I waited to have sex until I was twenty. Before that point, I bought into the whole not-until-I’m-married thing. Then, as I proceeded to do everything but intercourse, I realized the ridiculousness of my belief (calling myself a TV, technical virgin in the process) and acted accordingly. I was in love with D. Both of us were virgins. It felt like the right thing to do.
The first time we had sex, it hurt. Then, it felt really good. The odd thing, though, was that I didn’t feel my hymen pop, and there was no blood. Now, girls lose their hymens in many different ways, so it’s not that unusual. However, I think I know now why I didn’t bleed that first time.
She is seven and naked, lying on her bed. He is crouched on top of her, with his cock hanging out of his pants. He is hard, and she is thrashing. This time, she is not being obedient. She is not lying quietly, passively taking whatever he does to her. She is thrashing her arms and legs as hard as she can, but it’s hopeless.
He has his hand on her mouth, and he is pressing down. She is trying to scream, but she cannot. He then locks her ankles with his so her lower body is pinned to the bed. That only leaves her arms free, and she is flailing them as best she can. She is also moving her head from side to side, but not with any success.
He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps pressing his hand to her mouth and stares at her with his empty eyes. She tries not to look at him, but she cannot look away. She is still struggling, but she is tiring rapidly. When he senses that she is just about out of energy, he takes his cock in his left hand and tries to shove it in her pussy. Close up of his cock pushing its way in her body with little success. She is dry, and even though his cock is wet from her mouth, he can’t get all the way in.
There is a ripping and a terrible pain, but he is soon stumped in his quest for entry. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot get his cock inside of her. So, he pulls out, sits on her shoulders and points his cock at her mouth. She cannot fight any longer. She opens her lips and lets him shove his cock into her small mouth. He places a hand on her lower jaw to make sure she doesn’t pull away, but it’s not necessary. She is broken.
This is my latest flashback, and, yes, it happened in taiji.
What can I say about this particular flashback? I have no words of wisdom to share. None. I still don’t completely believe (or know) if the memories are 100% accurate, but I am accepting that something deeply traumatic happened to me when I was a little girl.
I fumble to find meaning to all this pain. Well-meaning people have told me at many points in my life that that which does not break me makes me stronger. I would not be the person I am today without what happened to me in the past, they say. I have actually heard some women who’ve been sexually abused say that they would not change what had happened to them because it made them what they are today. Fuck that shit with a rusty pitchfork ten ways of Sunday. If I could change what happened in my childhood or being raped in Thailand, I would do it in a heartbeat. Yes, it made me what I am today, but think of how much more I could be right now without those two experiences as the foundation of my being.
I didn’t need to learn I was worthless in order to realize the value of other human beings. I didn’t need to be broken in order to be taught the fragility of the human spirit. I didn’t need to be trained that my body, mind, and soul were only for the disposal of others in order to see that every person deserves a life of her/his own.
Change it? In a fucking heartbeat.
I did the visualization my therapist told me to do. I sat down with the girl who had gone to Thailand to see what she needed. First she said chocolate and pizza. Those were easy. I had pizza today, in fact, and I have chocolate every day. Her next response surprised me, though. I thought she would say that she needed safety or protection or to feel like she fit in. Instead, she looked at me and simply said, “Love.”
It broke my heart. She was so vulnerable with her face stripped of any artifice. She was hugging her knees and looking for all the world like the lost little girl she was. I told her gently that I could promise her that she would be loved. She may not get to keep the love, but she definitely would get to experience it. That satisfied her, but it just made me sadder.
Love. That was all she wanted. Love for who she was and not for what she did. Love for being the quirky, freaky, odd girl she was born to be and not for the Stepford Minna that she had been groomed to be. Love for simply being alive and not for excelling.
I have a hard time believing that I am worthy of being loved and that I deserve to be loved. I constantly feel as if I have to earn that love by being witty and amusing, by getting perfect grades, by being the perfect weight, by giving of myself until I have nothing left to give, by being the best fuck ever, by knowing the right thing to say and do at all times, by doing something, anything, other than simply existing. How can I, in and of myself, merit love?
Love is qualified. Love is reserved. Love is unattainable. Love is impossible to achieve. Love is for other people. This, this is the life lesson that has taken the deepest root in me, and it’s the life lesson that I have the hardest time unlearning.
I deserve to be loved.
I am fighting the impulse to add a bajillion qualifiers to that statement because I fucking don’t believe it. Yet.
As for the flashback, it’s the worst I’ve had yet, but I have the horrible feeling that the worst is yet to come. I still am not totally convinced that the flashbacks themselves are the absolute truth, but I have reluctantly accepted that something deeply traumatic happened in my childhood. I just hope I’m strong enough to deal with it, no matter what it is.
I love this song by The Duhks called Four Blue Walls. I hope you like it, too.