Turn on the big light

I have scars on my body that remind me of men. Not inflicted, just incidental.

A burn mark on my forearm from the time I came home after a third date and burned myself pulling toast out of the oven. A consequence of drinks without dinner. A scar on my chin from eight stitches after tripping on the bridesmaid dress at my best friends wedding. A consequence of seeing my ex for the first time since the break up and taking shots with him at the open bar. Two scars on my chest from the time I got breast implants and took them out years later because they were making me chronically ill. A consequence of being called “flat” by my middle school bully and never growing out of that body. A consequence of the male gaze (maybe I would call this one inflicted).

My body is not a blank slate. I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m also learning that my body is not a thing I need to preface.

I used to equate my chest to an inflated bag of chips. I imagined taking off my push-up bra was like popping the illusion of fullness and wondering what the hell you paid for. “$3 for 5 chips? Are you kidding me?”

Listen, I’m aware of how bleak it is to compare your living, breathing body to a snack you’d grab at the gas station (yes Katy Perry, I guess I do sometimes feel like a plastic bag). But when I was younger, the inner critic in my head didn’t have the whole feminist discourse about objectification rolling around for reference. It was just a bitch pointing noise at the body it came from.

I’d warn lovers of what they’re about to see, insist on keeping the big light off, make flippant jokes about my “huge boobs” (I still do this. I still think it’s funny from time to time), and their reassurance fell on deaf ears every time. I still felt the subtle rejection of a shirt left on. Still understood the way my body was regarded differently before and after surgery.

In my bathroom, we’ve put a sunset lamp on top of the medicine cabinet and a disco ball on a shelf above the towels. We’re a house full of women and the big light is almost never on. I wash my face and think of lyrics from the song Complex by Katie Gregson Macleod (lyrics I’ve memorized and sung in the shower more times than I can count):

I need him like watеr, he lives on a landslide
I cry in his bathroom, hе turns off the big light
I'm bein' a cool girl, I'm keepin' it so tight
I carry him home while my friends have a good night

The first time I heard it, I couldn’t stop thinking about the big light. Every woman in the comments recognized this moment too. I know the dull ache of staring at a bathroom tile, wondering if the person who made you cry would check in or go to sleep. Sometimes, there is a fantastic safety in the big light being turned off. When it’s dark, we can imagine different bodies. When it’s dark, we can relax into imperfection. I also know the finality in the big light being turned off. The disregard, the lack of care, the message that if you want to keep it in the dark, you probably should.

It’s midnight, I’m a half edible in and I turn the big light on. The fluorescent, blue light isn’t flattering. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust. Still, I slow down while I brush my teeth. I look myself in the eyes. What does it mean to be loved in the light?

I remember I started using body lotion and body oil after my first break up. Suddenly, I was a child in my own care. Not literally… I still had parents. I just mean, I think I was realizing that I had to care for myself for the first time.

I was seventeen and heartbroken, sitting on the shower floor with water raining down my back. Tending to myself in new ways felt like rebellion against abandonment. “You think I care that you don’t care for me? Watch. I’ll do it better than you ever could.”

After my last breakup, I started throwing solo dance parties in my room and doing facial massages, religiously following a woman on Tiktok who had the perfect 10 minute routine. I signed up for a membership to a climbing gym, looked myself in the eye in the mirror (don’t do this for too long, it will freak you the fuck out).

People talk about breakup glow ups as if they’re a revenge plot. And maybe they have been at times. Maybe they start that way. In my rage-fueled endeavor to show them I’m better off, I actually became better off. Spite doesn’t sustain the evolution, it just lights the fire.

I have a podcast with a few episodes about decentering men in order to center our own experiences as women and non-binary people (I’m really speaking to anyone that was raised under the conditioning of girlhood). I’ve seen so many commenters lamenting their attraction to men, swearing them off completely. And I get it.

But here’s the thing: every once in a while, I catch this peculiar feeling of nostalgia for times that were markedly bad. I think I feel nostalgic for these moments because of the kinship the moments require with yourself. The awareness, the attention, the tending, it’s like meeting yourself for the first time. It might sound trite, but it’s true.

So sure, I have scars that remind me of men. But I have a heart that reminds me of me. I am the woman that laughed hysterically on the train with friends after the wedding that ended in stitches. I am the woman that decided to have my breast implants taken out so my body could heal. I am the woman that has picked up the pieces every single time and I am always better for it. I am the woman that turns on the big light.

Men have come in fits and bursts. I won’t downplay the impact because it has been too large to express. Our relationship to men, inside or outside of romantic contexts, has a quantifiable impact on our health. Mental, physical, even spiritual. If we want to swear them off completely, we can at any time. We have all the tools.

Some of us feel desire towards them though. And I am not in the business of severing myself from my desires. Desire is the language we learn before words. So while I have scars that remind me of men, I still move towards them now and then.

Right now, I’m at the start of a new relationship. I don’t know what it will bring yet. Maybe, it will bring scars. Maybe, it won’t. Either way, my allegiance goes to myself first.

He shows up for me in ways younger me would have leaned on completely. I probably would have seen him as some sort of savior. He loves my body and I never had to preface a thing. He offers support and honesty and care and laughter, and I adore him.

Still, I know he is not my savior. I know I am. I know it’s not his word above my own, even if he says really lovely words. I know, if his actions start to show a lack of care, the love I have for myself will carry me away. I don’t lay in my bed at night and fret over that. I don’t pick fights in anticipation of that happening.

I’m experiencing what this is right now with a knowing that no matter what, I will put lotion on my body. I will dance alone in my room. I will rid myself of toxic intrusions. I will wrap myself in rituals. I will speak my needs as they come, even as that voice in my head says I’m crazy. I will turn on the big light. At the end of it all, I will be proud of myself because scars are not just a consequence. Scars are a sacred reminder of my body’s will to survive.