I’ve Never Felt Comfortable or Confident in My Body

And I may be beginning to understand why

I remember comparing my body to others from a very young age. I have extremely fair skin and I burn easily, so I always remember being covered from neck to knee, particularly in summer.

I remember the embarrassment I felt at the beach in my long sleeve one-piece and legionnaires cap, hiding under the shelter and watching all the beautiful, tanned bodies enjoying the water and sun in their bikinis. Bodies that were much older and more developed than mine, but that I somehow knew I would never emulate no matter how old I got.

My young brain wasn’t sophisticated enough to register that I had to cover up for safety, that sun damage to my delicate skin could cause irreversible effects later in life. It simply registered that there was something different about me, that needed to be covered up and hidden from sight, and that made me feel like there was something wrong with the way I looked.

Aside from my fair, freckled skin, there was my height. I was always so much shorter than my friends.

I was skinny but not in that long-torso’d athletic way. When I sat down my belly bunched into rolls instead of those neat creases you see on a toned belly. My legs were also short and muscular, not long and lean.

My teeth were incredibly crooked, requiring 8 years of adjustments and two separate rounds of braces.

I also struggled socially, never feeling comfortable or confident in my interactions with other people. That had nothing to do with my appearance but is relevant to this story.

Needless to say, I didn’t enter puberty with a huge amount of confidence.

By my late teens the braces came off and I knew that my face at least was pretty. But that’s about the most confidence I ever held in my body.

I’ve never explored my own body. Never as a teen and not now into adulthood. Something in my brain always stopped me then the same way it does now. The sensation never felt quite right.

In terms of physical intimacy with others, for a long time, I couldn’t bring myself beyond an intense make-out session. I’d bail at the first sign of wandering hands or an attempt to remove the layers of clothes covering my body.

The first time I had sex I wasn’t even naked.

I don’t spend unnecessary time unclothed. I’ve never enjoyed the feeling of being nude, even in the safety of my home when alone. I get out of the bath or shower and get dressed immediately.

During sex or other physical encounters, the few times I’ve been completely exposed I’ve needed the lights dimmed or off, or covers drawn to be able to overcome the anxiety long enough to get through, let alone enjoy the act. Most of the time I opt to keep my shirt or bra on.

I’m not sure I’ve ever relaxed enough into sex to truly enjoy it, and experience the pleasure I’ve heard so much about. My brain is busy spinning a narrative of self-doubt even in those moments where nothing else should be on my mind.

If you’re a reader of my work you may have noticed that I can spend a painful amount of time focussing on the details and sensations of the anticipation, but tend to skimp over the details of the actual sex.

I’ve always assumed that the anticipation is the part I find the most arousing, but I now wonder whether it’s because it’s the non-threatening part. It’s the part I can relax into and enjoy without anxiety or fear.

More recently, I have begun to research more around autism, specifically in women.

The more I read, the more I can relate and the more I begin to wonder whether my physical issues are part of the sensory hurdles that come with being neurodivergent.

To put it plainly, my brain doesn’t process physical touch in the same way most people’s brains seem to. Of course, this isn’t the only autistic trait I relate heavily to, but it’s the one that is applicable to this article.

As for my borderline obsessive anxiety around my body image, that too could be attributed to behaviors linked with the autism spectrum.

The concept of ‘masking’ in autistic people is something that screams at me as something I have been doing my entire life—Adopting socially appropriate behaviors in order to appear normal. I have absolutely done this with sex, and subsequently, my body.

Normal people enjoy and want sex, normal people masturbate, normal people enjoy being naked, normal people like to be touched physically…

Normal people.

The positive side is that as I begin to discover and acknowledge this about myself, it brings me one step closer to being able to relinquish my long-held views of ‘normal’.

I don’t know that I’m autistic, which would require a formal diagnosis. But my suspicions are that it’s highly likely, especially since reading this enlightening article by Professional Autie—A list of traits that people don’t realise are #ActuallyAutistic.

Regardless, if I can accept that I’m not wired the same way as other people, then I will be able to explore and find the balance of what is comfortable and pleasurable within my normal. And that’s what the aim should have always been.