Sex from the perspective of my troubled mind

I have been avoiding this topic, because it’s triggering for me, but I feel like I am in a good place today and it’s been on my mind lately. So I figure since it is a vital part of my struggles, I’ll write about it. The good thing about writing myself is that I’m in control over what I write. Even so, there will be mention of some unpleasant aspects of what is part of my sex experience, so if you are sensitive to that, please read with caution and stay safe.

Okay, so I guess what I’m writing about is what a sick puppy I am in regard to sex.

Sexual abuse was an ongoing part of my family experience growing up, and that’s all I’m gonna share about that for now, because I’m still uncomfortable facing those experiences more close up than just knowing they are there. What this is about is the mess I am in now in regard to sex. An inventory of where I’m at, so to speak.

When I’m in a good place emotionally, having a good day, I am not interested in sex at all. I don’t have sexual feelings, I don’t flirt, I don’t think about sex, don’t want to think about it. I even feel repulsed by it and like I’m going to be happy ever after if it never becomes a part of my life again. I shy away from thinking or talking about it.

When I’m in a less good place, however, it’s one very different story. Negative emotional upheaval is dangerous for me with regard to sex. I find myself nursing thoughts of sexual scenarios and they all include things that I feel repulsed by when I’m in a good place. Violence, humiliation, punishment, pain, getting used and dominated – that’s what I think of then, and what I get aroused by. It’s hard to describe it, because it’s not even a positive kind of being aroused, but a form of self-harm, I guess, similar to the desire to cut. Only instead of a razor blade, I go looking for destructive, degrading sex, because I feel turned on by it, even when that’s sick. Sex with repulsive guys, old lechers, creeps who are into sick shit, fantasies that involve family members and impulses to act upon them . . .  everything, whatever opportunity comes along.

I have come to a point where I don’t act upon those desire anymore, but it’s still very much there, and a really terrible thing, because being very sexually aroused yet knowing I mustn’t act upon my sick fantasies to stay safe is awful. And afterwards the shame and guilt and self-hate for feeling aroused by those sick scenarios in the first place is overwhelming.

It is one more reason why I really should tackle that stupid basement of mine, as I guess all the unresolved childhood trauma and the sick connections it left in my brain play a big part in this mess. I literally feel like two people about it. One side, the side when I’m well, wants to have nothing to do with sex, feels repulsed and everything and does not have any sexual feelings whatsoever. And the other side, when I’m unwell, gets up to no good in the blink of an eye, aroused by the sickest sexual shit. That’s a conflict that’s really hard to live with.

On having no friends, no social life

As far back as I can remember, I have never really had friends. Not in school, because I felt uncomfortable with the other kids and they either picked on me or ignored me. Not in the time I spent in institutions either. I talked with the other residents, but I never had real friendships.

I think part of it is due to the fact that I have always longed for the attention of parental figures more than for the attention of people closer to my own age. I’m awkward with people my own age. I don’t know what to do with them. What to talk about. Which doesn’t matter if the sole purpose of seeing someone is to get drunk together, but that’s not really friendship.

Today, I still don’t have friends. I don’t have a social life outside the family either. And no real desire for one. At the same time I feel like no friend would ever care about me anyway, like if I befriended people, all they’d do would be get fed up with me and dump me, so it’s better I don’t even try in the first place. And then I feel like that’s one more proof that I’m not normal and not even deserving of a friend.

Social anxiety doesn’t help. I feel uneasy around people. I feel like they will see how weird I am, that they will think I’m disgusting and ridiculous and will laugh about me or talk about me behind my back. It’s okay if I don’t have to interact and don’t have to see people again, but group therapy was always unpleasant and I did my best to avoid contact with the others.

The closest thing to friends are probably my siblings, my mom and dad’s children. They are family, of course, but it’s not like I grew up with them, so it’s also a little bit like friends. Especially my oldest sister is someone who I like being around.

Sometimes I wish I had friends, although I don’t really even know what for. Maybe I’m just wondering what I’m missing out on. I don’t think I’d be able to be a good friend. I’m not good about keeping in contact. I’m not good with keeping a healthy distance. I’m possessive of people and pull them into my mess. I push them away. I don’t think I’d have the energy to maintain a friendship anyway. So I guess it’s good I don’t have friends. A family is enough for now.

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