WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POST DISCUSSES CHILDHOOD [SEXUAL] ABUSE AND SEXUAL IDENTITY IN A GRAPHIC MANNER. IT ALSO CONTAINS A LINK TO A DISTURBING VIDEO.
I was not going to post this morning. Give myself a day off; why not? Nothing really happened yesterday.
Then I watched the documentary Child of Rage. And it got me thinking.
I lay no claim to the kind of early sexual abuse documented in the film. But once again it made me think, and think hard to see if maybe…maybe there was.
Because there’s something at the back of my brain.
Something that scares me, and always has.
And it has to do with my mother.
I do not think my mother sexually abused me. I do think my brain misinterpreted some of what happened. What I’m going to talk about next is extremely personal and extremely embarrassing. I do not want to disable the comments on this, because I do think I need some balance. Maybe even answers. But I beg you to think very carefully before saying anything below.
Early memories. While I have a very clear memory of a specific incident, my gut tells me this happened repeatedly to me. Two years old, maybe younger. I was in diapers. The skin on my butt developed sores, little pimples that were hard and painful. What I remember is laying on my back with my legs over my head. That was the position my mother put me in when she wanted to lance these things. She didn’t do it with a blade; she did it like you’d pop a pimple, by squeezing it between her fingernails. It was horribly painful. I cried hard, begged her to stop. She kept telling me it was for my own good, that she knew she was hurting me but she had to do it.
While there’s nothing overtly sexual about that memory, I remember feeling sexual. My vagina was wide open and exposed. I was extremely vulnerable.
Without the penetration, it felt like a rape. The pain, the begging for it to stop with no effect.
I remember my dad looking on, his face extremely worried. He may have even suggested my mother stop, but she would have brushed him off.
And I wonder if this incident, if the repeating nature of that ritual, was the source of my early nightmares.
I wonder if that sharp, remembered feeling of a sexual nature was the source of my early masturbation. Daily masturbation. Public masturbation.
And I wonder at the position my mother put me in. Was my diaper being changed and that’s why I was on my back with my legs in the air? Why didn’t she flip me on my stomach to get to my butt?
Why that vulnerability?
I have no answers to put into my mother’s dead mouth. I have never felt like really talking about this before, other than in passing.
It might be my first memory.
While I’ve lived my life as a heterosexual, my fantasies while masturbating remain about women. Women who rape me, hurt me.
It’s always made me wonder.
And it’s always felt shameful. And sick.
I’ve experimented with women, but none that I was actually attracted to. It was clinical and unexciting. I wasn’t aroused by the experience.
But is that because I didn’t allow myself to be with someone I was attracted to? There was one woman, long ago. We were friends. I told her, she was cool and said it was okay, and that was that. Nothing happened.
We lost touch. Probably because of me. I don’t really remember.
This is nothing I want to be discussing at 8 a.m. It’s really nothing I want to talk about, full stop. But seeing as this blog has to date been my best source of therapy…I figured I’d take a chance and lay it out.
I’m just a disembodied voice out here, after all.