After being beaten, raped and molested through most of my life, I began to feel disgusted when a person, even on I was close to, touched me. It became a running joke amongst my friends, “Touch _________’s neck and she’ll scream and squirm. My boyfriend finally forced it out of me why I didn’t want him to touch me below the naval. The neck thing, I presume, is from being strangled so much as a child, since my brother has the same phobia. No neck touching.
Mine goes even further than that. To be touched by any person, no matter who, makes me uncomfortable. To engage in sexual activity I must be drunk to feel okay. My newer friends laugh about how I pull away from them.
Ever been shocked by static electricity? That sensation runs through my entire body when someone touches me. It’s hugely intensified and more painful if a man, especially a strange man, touches me. Yet, in the field I worked, and sometimes, even still, will fall into doing to make quick cash, That field is escort services. A fancy upper-class way of saying whore, streetwalker, prostitute, what have you.
So it’s just like being traumatized all over again. Is there some part of me, and I’m sure others, that enjoys this? That wants to feel those feelings again, the lack of control, the terror, the fear?
Otherwise why engage in a living flashback? Put yourself through the stuff of your nightmares in your waking life, at your own free will.
In many ways not long ago, for many years, I believed I was a sociopath. But that idea was thwarted when someone in the Rehab center I went to pointed out my capacity for empathy. I always felt like I was dead on the inside. Not all the way, just pieces of me. Those pieces of myself capable of loving others, of allowing others to love them. The part of me that could connect to other people. I felt like I was watching a poorly acted TV series in real life. That the issues people were saying they struggled with and the feelings they felt were so superficial and shallow. Like everyone was trying hard to be deep but they were just masquerading these fake feelings.
I also put myself back in time when I had sex for free. Not for pleasure, because I never had an orgasm outside of just myself. Like I was trying to prove other people could want me. Not realizing that I hate myself, not realizing that I was trying to feel attractive through people who meant nothing.
Still to this day I am sexually promiscuous. I try to convince myself I am deeply attracted to these men, when I know in my heart that I am really only attracted to the idea of the person. I find myself disappointed because I made myself attracted to a presumption I had made, and not them as a person.
So, as victims, why do we either go to any lengths to avoid being reminded of the trauma, and others go out of their way to relive it?
Considering I’m much more attracted to women than I have ever been to men, I am going far out of my way to feel every negative feeling you can think of. I am promiscuous with a gender I’m not entirely attracted to, simply to show myself that a man can be attracted to me.
And why? There seems no logical reason I can think of. I find myself wondering if I will ever be able to be touched, sober, by another person, without feeling sick, like I’ve been shocked.
Or am I trapped? Stuck inside of a body at war with it’s mind indefinitely?
Sin City from the perspective of the disposable. 