Sometimes you forget about your past. You forget about being a victim. Forget about the time that you were manipulated and used. Forget that you abandoned your morals to please a man who just wanted to use your body. Forget that you willingly did so because you thought you loved him. He made you fall in love with him. He was your first love. Going to be your only love. Or so you thought.
You were raised to be a good Christian girl. No sexual activity till marriage. Purity is for the good. Purity is what a husband wants. No one wants a woman that is impure.
You made me abandon those morals. Lie to my family. Tell them I was going to bed early so we could chat online. Push my comfort zones to prove I loved you. I didn’t “have to” but I didn’t want to disappoint you. You took my innocence. You convinced me we would be together forever so I wanted it.
You showed me that to love a man was to give him my body. That’s how you love. You love through sex.
You made me think I was beautiful. Growing up, I never thought I was that beautiful. That I was worth the attention that you were giving me. I had a hole in my heart that needed to hear that I was someone of value.
As a woman, you aren’t taught that you provide yourself with your own value. But you should. No one else can determine how valuable you are. You’re innately valuable and posses a beauty that is held inside all women.
I looked for someone to fill that gap in my heart. To make me feel beautiful. Feel important. Feel needed. You made me smile. Laugh. You made my heart beat. It started out so innocent. And then it wasn’t.
You taught me what it was to ache for a man. To long for touches that I had never experienced before.
I’m afraid my love for sex started with you. That my interest and casual nature in sex was a bi-product of your manipulation. That you etched into my mind the thought that love equals sex.
I hate that. I hate to think that my life now is still influenced by you. Fuck you. I don’t want any part of my life impacted by you.
It’s like a scar on my heart. I forget it’s there. I don’t see it. You can’t see the wounds you gave me. The heart break that nearly broke me finding out that you used me. That your love for me was just lies. That you “loved” other girls too. That you shared our intimate moments. Intimate pictures with others.
I often forget about you. I’m happy to do so. But there is an underlying fear that you impacted me. And maybe the response to that is so what. So what you love sex now. Is that so bad? I mean finding your own value in men and relationships isn’t good. You could argue that casual sex isn’t good either. Or that the weird fetishes I have are a product of my fucked up past. Or the extremely high number of men I’ve slept with (50+) is a bigger sign of issues. Or that I’ve had fucked up relationships with others. I’ve been the online mistress to a married pastor and ended up falling in love with him and being the reason for his divorce (yes I know, I’m fucked). I’ve hooked up with a married man in India. I’ve cheated before on partners (but quickly ended things after).
Okay so now it sounds like I have a TON of problems. I promise it’s not all bad. I’m not all bad. But sometimes I do fucked up shit. And maybe blaming you for that isn’t entirely fair. I chose to do the things I’ve done after you. You had an influence but doesn’t mean everything else was your doing.
Reading this, whoever you are, you can see the internal conflict that flows through me. The sudden heaviness that comes when I recall what happened to me (yes, “to” me. I don’t blame myself anymore for what happened. I was part of it but I wouldn’t have done these things on my own accord).
The sadness of what I’ve experienced. The loss of my innocence. The heart break. The feelings of being used. The manipulation. The embarrassment. The anger.
And the fear. The fear of not knowing how far this experience impacts my life. How much it’s tainted my life and viewpoint. The actions I’ve taken (or not taken), potentially subconsciously, in response.
And few people know the details of what happened. It’s dark shit. Not things you tell to people casually. Or things you tell to people period. How do they respond? How should they respond?
There’s quite a loneliness in that feeling. A heaviness. A clear scar branded into my heart. Invisible to the naked eye but when shown a light on it, still quite raw.