This week is prompt week here on Sinful Sunday, the theme being Change.
In light of a few personal things and the current climate of uncertainty bringing me down, I wasn’t going to post this at all, but nothing will change(ha!) if I always allow the lows to predominate.
Before I get onto my post, though, I want to point everyone who reads this in the direction of Molly’s post Safety Measures. The image is beautiful, but the post makes me sad, or rather the fact it ever had to be written makes me sad. How far have we fallen that we need to outwardly display our distance from racism and hatred in order to make people feel safe? Where is the empathy for humanity? I love Molly’s image, and love her for making the point in such a poignant and personal way.
So, the theme ~ Change
For me, the change has been a personal one, a change in personal perception, a change in how much kindness I afford myself when I’m so used to bringing myself down, to reflecting my flaws back at myself in such a brutal way, being my own broken mirror with skewed perspective. I do have my reasons for having been unable to claw my way out of that trap, historical hurts and poison-laden words which I took as being truth. I saw myself through those words, words designed to injure, hold me down and isolate me.
I’d become adept at deflecting any compliments that come my way, dodging them, feeling uncomfortable under their weight, because I didn’t believe that anyone could be telling me the truth. I sought to redefine their truth to fit my view of myself.
Hating myself became a favourite past time.
Then along came Sir, and bit by bit he started to affect that change. Not immediately….I always told myself he was only saying nice things in order to get his dick wet. I think I once told him that I was a sure thing, so to dispense with all that bullshit.
I didn’t believe him, and I’m sure I’ve hurt and frustrated him in the process. But if I don’t believe him, then am I not, by default, accusing him of lying?
He kept on saying nice things, complimentary things, and buying me pretty things, humbling me in the process.
I started to feel more comfortable within myself, telling him I’d taken pictures, teasing him with their existence that I shielded from his eyes.
I wondered what it felt like to believe his words, to take them and reflect them back at him.
I found that I could have fun with the images, taking selfie upon selfie and laughing at myself in the process. This selfie shit is seriouz bizniz, yo!
I took myriad photos of boobies, because, well, he likes them, alot! I even sent him one or two *grins*
I took images of myself in those pretty things, and felt good about the fact that they, or rather he, had made me feel good. I wanted to show him, through visual media, the change.
There’s no technical proficiency to these images, they’re quick snaps taken to titillate. Any image I deem ‘good’ is simply an accident of angle and luck. But that’s ok.
I love this image the most. There, I said it. I love this image, this photo of myself. I don’t hate it, or tell him it’s actually horrible when he tells me he loves it too. I don’t rush to delete it, or edit it, or change it so I hide myself away. He’s given me the confidence to be able to take these shots and be ok with my body, with my face, with how I look.
I can never repay that.
Addendum: this post isn’t so much about the images as it is about the man who hasn’t allowed me to give up on myself. He’s patiently nurtured me, quietly worked on inspiring the change whilst steadfastly and resolutely disallowing any negative speak by me towards myself. This post is for him, possible because of him, and is just one of a plethora of reasons why I call him Sir.
To see who else is playing this week, kiss the lips below