In Response to Pop Chassid: Why I Dress Modestly

This is in response to 

Pop Chassid's Appeal to Women for Modesty 

*I am in no way criticizing his post. I thought it was very thought out and authentic. 

This is just my personal take on the subject.*

I dress tznius. 
Or at least I try to. 
I try harder than I care to. 

And then I tell myself that I'm dignified and full of self respect. 
Perhaps it even makes me better than the girl in a low cut blouse. 

After all, I don't look cheap. 
Men don't think I'm easy. 
I'm a classy woman. 
That's what I tell myself. 

But that's not the truth. 
It could not be farther from the truth. 
In reality, I have no self dignity. 
I constantly put myself down and am worse than my own worst critic. 

The truth is sad. 
The truth is that I hate my body. 
I'm ashamed of it. 
It feels dirty to me. 
In fact, any male attention feels dirty. 
It triggers me. 

It takes me back to a time when I was used for my body. 
When I was abused. 
When I was molested. 

I was a little girl, just seven years old. 
He would force me to get undressed 
and show my private parts to his buddies and they would pay him. 

As the years went on, it got worse. 
His friends were no longer involved. 
It was just me and him. 
Or whatever was left of me. 
I didn't have much of a say. 
And he was the active one. 

The abuse stopped abruptly before I hit puberty. 
Before my body began to develop. 
And so when it did, I was afraid. 
Afraid to provoke him, seduce him or catch his attention in any way. 

So I jumped on the tznius bandwagon. 
After all, we were taught that the woman holds the power
She is the one that brings down man. 
So I must have not been modest enough 
and that's why I was punished with the abuse. 
Now, I can cover up, stay out of sight 
and nothing will happen to me again. 

I was wrong, of course. 

Sitting on my high horse, 
I had to convince myself 
that being tznius really did make me a better person. 
Otherwise, he might see through my act and get to me again. 

But then it happened. 
This time involving someone else. 
Someone meant to be my equal. 
But he didn't respect my boundaries. 
He had to have what he couldn't have. 

And I was raped. 

My shame in my body grew stronger. 
Religion was no longer a priority. 
After all, I didn't want to be anything like my abusers. 
My "holy" abusers. 
But I still kept up the tznius facade. 
I hid behind my skirts and buttoned up blouses, 
hoping no one would realize how provocative I really was 
and what disgusting things I had done with my body. 

I look in the mirror and I cringe. 
Tears come rolling down my cheeks. 
I cannot bear the sight of my own body. 
They tell me I'm beautiful, 
but the face staring back at me doesn't seem so pretty. 
All I see are the scars of my past. 
It's so easy to find fault and pick on every detail. 
I feel no pride in being a woman. 
I see no beauty in the female figure. 
Its just a dirty mess in my mind.

I dress modestly but for all the wrong reasons.