Dealing with childhood sexual abuse as an adult

** Warning ** Some of this content is graphic. It may have trigger issues for some. Please read this story if you are in a good place emotionally.

This has got to be one of the hardest things ever. Truly, I’ve been trying to get this post going for nearly two hours now and keep finding myself starting over or simply drawing a blank. I think there is a ton of stuff that I have never thought about before. This may sound stupid, but I thought after all those years in therapy and being able to be as open as I have been, that I had dealt with it all. It had occurred to me in bits and pieces that maybe I had repressed some things. I guess because I couldn’t remember what I repressed, I concluded that there was nothing repressed. Simple right? As I sort through some self realizations lately, I have had to face the fact that there are probably lots of things that have yet to surface. I know I intentionally shut down emotionally and waited for certain things to be be “done”. I don’t know how I will get through this post and sound coherent. My mind is racing to find the words to go along with the memories of things. Thank you to Lindsey, Faith Allen, Theo Fleury and Little Warriors for inspiring me to keep going.

As I said before, when I first started having orgasms, I didn’t realize what they were. The physical response in my body was embarrassing and therefore not pleasurable. I tried so hard not to “feel” anything or demonstrate any sort of reaction except what I thought I was “supposed” to. Since I didn’t know what was happening, and was never told it was normal, so I tried not to allow my body to respond no matter what my father was doing to me. After my father had what he wanted from me, he, at one point, was explaining that he would make me happy so I wouldn’t need to be interested in boys. Being 10 years old, I wasn’t interested in boys and was definitely not interested in my dad making me happy in this way. He would have me lay down on the bed with my legs off the side. He would tease me and kiss my clitoris ask ask me if I liked it. It was always such a dangerous question because in liking it, he would say that I was a slut of some sort and if I said I didn’t like it, he said he would “try again”. Since I didn’t want to be in this situation longer than I had to, I learned to say that I liked it.

I recall often looking up at the ceiling and consciously willing myself to clear my mind. I didn’t want to be aware of what was happening to me and I didn’t want to feel him touching me or listen to what he was saying. I had to be aware somewhat because I’m quite sure if he was talking to me and I didn’t answer that would have been a whole different problem. I did figure out at some point that he really didn’t care if I liked anything or not. It sometimes got down to a question of whether I wanted him to please me or not. With the option, I always said no. As I got older, I realized that it was really about him. Once he got what he wanted, I don’t think he wanted me around afterwards. So with that train of thought, I guess he wanted to make me have orgasms or “please me” but, maybe for his own purposes or some sort of game. Control? Maybe he enjoyed it. I don’t know. All I know is, I never enjoyed it and did everything I could to deny that it happened when he asked about my reaction. There would be a wave of emotion through me and a shudder and he would ask if I was all right. I would lie and say I was cold or something like that. I didn’t know if I was alright. I was just embarrassed and miserable.