During our time of secret visitation to my father, my mind kept haunting me with questions:
Why is he not touching me?
Why is he not acting normal?
Does he not love me anymore?
In the back of my head I was aware that his actions were not right. They were not love from a true father, but after you become use to being treated a certain way; in my case, sexually abused every time my father and I were together alone; your own sense of reality becomes warped and everything within you follows. I needed my father’s “love.” His lack of “affection” made me think that I was no longer loved and I felt completely useless.
I know this may sound…disturbing, and pardon my way of expressing my thoughts, but the only way to understand is through the truth.
I felt like something was missing; I was incomplete, so I replace his lack of love with masturbation at the age of 11.
The first time I experimented with masturbation was probably around the middle of third grade during the time that my grandfather began sexually abusing me.
Our class went to the computer lab. The seats next to me were empty (I was a loner.) The computer lab was freezing and my hand were trembling so I decided to put my right hand between my thighs. It wasn’t instant. I just felt a sensation like I had to pull my hand higher towards my vagina. I tapped my finger and I felt like I had to keep going. I was scared because I did not know why I was doing it and why I had this twitch to keep going, until the teacher approached my computer and I stopped. That was the beginning and the temporary end of my semi masturbation.
So, when I turned 11, my first response for satisfaction to this void was inserting the end of a razor inside my vagina. It did not hurt for I have gone through this process many times. I responded to the lack of affection; masturbation. The first time, I quietly cried on my bathroom floor; disgusted with what I have done. Disgusted.
Masturbation was a baffling escape. At first I knew why I did it, then I lost track on why I continued when every time I inserted an object in my vagina, it resulted in disgust, shame, and overwhelming tears.
I thought I was missing something, but in truth, my reality was warped into something false. I was used many times by many men, so, for me, that was “love.” When everything stopped, that urge to become useful continued. I was desperate to feel needed.
So, I turned to the only thing I knew…