Vent Piece. Art By Me.

Vent Piece. Art By Me.

I felt the same anger that I did all those years ago. I felt the world fall still, and shrink to only what was in my own lens. My eyes were hazed over, shutting myself down to unresponsiveness because I was afraid of my own anguish. Intimacy is a servicehood that I only give exception to who I think are different, and yet all of those that are different, are the same.

I am deeply afraid of sex. Of intimacy. I often feel that I’m only used for my body. Nobody knows the extent of how bad my abuse was, because I’ve never wanted to tell. Recently, I was disowned by my family for coming forward. For once in my life, I’d like to talk about the horrifics that nobody knows about. I’m going to be unapologetic, because I’m not a whore. I’m a servant, and everyone knows that.

My earliest memory of abuse was at my grandparents house. I was taking a shower, when my grandfather came in and sat on the toilet cover, watching me as he leaned forward onto his knees. I hid behind a towel that was hanging on the rack on the outside of the shower door-- the shower was otherwise see-through. Trying to groom me with a sweet voice, he asked me to come out from behind the shower and to talk to him, and that I “shouldn’t be ashamed of my body.” Before it could go any further, my grandmother burst into the room, screaming at him and crying. Nothing came of it after that, but my grandmother fell into a deep depression. “YOU DON’T DO THAT TO A CHILD!” I don’t remember anything after that.

A year or two later (I don’t know what age I was or how much time had passed precisely, but I know I was very young and didn’t understand what was happening.), we were all at a family gathering-- all the members being on the paternal side. We were out on my aunt’s country property, and it was an okay time. I went into the house to go to the restroom, finding my cousin in the bathroom, who asked me to come inside and help her masturbate. I remember thinking she was in pain (though I now know differently), frantically trying to help her. 

On my other side of the family, when I was still very very young (elementary school), I was also experiencing sexual abuse. In the middle of the night, I would be thrown in the hallway, pinned to the floor as my cousin molested me, asking me to stay quiet, or I was ordered to do things to her.  I do not know how old I was, but I remember feeling strange, and scared. Years later however, it developed to more sexual endeavors, where she would make me practice sexual positions that her parents were teaching her to perform. One of the games would be “marriage” where we would roleplay the ceremony. Husband and wife. And then consummate the marriage. We would repeat it back to back multiple times, over and over. At every family gathering, we were being sexual. 

At one point, there were multiple children over, friends of hers, to which we all played a sexual game. My entire family knew of this game, but did nothing of significance. Or really... anything at all. No. Nothing at all.

The molestation with my cousin continued for years. I don’t remember what age I was when it ended, but I remember completely disassociating. I don’t like violence unless it’s upon myself. Even when I’ve been in physical fights, I always avoided hurting the other person. But at this time, I was being told I was unloved by my family, that I should have been thrown away to childcare (”so that your mom can have a child worthy of love”) or aborted, and I was being beaten at school. Badly. Bruises, being choked, being beaten to the point of coughing up blood. And then.... on top of everything else, I was being molested. And suddenly, she didn’t want me anymore.

I felt a range of conflicted emotions. I was holding all of my pain by a rope, and finally my tendons had separated from my bones and erupted. I disassociated, as though I had completely cut out all emotion at all except for rage.  All I could see was red at the time. I threw her on to the bed, and beat her until the parents came in to save her from me. For most of my childhood, every couple of months, I was being molested-- and suddenly I wasn’t wanted anymore. 

Eventually I made friends when I transferred to public middle school, who proved to be sexual predators. I thought it was normal, or rather, became accustomed to being restrained, or forced to be sexually touched. No matter how much I was reluctant, if they pressured enough, I would eventually stop fighting and submit. All of my relationships were unhealthy and extremely sexual. Most of it occurred in the woods, or in my own home. I joined an anime club, where most of my relationships were sexual. I had an affair with my best friend’s boyfriend as well, where I would be pinned to a tree, or shoved down onto the ground and my shirt ripped off of me, hearing a “you know you want me so bad.” I can still smell the scent of him. Additionally, I was dealing with another boy who often threw me into closets or against a wall, sliding his hand down my pants and pleading with me to have sex. These all went down for months. Eventually, I got into an abusive relationship, who made me have sex every time I was sad. Hours and hours of sex. Of sexting. of pictures. of sex. During that time, I had also been assaulted by my stalker, who forced his hand down my pants despite me using all my strength to stop him.

I don’t even remember my first time. I remember being pressured. And giving in. And crying afterwards, texting one of my friends that I didn’t want it. But I didn’t say no.

Eventually, I was pressured to have sex until I gave in, forcing myself to have sex in a car. I remember crying when I got home. I sat in the shower for several hours.

But then we get to college. I entered a relationship that consisted of only sex. It was the most destructive relationship I had been in, and eventually ended up with me in a hospital, almost dying due to an overdose. I cut myself so badly that my entire body was bloodied. My dorm room was stained with blood. My arms... my neck, my stomach... my legs... my chest... my shoulders. What he would do was speak romantically, or invite me over to his dorm, and then proceed to fuck me for hours until I was literally in tears from the pain. He would never finish. Hours... and hours... and hours. Sometimes I would get an hour break to sleep, and would wake up to him jacking off next to me. Or wake me by touching me in my sleep. Then, he would ignore me for a week, or call me unattractive, and then ignore me for a week. Then the cycle would repeat. He was my only friend in college, as it was difficult to make friends being a trans guy (though I stopped transitioning for him so I wouldn’t be alone). Years later, he would eventually assault me while I was unconscious. 

I don’t even know if I want sex, or if it’s that I’m running through a rythm-- like my body doesn’t even matter. I just obey because it’s the only thing I know how to do. Or I do it because I know it’s the only way I’ll be wanted.

Sorry. All of this came up due to some flashbacks from last night. 

well, thanks for reading I suppose. I feel better after doing the artwork and writing all that out. Please don’t message me calling me a whore. 

-Ashe.