Just the Tip of the Iceberg

I was raised in a religious home. At least, my mom raised us kids that way since my dad wasn’t really around a whole lot. Growing up, I got a lot of mixed signals regarding sex and the naked body. I mean, children are naturally very curious about the body and how it functions. There’s a reason why “playing doctor” is a thing, but we were expressly forbidden from doing anything like that. It was so forbidden by my mother that she threatened to spank us with a switch (a switch is a very thin, bendy branch). That didn’t stop me sometimes, but there was definitely that very strong fear instilled, and that intense shame attached to it. Even thinking back on the things I did, I feel disgust. I feel dirty. Even though what I was doing wasn’t even wrong.

 

My mom pulled me from health class when we did the sex ed portions. I didn’t get to take sex ed until I was in 8^th grade because I was told by the teacher that I would fail if I didn’t, so I made sure to not tell my mom about it. My parent’s version of sex ed was “boys want it but you can’t let them” and “pretend you’re holding an aspirin between your knees.”

 

On the other hand, as I got older, they would tell me how important and wonderful sex was; so long as it was saved for marriage. Anything was fair game so long as it’s with your husband and ONLY with your husband. If you did anything outside of marriage, it diminished your value.

 

It diminished my value.

 

The thing is, they never talked to me about consent. For my 14^th birthday, I was given a promise ring by my dad. It was a promise that I would keep myself pure for my future husband. But, what they failed to talk to me about is that there are some people out there that don’t ask for permission. And this lead to confusion and lot of unnecessary anguish.

 

When I was 15, I learned how to fresh kiss. *gasp* My boyfriend at the time thought it would be a good birthday present for me. This guy was a straight up skeez, but he was the first guy to express interest in me. And all of my friends, too. I’m not even kidding. He was 17 and he honestly wasn’t good looking at all. Not even a little bit. But man, did he make me feel special sometimes.

 

The very last time I saw him, it was the last week of school. Maybe the last day. He and I walked together to a secluded area on the college campus next door. I was a very shy person and I refused to kiss him in public, but I was more than happy to sit on this 17 year old’s lap and make out with him. There’s nothing wrong with kissing, right?? But when he reached his hand up my shirt and started to grope me, I experienced a LOT of internal conflict.

 

I was trembling in both excitement and fear. I had never been touched this way. And it was bad. Very, very bad. It was a sin! But also I kind of liked it? But I’m not supposed to like it! It’s wrong! This is what bad girls do. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him to stop. Not because I wanted it to continue but because I was so scared. But what was I scared of? I was scared of telling him no, but why?

 

I ended up telling my best friend about this encounter. To which her response was “Why didn’t you stop him???” I… couldn’t. But it’s okay now. I was never going to see him again, since he was moving up north.

 

My best friend was very protective of me. She knew I was the pure and innocent one and she wanted it to stay that way. And I was okay with that. I liked being the pure and innocent one. I was the virgin. And despite that end of the year situation, I was still the innocent one. So innocent, in fact, that I would wear short skirts and crop tops because I honestly thought they were cute. I was incredibly naive.

 

Guys loved to pick on me because I was so cute and innocent. Touching my butt and watching me blush and get mad. It honestly just occurred to me how much sexual harassment I endured throughout high school. I always considered my sophomore year as the “good one” because nothing really bad happened. And, I mean, that’s still pretty true.

 

It was my junior year when things started to get out of hand. Within the first couple of months, I was felt up by a guy I didn’t know. During history class. FULL OF STUDENTS. I had never felt so terrified and alone. My best friend, sitting mere inches from me. And I didn’t have the power to say or do anything. I just thought “Please, God please, make her notice. Please, someone save me.”

 

No one did. I was not saved that day. I felt dirty and damaged. And this would not be the only time he would do this. In fact, he found me in the library on one of the computers at some point. And he sat next to me and started to feel me up again. And I thought, “No one is going to save me. I have to save myself.” I turned to him, ready to tell him to stop. That I didn’t like what he was doing. And when we made eye contact… all I did… was smile. A small, nervous smile. I found I couldn’t speak.

 

Afterwards, I was inconsolable. My best friend was furious. She wanted me to take this to the campus police, but I was scared. Unfortunately, I was still very much not okay when I got home. My parents noticed, and that made me cry even more. I was so scared to tell my parents that there was a boy at school who was touching me. My dad was frustrated that I wasn’t telling him what was wrong. My mom said “Give her a minute. She’s so upset that she can’t speak yet.”

 

I don’t remember telling them. I know I did, but I don’t remember anything else from that night. All I remember is my angry father taking me to school the next day to talk to the principal. He would take care of it. He would make sure this boy would pay for touching his daughter.

 

But this didn’t make me feel better. In fact, it made me feel worse. I’m very glad that my dad was so protective of me and he was there to help me get a restraining order on the guy, but I had experienced trauma. And that was only the beginning.

 

There’s something that has stuck with me from all of that. A lot of people, including my father, would ask me “why didn’t you say anything?” as if to imply that I was at fault in some way. But the officer said to me “Some people just freeze up. It’s actually pretty common.” And that made me feel a little better. I wasn’t broken. At least, not completely.

 

But I was incredibly vulnerable. I was now 16 years old, having experienced multiple cases of sexual abuse and only knowing these things: My value was determined by how untouched I was; my virginity was the most important thing and everything sexual is bad and shameful. I remember crying out to God; trying to repent for things that I didn’t do. I just wanted to feel clean again. I wanted to feel like I was a good girl. But I didn’t. I carried that shame with me everywhere I went.

 

I could stop here. And maybe I should stop here. But I also want to keep going. Unfortunately, it just gets worse from here. I haven’t even talked about the hard stuff yet. Will I even be able to? I’m typing this at work. I should be working. And my usage is monitored by the company. My email isn’t private. But… I also don’t care. And that’s not to say that I don’t care if I get caught, because I do. But I shouldn’t be ashamed of this. I need to do this to heal, and I just don’t have the free time at home to do this, unfortunately. So, blog at work, I shall.

 

That same year, I ended up befriending a guy named Matt. He was very interesting to me. Thinking back on it, he just lacked a lot of common sense. And he was a pathological liar. And I wonder if he had Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I mean, he was so absolutely different from me. He was exciting. He was daring. He was incredibly dangerous.

 

He could chug a large frozen smoothie and not get a brain freeze. My dad said he must have no brain. My dad didn’t like Matt. My dad didn’t like anyone. I was his eldest daughter.

 

Oh, side note, I was “cheating on” my military boyfriend at the time. See, the thing is that my mom told me that I was forbidden to go steady with any guys. And I was allowed to date multiple guys so long as I didn’t tell them. My mom taught me this. And I believed her!

 

I honestly really loved Carl. He was my adult boyfriend in the Army, and people were concerned for some reason that I, a 16 year old, was dating a 20 year old. I didn’t understand why that was a problem. In retrospect, I see it. But I also want to say that he was, by far, the most respectful man I ever dated. Not ONCE did he try anything with me. Maybe it was because he was a knight in shining armour. Or maybe it was because he was worried about the law. Either way, he never once touched me, even though I would have probably let him.

 

Anyway, so I was with Matt while I was also with this guy in the Army. And even though my mom said what she said, I couldn’t help but feel incredibly guilty. I felt bad about it. But I was also lonely. Carl was overseas and we got to talk maybe once every couple of months? I’m honestly remembering this as I’m typing.

 

I’ve forgotten a lot. I don’t remember how Matt and I got together. And I don’t remember how it ended up getting as bad as it did. Probably slowly. Like a frog in a pot of slowly heating water. I was depressed and I didn’t like myself. My mom told me that I wasn’t depressed. I stopped reaching out. I started to feel more and more isolated; from my family, from my friends.

 

Matt was manipulating me. I was afraid of him, but I was afraid to break up with him. He verbally, emotionally and sexually abused me. Oh, and he was 19. But I didn’t tell anyone this. I felt so much shame and hate for who I was… I started to self-mutilate. It was Matt’s idea.

 

I was acting out. I wasn’t sleeping. I would stay up and call him after my parents went to bed because he told me to. I truly believed that he could really hurt me if I didn’t do what he said. And I mean, in a supernatural kind of way. I was scared of him in the 4^th dimension. Haha. I’m not kidding though, but that’s for another time.

 

I did a lot of things that I regret, but the worst thing is that my parents thought I was sexually active. I wasn’t. Not by choice, but by coercion. And my parent’s STILL don’t know that. I never told them that he was hurting me. I never told them I was starting to have panic attacks. I never told them that all I wanted was for someone to save me.

 

Instead, they gave me Christian literature on being pure. Books about how masturbation is bad. I was disgusted with myself. Every part of me was shameful. I wanted to marry Matt. Not because I loved him and I thought we would live a good life together. Of course, I did love him, but I wanted to marry him because I was defiled by him.

 

But church camp came and I spent time with a boy who would end up saving me. My mom was overjoyed. I came back from church camp with the strength to move forward. The strength to push Matt away. I was still scared. And I was still very broken, but I didn’t feel alone anymore.

 

My mom would say that she has her daughter back. I was 17 now and I wanted nothing more than to forget everything from when I was with Matt. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t. I would have flashbacks. Certain sounds, smells and images would trigger a panic response. I wouldn’t understand until 15 years later that I was suffering from PTSD.

 

And now, at 34 years of age, I’m trying to learn that my body isn’t shameful. That intimacy with my husband isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s not something I need to repent over because it’s not wrong. But this isn’t going to happen overnight. It’s not even going to be a fairly quick process. It’s slow and painful and it sucks.

 

I have a lot of past abuse to process. And that was only the tip of the iceberg.