Body image. Sexuality. Trust. Respect. Love. Personal space. Boundaries.

Through my life, these words have meant little to me. After being a young child who had her innocent love and affection taken advantage of, it was hard to expect anything less for the rest of my childhood and teen years. I accepted it as a way of life. I never really felt my body was my own, or that I had much control over what happened to it. In my mind, I was simply a non-entity. I was an object. I honestly didn't care. And in some ways, I enjoyed the attention I received. It made me feel good, feel like I was worth something, feel like I was special.

Because that's how it made me feel when I was a child. But I knew it was wrong. I knew it was bad. And I knew I had to keep it a secret.

But it wasn't hurting me. I liked it. And I didn't understand that that attention, that affection, that interest, didn't extend beyond the bedroom. It didn't continue when the door was open. When that door opened, I ceased to exist. I am a non-entity. I am invisible.

So of course I liked to be noticed. I liked being wanted. I loved the way boys looked at me. It made me feel special, it made me feel wanted, it made me feel like I mattered in some way to someone.. and it made me feel like a slut. I knew that it was wrong. I knew it was bad. And I knew I had to keep it a secret.

I don't really recall ever telling anyone 'Please don't touch me.' I let them. And I let them, and I let them, and I let them. And the few times I was asked, the few times I was not just offered a choice but presented with the decision, I didn't know what to do. It scared me. So much power. Someone was putting the control in my hands, handing over the power to choose. It scared me, and I didn't know what to do. But it sparked love, and it made me actually want. Truly want, for the right reasons. Want because I felt safe, because I felt valued and respected. It was so new. And I was 17. I realized, even then, that this empowerment came from this man partly as a method of self-preservation and self-protection. He was much older than I and had a lot to lose if I were to accuse him of ill-intent. Little did he know that he was opening my eyes to something foreign, something new. Something I wasn't ready for.

He knew I wasn't ready. And despite my wanting, he decided to wait.

And to hear later from a boy I had dated on and off for 2 years that he knew he could have had his way with me, but he didn't because of the love and respect he had for me? It blew my mind. To know that there I was before him, and he knew that he could have me, but didn't because he knew how much it would hurt me. He knew because I had poured out my heart to him, as a trusted best friend, after I'd lost my virginity at 15 about how much I regretted it. How it wasn't worth it. How I wished I could take it back and I wasn't so sure I even wanted it in the first place. He knew how much I hurt and how I hated myself for doing it. He had no interest in making me feel that way again. It baffled me.

My husband sees these habits. He is so aware of them, more than I am sometimes. And it has occurred to me that I don't have to be that way. I can own my body. It may sound odd for a woman of nearly 30 years to say 'I don't have to let you touch me'. But truly.. it's an awakening for me. I'm not saying that I've had some radical breakthrough and that I'm somehow better.. Because I'm not. And I struggle more now than when hid in the safety of being a non-entity.. honestly, I'm still in that place. In my mind 'I' still don't exist. But I see now that it's not the only place I can be.

But I fear consequences. The idea of denying my husband anything frightens me. I don't feel that I can afford to do that if I want to keep him, if I want to keep him interested. And the very act of admitting that I'm not in the mood, or would rather not, spurs panic. Panic and terror that I'm going to lose him, or that he might cheat again. He assures me that he won't. But the mind is not so easily reprogrammed.

And I'm still scared.

I really don't know why.

What is there to remember that I should be afraid of?

Yet as bits and pieces come back to me, I get more and more afraid. Things get worse, and I feel worse. I don't like it, and I don't want to remember any more.

I get little flashes now and then. I have a hard time organizing them into 'imagining things' and 'real memories'. I think part of that is because when those flashes come, I quickly push them aside. I don't want anything more than a flash, I don't want to relive it. I don't want to know, to see, to feel what happened.

I'm afraid of what I might remember.

I'm afraid it might be something horrible.

It scares me.

But I know it was nothing. It was no big deal. I'm sure the flashes are just my imagination inventing things to torment me with.

I want it to stop.

I don't want to talk about it. I see no reason to talk about it and see no good coming from doing so. Especially after having such bad outcomes from it in the past. And really, why talk? What's the big deal? I don't get it. Yet still, something inside me urges me to speak. Some still small voice is in there begging me to tell..

Tell what?

I don't feel like there is anything to tell. I don't know what to say. I don't remember, and I don't want to remember. But that just confuses me more. After all, it was nothing traumatic. Sometimes I wish it had been something awful, something painful. Then maybe I would feel somehow justified for feeling the way I do. And then I feel guilty and stupid and ridiculous for thinking such things. I feel that I've somehow trivialized the experiences of survivors of real abuse.

It's not that I think it was okay. I know it was wrong. I hang on to that. But how do I reconcile my part, my involvement, my responsibility, if I can't even stand the idea of replaying it in my mind? I'm afraid of what I might remember - even though I know it was nothing horrible, just kissing, and touching.. I'm afraid that if I remember it too clearly, I will find out that it was my fault, that I was the one who started it. And then what? How could I live with the accusations I've made? It seems like it would be easier to just leave it alone, forget about it, and move on.

But it always come back. And it demands to get out. And I fight the urge to talk over and over because it's embarrassing.. and I don't want to talk about it.