Even Heroes Have Scars

[84] The Way You Don't Look At Me

TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter HEAVILY revolves around Demi's ED, bulimia, self-harm, panic attacks, and body dysmorphia. In all honesty, this chapter was extremely triggering to write, so if you are sensitive to those topics, I'd suggest skipping about halfway through to where the dialogue begins, or even all the way to Ansley's P.O.V. This chapter is very dark, but if I didn't think it was vital to telling this story about this part of Demi's life, I wouldn't have included it. I do not want to be the cause/contribution to someone becoming triggered, so please, proceed with caution. 

Demi's P.O.V.

I wish I could say I was doing okay. I'd had such a great night with Ansley, but as I was lying here at six in the morning, still unable to sleep, my mind continued to race with every single insecurity in the world as her arm draped over me – her the big spoon, me the little.

I wondered if she could feel, even in her sleep, the cellulite that textured my legs, the thickness of my tummy that didn't hug my skeleton the way it used to, the butt that was just a little too big for the shorts I was wearing and revealed my lack of a thigh gap. I wondered if she saw me that way. If she saw me at all.

Why couldn't I just be perfect?

While on stage every night, I was forced to wear these nude, see-through tights that clung to my legs so snugly that they compressed and concealed all of my imperfections. I could cover up in most other performances, but specifically the performance of Cry Baby, Concentrate, and Lonely, I was exposed. One misplaced strip of tape on my top, and I would be practically naked in front of thousands of people and, with the help of modern social media, millions more. And yet I wasn't even comfortable enough with my girlfriend seeing me fully unclothed with even the minimum of lighting illuminating a room. Such a hypocrite – I was. She'd had a worse eating disorder than me not too long ago, with severe body dysmorphia and self-harm scars as a result, and still, she had the ability to be so completely, beautifully intimate and vulnerable with me. Still, I refused to even take off my leggings or tank top in front of her after the show, fearing she wouldn't love me anymore if she saw me.

Why couldn't I just be perfect?

Of course, she could call me beautiful all she wanted. And, you know, maybe I was. Maybe I was beautiful, or pretty, or, at the least, somewhat attractive. Pretty privilege existed, and I wouldn't have had fans if I had no beauty whatsoever since this world was so critical. But could I be sexy? I paraded around on stage every night in a white leotard that hardly covered my vagina, and suddenly sexy began to lose all meaning. Part of me wondered if the way I'd acted that night, taking control of Ansley in the dressing room, was a result of me attempting to control my sexuality, to claim that I could, in fact, be sexy. Like I had to prove it to her. Like I had to prove that I was more than just a body, but rather a body that could enjoy and could be enjoyed. And then, at the end of it all, I wouldn't even let her touch me or see me or pleasure me the way I'd just pleasured her. My attempt at building up my own confidence had inevitably failed, and I was smiling through it, insisting that we needed to leave, that I was perfectly happy with not being on the receiving end for once. And she believed me, as she usually did on the extremely rare occasions that I used that excuse (only one or two other times prior to last night), but it was a lie. I was an extremely sexual being that desperately had to change my pair of underwear by the time we arrived back to her apartment, as my organs had been pleading to receive pleasure as well. And I was so mad at myself, at my inability to trust that my girlfriend of six months could actually love me, accept me, and find me almost as sexy and beautiful as I found her.

Why couldn't I just be perfect?

It got the best of me an hour ago. We'd been able to share a loving exchange in the pure, utter darkness of her room. Curtains were completely closed, blankets covered anything that was exposed beyond the reasonable amount of shoulders, and even the clock was turned upside down, hiding the light. It was solace, epic, and comfortable, but it still managed to get me in my head about if a thunderstorm were to randomly appear, lightning illuminating the room and spotlighting my body.