insidesuzyssoul











{August 18, 2011}   Looking back to go forward

A girl with her possible boyfriend.

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Hello again diary.
I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching.  Dex and I have been having a few arguments just lately. Nothing we can’t resolve but to make sense of it all I’ve had to go back, right back into my past to confront my demons to understand my present behaviour. All therapists agree that writing down stuff is a good way to sort out our head, so I suppose that you will have to suffice as my therapist right now. Hope you don’t mind. But here goes…

You might say I’ve had an interesting past. For years I couldn’t answer the question: ‘When did you lose your virginity?’ and that’s because I honestly couldn’t work it out. That part of my life was definitely foggy. Dexter often comments to me that I tell many versions of stories and that he has a hard time working out the truth. It’s taken him time to understand that it’s not deliberate on my part. I really believe that the things I tell him are the truth. The fact is that when that stuff happens, I genuinely don’t know what the real truth is, so I try and logically work out what the truth may have been from the fragments of memory left over.  Does that make any sense at all?
Gosh, I can’t help feeling that I’m sounding a bit crazy right now.
But diary, you can’t judge me so I am safe to continue.
It could have been John, my friend’s brother who I was seeing at the time.
I was 13 and he was in the 6th form. Highly inappropriate, you might say. And you’d be right to say that. The truth is, I didn’t even find him that attractive. At that age, all that mattered to me was that he was a boy and he found me attractive. Just being desired was enough. His age just made it all the better.
I felt so grown up.

So the beginning of my transition from girl to woman began with John or was it David? It really is hard to know. Who came first: the schoolboy or the paedophile? Why does my memory blur so?

John was my first proper boyfriend. I was a freshman in high school; young, innocent, albeit with raging hormones, and keen to be accepted into the exciting new environment. My classmate, Cassie, said her brother fancied me and would I be his date for the Graduation Dance? Oh boy. I didn’t have to be asked twice. This was an opportunity not to be overlooked. Of course I went and he got to second base in his mates flash MG with me on the way home. So we started on our little relationship. I pretended to love him because I needed to look cool and I wanted, nay needed, to be in love. The funny thing is, if you pretend for long enough you start to believe in the lie. So there was I, thirteen and in love with a seventeen year old boyfriend and all was well.

It was important for me to be cool you see; because I was a good girl. I couldn’t help it could I? I was one of those quiet, well-behaved girls at school who just gets on with her work. I was a biddable daughter, a pleaser, always reasonable, always relied upon to do the right thing. I was teachers pet and a guaranteed prize-winner on prize giving night. I needed to get out of this goody -two-shoes prison that I had constructed around me. I was fed up of being the good girl. I wanted to be bad. Little did I know how bad I would eventually become.

Alright diary, let me get back to the story.
So I was with John, we were just regular kids playing at love, going to the cinema, hanging out together, kissing and cuddling and the occasional grope, nothing more.
Then one Saturday afternoon my mum dropped me off with a group of my girl friends to go and see Heidi at the cinema matinee. John didn’t want to come. I didn’t blame him. Heidi was hardly teen flick material.

Now let me explain about my mother. She meant well. She just tried a little too hard to protect me. Deep down, I think she was afraid of my burgeoning sexuality as her own high sex drive had adversely affected her life and made her make some wrong choices. It made her afraid for my safety. So I wasn’t allowed to be comfortably sexual. My hormones were surging through my system making me think and feel bad thoughts. It was dirty; it was to be avoided at all costs. Nice girls like me didn’t do that. So sex was ignored, outlawed, vilified, became Suzy’s enemy number one. She didn’t realise that she was as ineffectual as King Canute trying to hold back the tide. Unbeknownst to her, I had been masturbating furiously to my dad’s not so carefully hidden soft porn collection from the tender age of eight. I looked forward to their trips to the supermarket so I could be alone with the huge pile of dirty magazines and put my right index finger and fertile imagination
to some use.
All mum’s protective behaviour, while well intentioned, had a dangerous side effect: it made me naïve. There I was, a horny, nubile innocent thrust into the big bad world of grown ups. I was looking for opportunity to break out of my squeaky clean prison cell and be bad. Surely that was a recipe for disaster.

So, there was pigtailed Heidi gambolling across the daisy strewn Alps on the cinema screen. There was I, lying back in the plush cinema chair, long blonde hair trailing over the back of the seat, aching for some stranger to touch it.
My wish was to be granted.
Before long I was no longer concentrating on the screen, but closed my eyes in sheer bliss as an unknown pair of hands expertly caressed my hair. I tingled down to my toes. Oh that felt even better than masturbating!
I wanted more and I got it.
When the lights finally went up, I looked across at the man who had had his hands under my bra. I hadn’t even bothered to open my eyes when he had moved from behind me to sitting next to me. Somehow my not knowing who he was made the thrill more intense, naughtier. I was able to sink into my well-rehearsed sexual masturbatory fantasy world.

I was pleasantly surprised at the man sitting next to me. He was very much more handsome than John. And goodness me, he was not a boy either: I metaphorically patted myself on the back.
I had gone and bagged myself a real man.

Now this was it. I was cool. This was irrefutable proof. This man must think I was much older than my years. He must have thought that I was really sexy and grown up. Was I going to tell him I was only thirteen? I wasn’t going to spoil the moment. He probably wouldn’t notice.
David Jones, thirty six years old, became my boyfriend number two. But I didn’t tell John. I didn’t see the point. I just felt even cooler; I was two timing my boyfriend with a man. At last I had real credibility.

He would pick me up from school in his souped-up car everyday. The word would go around the playground: ‘Suzy’s boyfriend’s here!’ and I would totter off, in a cloak and high heels of cool, admired by my peers.
I had done it. I was officially cool!
I hoped John didn’t know though.
Every day my new man and I would drive to the beach nearby my house, just not near enough to be noticed by my mother or neighbours. I made some excuse of an extra curricular activity at school to explain my tardiness. I became an expert liar.
We would sit in the beach car park, reclining in the front seats and kiss and fumble. He never got past first base though. He wouldn’t disrespect me like that. My David loved me. He wasn’t crass like the boys at school. He knew how to treat a lady. He would buy me ice cream and chewing gum and tell me how he loved me. Oh I felt so grown up.

Then one day, a few months later, he took a detour on the way home. Instead of going to the beach, he took a right turn and headed up to a mountain drive. He explained that he needed to talk to me. I started to feel funny. Was that nervousness causing the butterflies or excitement? I wasn’t quite sure. We pulled up in a parking space at a deserted picnic spot. He held me gently and whispered that he had to go away to the army. He loved me and would miss me when he was gone. I started to panic. I didn’t want him to leave me- not now! He explained that he had to go on a training camp and would write to me every day. Before he left he wanted to give me something special.
I grinned in expectation. I looked around in anticipation for the gift; maybe it was one of those teddy bears that said I love you on it. I liked those.
Instead he reclined my seat as far as it would go. He climbed over the gear stick and crammed his body into the foot well between my trembling thighs.
What was he doing?
He then started to sweat and tugged my panties aside. I froze.
What was he doing?
He pushed his face greedily between my thighs muttering over and over again:
‘I just want to make you happy. I just want to make you happy.’
Happy?
How did this thing he was doing to me equate to happiness? Ouch it hurt!
Whatever he was doing felt like nasty pinching, sucking and biting. It certainly didn’t feel good, or right. For the first time, I felt scared.
Why was my love acting like this?
He got up, face all red from his efforts, opened the car door, dragged me over to a large boulder , pressed me up against it , and with a single grunt he penetrated me. Blood trickled down my thighs. I had become a woman.

If only my mother had thought to tell me about paedophiles.
Maybe I would’ve been able to see through the thin veneer of teenage longing for romance and acceptance.
Maybe I could have recognised his grooming techniques.
Maybe I could have seen David Jones for the paedophile rapist that he was. But instead, I was thirteen and hopelessly infatuated with a man who had just raped me.
I even had a pet name for the weapon: Torty.
He taught me to kiss Torty discreetly on the beach so that people didn’t see.
I became proud of my ability to make Torty happy. I loved the way Torty would stand up proudly when he saw me. His love for me was irrefutable.

Around this time, John and I embarked on a full sexual relationship.
I can only surmise that this must’ve been the time when David was away. We had access to an older brother’s mate’s flat nearly, complete with a king-size bed and alcohol. Whoo hoo! When the flat wasn’t an option, we made do with al fresco; there was always a quiet place in some bushes.
I used to chuckle at how my mother thought I had suddenly developed an interest in nature. If only she knew. Now at last, I felt bad. But oh so good!

Well diary, that’s how it all started.
Odd thing was, it took me till recently to recognise that what happened with David was rape. Somehow my head didn’t want to allow it. It wasn’t to be the only time I was raped either. But I will tell you about that another time. We shall leave things there for now.

I’ve recently been making a connection between my first sexual traumatic experience, and my tendency to want to please or perform during sex. I’ve had to face that I have been hardwired to respond differently to sexual partners than other women who haven’t been through abuse. I realise that the only way to change this is, firstly to be aware; very aware. I also realise that this has to extend to anyone who has a vested interest in understanding me and my behaviour, Dexter, for instance.
So that’s why I’ve deemed it essential that Dexter knows all about my past.  Between you and him, I hope to be able to dispense with my demons and sort this shit out.
As I said earlier, there is more but I’m feeling worn out now. I’ll tell you the rest some other time hey?

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