forty-two: pleasure

i’ve been dreading writing this all day.

and in fact, spent the latter portion of the afternoon completely activated while trying not to be, my body afire, wanting to tear out of my skin. culminating in shaking and sobbing in my bathtub and then in my bed with my stuffed dog clutched tight under my chin. oh and i did some butterfly hugging in there a couple times too (i really need to re-name this, coz it annoys the everloving shit out of me that something this flighty-sounding works as well as it does when i’m panicking and triggered) (i’ll wait while you google it). and, as i so often do (poor woman), i sent out SOSs to pocketbrit, who, thankfully, was there, being her usual loving, anchoring self. who, along with time, and my steady, gentle wife, calmed me enough so i could sleep it off. i only slept an hour but so deeply, and it reset things, somehow, and i woke up with my body and mind quieter.

and i don’t even know exactly what it was, except i suspect that the whole show was not helped by virtue of just reading this word. there was instant shame, a jolt in my body.

because all mixed up in the pain and horror of it is also pleasure. is also, bodies responding. both in the remembering of it, and possibly at the time. and this feels so gross, because i was a little girl when it started…both pocketbrit and i, we were both so so small when our bodies were violated by the men in our families. and fuck, we shouldn’t have known about any of it, especially not at that age, by those people.

and because sometimes, when my body remembers things, it tingles, throbs, invites me to explore it. feels kind of good. and then god, the shame, the fucking instant hot lava of shame because what kind of revolting girl…?! i mean i didn’t enjoy it, how could i, i didn’t know what the fuck was happening so much of the time, but sometimes my body did respond. i certainly knew from a very young age what felt good, and masturbated all over the place. ugh it makes my face burn now because i didn’t even try to hide it. (but also, did not a single aunt or grandparent or my mother, perhaps, ever wonder about why a toddler was doing that?! was anyone awake at all?)

it’s gross and shameful and awful to begin with but add the fact that my stupid fool body gets in on it…how are we not supposed to hate ourselves for that? how are we ever meant to have a normal sexual life ever again?

Pleasure

Content Warning for this post: CSA, sexual content.

Fuck. This.

I hate this word. As in HATE this word. It feels so icky and gross and shameful and makes me feel like barfing.

And I don’t know how to write this post because if I actually write what my mind brings up it will be extremely crass.

*****

Okay, screw it. This is gross and triggery, and please only read if it feels safe.

The first thing that came to mind = guilt accompanied by his dear friend shame.

The image, actually the feeling, I can still feel myself there when I think of it, of being layed on my brothers bed, clothes removed from the waist down, my legs spread, his hands right there, doing the things he was going to do. I don’t remember anything leading up to this, this is where my memory starts (and there are plenty of the same thing). All I know is I feel sick with fear and anxiety, it sits in my tummy, and I’m just static, unmoving. I remember the first time he commented, told me how ‘wet’ (I’m sorry, sorry. I hate myself too) I was. I didn’t know what he meant, what he was talking about. And I had no voice to respond to him. I couldn’t talk. He continued this route, this fucking guilt trip, twisted silencing enforcing bullshit. It became how I ‘wanted it’ (despite sometimes panicking, sometimes kicking him, freaking the fuck out), and then it was how I was a whore, a cunt. It was how he did something for me (that I felt forced to do, never directly asked for), and so how I had to repay him. And yet it still stands…my body responded, it was experiencing pleasure. And that makes me hate myself an infinite amount. My body never betrayed me fully, it never responded all the way. At least not that I can remember, and not that I ever want to remember, I don’t think I can cope with that.

All the anger, it’s not even really at him. It’s at me. I what? Just walked in? Stripped and layed on his bed? Let it happen? Enjoyed it? Ugh. Fucking disgusting child. Fucking whore. Piece of shit.

I want to tear all of my insides out. I fucking hate this word.