Deprivation. in Phoenix

I spent the majority of my childhood feeling deprived of affection. My family was just not very expressive about emotion, either verbally or physically. I just don’t really remember a lot of hugs or “I love yous” in my childhood. What I can remember is craving it, wishing someone would hug me and love me and make me feel safe. I can distinctly remember feeling unloved.

From the earliest signs of puberty and hormones and weird body things, I can recall seeking out affection from others. I would accept it from any source, regardless of how it made me feel. Until recently, I had no concept of what healthy affection was supposed to look like. I have always just… submitted to whatever affection anyone was willing to give me.

I have so many random memories of myself in really unsafe and uncomfortable situations with men. Boys, even, because many of those memories occurred between the ages of 12 and 18. I put myself in situations that I didn’t recognize were dangerous, and I was never taught anything about consent. I remember meeting an older boy when I was maybe 12 or 13. He called and asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. It was late, dark, and I went and he… in the middle of a dark road, he pulled me to him and kissed me and put his hand in my shorts and… hurt me. And I remember just… leaving my body. Not letting myself feel what was happening, just letting it happen because isn’t this what is supposed to happen between a girl and a boy?

The boy who was a year older than me and took my virginity at 16 and then proceeded to rape me several times over the following months. He liked to hurt me, too. He liked to make me cry. He liked to leave bruises. He fucking well knew better. But I didn’t. Because it was love and affection, right? We were together and he loved me and would hug and kiss me and hold my hand and…

Or there was me at age 15 and involved with a 25-year-old pizza delivery guy. I had a few experiences with men who probably should have gone to jail for what they were doing with me.

Those boys and men knew better, they had to, and so did my first husband when I was only 17 and he was 22. Ah, but I can think, “Well, he was the virgin there, not me.” Or, “Well, I was so mature for my age, always.” Still doesn’t excuse his behavior then, or later when I was only 18 and he would… I don’t know if I’ve ever written about this. I know I’ve told… someone. Maybe a couple of someones. He wanted me to role play with him. Oh, well, okay, right?

He wanted to role play raping me. He wanted to pretend to sneak in and wake me with rape. He wanted me to fight. He wanted to hurt me.

And I let him. Because it was affection, you see? I was being touched, wasn’t I? And he loved me, right? I mean, he married me, so…

Sperm Donor. Jesus, that’s an entry all on its own, I think. He knew better, or fucking well should have, when he badgered me and badgered me endlessly for sex. He just couldn’t take “no” for an answer. He had to push and push, if he just does this or says this, he can talk me into it. If he just touches me here or there even after I’ve told him no multiple times, I’ll have no choice but to give in. And it worked more often than not. I would give in just to get it over with, get him to leave me alone for a bit. And I would tell myself (and he would tell me, of course) that I should be grateful that I have someone who loves me. That this behavior is just something I must endure for the sake of being in a relationship with someone. Because aren’t all relationships about compromise and making concessions? And isn’t it a woman’s place to please a man so he takes care of her and provides for her?

And the second husband. Well. There was so very little physical affection from him, but he told me he loved me, so at least there was that? His lovemaking was so robotic but at least it was something, even if it was only something every few months for maybe half an hour… He married me and he loved me, right? And at least he didn’t hit me.............

My whole life has been nothing but a quest to feel loved and desired because I didn’t feel that at all in my childhood. If you’ve read the entry about my mother and childhood, you’d know that my mother called me her little “surprise” which really meant “accident” and I grew up knowing that I wasn’t planned or wanted. I was told in early adolescence by my grandmother that my dad was going to divorce my mom before they found out she was super-unexpectedly pregnant. Like he felt my sister (who is 13 years older than me) was old enough to handle it and was going to leave my mom and then… bam! Major inconvenience. Me.

So many things have suddenly made sense to me in just the last half hour or so. My brain somehow looped itself from last night to all of the things I’m feeling about it today to why the fuck have I always accepted such toxic “affection” from toxic people. That’s like being hungry and being offered a shit sandwich and thinking, “Well, at least it’s a sandwich. I mean, sure, it has shit on it, but it’s a sandwich and I’m hungry.” I wasn’t hungry, I was starved.

Now I’ve written myself all raw.