I was raised in a Christian Fundamentalist family. We didn’t go to school. We didn’t own a television. Growing up every piece of clothing I ever wore came out of a goodwill bag except for my Easter dress. Easter was the most holy holiday when Jesus resurrected from the dead saving our souls from eternal damnation which meant we were granted dispensation to shop retail at the mall.
As I walked past the racks of dresses at Macys, my eyes fell on to the ultimate 9-year-old girl fantasy dress in all it’s 80’s splendor. It had wide blue and white stripes, a drop waist, ruffle skirt and puffy sleeves in a thin cotton voile fabric. I grabbed my size (and my sisters – we always wore matching dresses) and ran to the fitting room.
Suddenly, I heard my mother shout, “Carlin, come out so I can see how it looks”. I stood in my fantasy dress looking at my reflection in the mirror completely frozen. My breast buds had popped overnight. Right in the center of cascading white stripes was the outline of what looked like two deflated balloons. “Carlin, what are you waiting for?”, my mother demanded. Ashamed, I crossed my arms and headed out of the fitting room.
“Put your arms down. I can’t see how it falls”, my mother continued. Reluctantly, I dropped my arms to my sides and waited in silence for her critique. Crickets. Then my sister came out of the fitting room and stood next to me. My mother smiled, “oh don’t you both look sweet”. Incredulous, I announced, “Mom, I think I need a bra”. Immediately, her face fell, and her eyes narrowed, “You don’t have breasts, so you don’t need a bra”. I wasn’t giving up, “then a training bra something to smooth down and hide my nipples”. Incensed, she ordered, “Take off the dresses and meet me at the register”.
Walking down the aisle of the church sanctuary, I could feel everyone’s eyes pass over my body and lock in on my breast buds. Some giggled. Some whispered. My pubescence was center stage for their judgment. I wanted to crawl under a pew and disappear, but my humiliation had just begun.
For the entire service, I tried to get my mother’s attention, but she just stared straight ahead at the pastor. After the benediction, everyone stood up and started wishing each other “Happy Resurrection Day”. Another mom walked over to me and ran her hand down my chest, “look how cute they are”. I stood there in shock unable to move or defend myself. Frantic, I looked over at my mother, but she wouldn’t make eye contact. It felt like I was drowning and invisible all at the same time.
Somehow, I made my way down the aisle towards the front steps. I could see the sunlight streaming through the open door. I was almost there but I had to walk past the pastor and deacons standing side-by-side shaking hands with the parishioners. Maybe they wouldn’t notice.
“Carlin, I can see that you’re becoming a woman. Congratulations”, a male voice announced. “Yes, we’ll see if you lack endowments like your mother. Now, don’t tease those boys”, another voice chimed in.
Flush with shame, I ran down the church steps, across the lawn to the parking lot, and hid in the family car. My heart was racing. My body was shaking. Tears ran down my cheeks as I tried to sort through everything that happened and why it made me feel sick to my stomach.
It was the betrayal. These were the same people who’d been kind to me as a girl, sang songs with me in Sunday school, and told me I was created in God’s image. Somehow becoming a woman meant that my body was not my own, that my body could make good men do bad things. These adults had projected their sexual repression on to me and there was no self-reflection. They were on autopilot justified in the sexualization of a child because they were aroused by my sexual beginning.
The whole experience was dehumanizing, and I blamed my mother. I knew I needed a bra, but she refused to acknowledge that my body was changing, that I was becoming sexual. On the ride home, I imagined sticking her body repeatedly with tiny needles and squeezing lemon juice all over her skin. I wanted her to hurt as much as I did. Ultimately, I settled for squirting toothpaste into the toes of her high heel shoes – the ones she wore to church.
It took several decades but this was the moment when our relationship died. There was no protection. There was no guidance. The trust was broken. As women, I think we’ve all been conditioned to see our sexuality is a limitation, a liability, something that can be taken and demeaned instead of something that should be celebrated and supported.
Some sort of cosmic alchemy brought me to Betty’s door and to the healing that is bodysex. Today, I stand as a woman in her sexual power. My body exists for my pleasure. My sexuality is my divinity. With every orgasm, I better understand myself and find compassion for the world around me.
As I age and my once budding breasts grow heavy and reach downward, I stand as your guide.
May your breast buds, stretch marks, cellulite dimples, rolls and wrinkles serve as a memorial to the divine feminine. Let our bodies mark our journey to self-love – that we’ve taken the leap, failed, gone too far and never looked back.
