I can feed it. I can feed it with food to make it stronger or to alleviate pain. I do not have to apologize for how I feed my body, because it is my own and I can find the best way to take care of it, to take care of me, for my own life.
I can be selfish with my body because it is the only one I will have. When it’s gone, I am gone. So I experience life with this body for myself, because
it is my own. I am my body.