I recently read that writing is like psychological nudity. The bare parts of your mind are exposed for everyone to see. There is nothing covering your private thoughts. Readers get to experience your inner workings. That’s the whole point of writing — the more open and vulnerable you are, the more connected readers feel.
Personally, I’ve never had a problem with nudity in the physical sense. Growing up, I competed in gymnastics for eleven years. Despite the numerous problems with the sport, it helped me create a deep connection with my body. To be able to do flips and back handsprings on a four-inch-wide beam, four feet off the ground, without killing myself, required the development of a profound and ever-present body awareness. I had to develop an intuitive knowing of where my body was in space at all times. To accomplish such feats, required bodily strength, bravery, and a touch of abandon. And I had to do it all in a skimpy leotard.
I carried that confidence in my body into young adulthood. Like many classic beauties, I was blessed with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a nice figure. Unlike most other young women, I was secure about my body, and I didn’t nitpick about any supposed imperfections. Feeling attractive and comfortable in college, I made love with the lights on, went skinny-dipping, and chose whatever company I wanted for the night.
Perhaps it is no surprise then that I have no problem going nude around my husband as a newly married woman. I will walk around our townhouse naked, take frequent showers with my husband, and occasionally go topless on our private boat. Although my body has certainly changed since I was 20 years old, I still like it, and my husband does too.
My penchant for going nude, however, did not transfer to the inner workings of my mind. For years, I hid my thoughts and inner ruminations from others beneath a thick turtleneck sweater. I created a façade of composure, competence, and surface-level niceties, top-dressed over my mind. My existential loneliness, constant internal pressure, and overwhelming emotions were sequestered safely beneath a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. I did not want anyone to see my sadness, my frustration, or my sensitivity.
To create a lasting marriage, one must be vulnerable in both body and mind. It took a long while, but my husband has now fully seen my mind beneath the thick protective layers of sweater and sweatpants. He has seen me melt into a puddle of tears, get irate over something inconsequential, and rave about the shining night sky. Thankfully, he likes the introspective, eccentric, and passionate woman underneath.
Perhaps I’m not ready to go fully psychologically nude, but I am getting comfortable in less and less clothing. With mental strength, bravery, and a touch of abandon, I plan to expose myself little by little to the rest of the world through my writing. I think you’ll like what you read underneath it all.
love, Lexy
