Oh how I dread writing about myself. Yet at times in life I am inevitably confronted with this anguished task of exposing myself verbally. Sometimes I run & hide from this task, or find some roundabout way to avoid it. But I promised Chris that I would do, so here it is.
I really do hate writing about myself. This is especially true when talking about my sexuality because it is invariably linked to my first sexual experience being molested in my early teens by a family friend, an older gentleman. I would realize much later, this singularly traumatic event marked my existence through my teens and my twenties.
For years I was in self-denial that it had happened, or rather denying that it had any effect on me. I did not question for one second that it may have attributed to my bouts of depression or generally messy lifestyle of substance abuse and promiscuity.
I remember for a time in my late-teens and early-twenties, I would associate sexual pleasure with unbearable guilt and shame. Every time I would cum, even after masturbating, I would feel nauseous and sick to my stomach as if I had a panic attack (thinking back they were mini-panic attacks).
It was only a few years ago when the #metoo movement happened, & I came to an epiphany at the ripe-old age of 32. I began reading testimonials of rape victims, and realized I shared many experiences and thought-processes as them. And I was finally able to admit to myself, “yes this happened to me too, and yes it has had an impact on me”.
It may seem stupidly obvious to you reading this, but for almost 20 years it was a fact that I simply could not fathom. So I do understand why sometimes victims wait years before coming forward with their stories. Because it is too easy, and too convenient to bury the event along with the shame, the guilt and the pain.
I wonder if I had been raised in a culture that was more open for victims to share their stories without taboo or judgment. Or if I had been more brave or honest with myself when it had happened. Whether that would’ve changed things (duh). Because it is only when I admitted to myself that I had been hurt, that I finally started to heal from past wounds.
