Were You Abused As A Child?
Somewhere during college, my life started spiraling into something unrecognizable. And it got much, much worse before it got better.
But I’m not writing my story because it needs to be read. I’m writing it because it needs to be written.
I need to shine a bright light on why I did what I did, so that I can understand better. Telling the story is like talking about a nightmare; it’s not quite so scary once it’s shared.
Promiscuity often goes hand-in-hand with alcoholism. But I believe there’s a stronger reason than just “alcoholics get drunk and do stupid stuff.” For me, both alcoholism and promiscuity stem from one deep-seated belief: I needed something outside of myself to validate me.
Alcoholism also often goes hand-in-hand with trauma, particularly childhood sexual abuse. I went to a lot of therapy and every single therapist asked me: “Do you think you were you abused as a child?”
I wanted to get better; I was willing to do anything to figure out the underlying causes behind my behavior. So I really thought about this, imagining every possible scenario. I thought back to my childhood, considered every friend, relative and friend of the family. I even considered strangers.
I really, really delved deep, trying to remember my dark, underlying trauma.
But there was nothing to recall. I was never abused as a child. I’m not blocking it out; it simply didn’t happen.
There was a time when I actually wanted to say I was abused, because it would have been easy to use abuse as an excuse. I hated my own behavior; for so long I wished that something caused the problem that was “me.”
But the problem was the way I felt about myself; I didn’t feel worthy of respect or care. I hated myself so much, I never looked inward to soothe my pain. I didn’t believe I had any good inside of myself. The middle school bullies taught me that my deep-down “goodness” was actually “weakness.” So I crushed that.
Instead I reached out – and reached out – and reached out – and begged and pleaded and cried, please love me! … even though the person who most needed to love me was me.
So instead of love, I got sex. I fixed it in my brain, so that sex seemed a fine replacement for the love I craved. No one was offering actual love to someone so needy and desperate, so I believed that what I got was somehow worthwhile.
I started to believe it was my choice, which gave me a (delusional) feeling of control.
And in spite of not being abused, I blamed my picture-perfect parents and the cruel girls in middle school for my self-loathing. I blamed them – well, I blamed everyone – for what was wrong inside of me.
I’m certain that I am not alone in this insanity; it’s commonplace in addiction. I blamed them because I wasn’t mature enough to blame – and therefore take responsibility for – myself.
Blame is just another way of reaching outward instead of inward. Everything I did was a way of searching outside myself to fill the void where self-love should have been. And the more I reached, the less love and validation I found.
It took me many, many years before I realized that the only way out … was in.