Being Naked on the Internet

One of my least favorite things about my reality: if you Google my name you get the chance to see my breasts. They are there, for the masses to consume, if desired.

I was in a B horror movie. When I was 22 and an active addict and alcoholic and generally making decisions based on only the next 10 minutes (will I still be alive tomorrow? how can I survive this one moment? wait, where’s the manual for life again?) I chose to participate in the film and I got to run and scream and I got sawed in half.

I also had to simulate sex with a boy who I didn’t even want to have a conversation with and, like all good girls who meet their doom in a horror flick, I bared my tits.

It never once occurred to me that this footage would exist in the eternity of the world’s web browsers.

Since its release in 2003, whenever I meet new people (prospective employers / friends / dates) I’m terrified that they will Google me for “research”. We all do it. Our curiosity of people can be quenched within seconds with a few clicks. I became aware of my public nudity because that exact thing happened. I applied for a job that I really wanted and the employer did an Internet search.

“Is this you?” he asked. It was. It was me.

As a survivor of sexual assault, I need my body to be my own. I need to have control over who sees it, touches it, is stimulated by it. With the existence of the video footage this is no longer my reality. As I am typing this, someone on the other side of the world might be watching me pretend-fuck a guy whose name I don’t remember. This is my reality. This is the consequence of decisions made with a numbed-out brain. The consequences of rejecting myself so completely.

Back then, I wreaked havoc on my own body as a direct result from the rape and assaults I experienced. I fucked strangers, starved myself, couldn’t shower, wouldn’t connect with my humanness at all. It’s of little surprise that I made the choice to participate in the film.

Do I regret it? (Most days) no. I can’t afford to have regrets in my life. They will swallow me whole. I’m not proud of it. But more than anything it makes me sad. I think about that lost, scared 22-year-old girl and I want to hug her. Tell her she doesn’t need to act her way through life. That she will, in fact, survive her twenties. That her body deserves respect. That she can get up and be scared and be ok, all at the same time.

So how do I put myself out there now (on the web and otherwise) as a writer, as a human, as my most authentic self and simultaneously hope that no one will discover the badly-lit video footage?

The answer was handed to me when I met a comic book artist this summer. He told me about when he made a comic about the most embarrassing corner of himself. The closet skeleton. He never thought he’d write about it. But he did. And afterwards he was free. He didn’t have to worry about other people shining a light on his darkness because he’d grabbed a flashlight and did it himself. He claimed it.

Sitting there, in the library on a metal folding chair, my brain was suddenly seized with the thought “holy shit, I have to write about my boobs being on the Internet.” I needed to snatch up my nakedness and make it mine.

So, fuck yes, anonymous humans who might watch naked girls online, that’s me. That was me. And it’s the same body that moves me through the world today although my heart and values and choices look very different. I’ve also gained about 20 pounds. Today I buy food instead of drugs.

Two years after I shot the movie I got clean and sober. That was over a decade ago. I’ve been taught in recovery to not fester in regret. To honor every part of myself and my past.

And if I can believe that I am good in my core then I have to believe that everyone else is as well.

If people knew how much I didn’t want them to press play on the video, would they do it anyway? If they knew that it felt like a small violation to me, over and over again? Would they? We all have our choices.

We all have our consequences. But these words that you read are my flashlight. My nudity has propelled me into nakedness.