A Note from MarriageHeat
We don’t have a tag for things like this, as we do for other potentially distasteful content, but we’ll give a warning anyway.
This post recounts a very difficult story—a journey through multiple instances of sexual abuse, and a struggle with multiple kinds of sexual sin, some of which stray very far into darkness, as the author herself admits. As such, it may be triggering for those who have struggled with sexual abuse or addiction involving extreme taboos. Reader discretion is advised.
And please remember to maintain a Christ-like attitude of grace and love while reading and commenting. Thank you.
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I guess I should start by introducing myself. I’m a 34-year-old wife and mother. I’ve been married for 17 years—and yes, you read that correctly. I have 2 teenage children, the oldest being 17 years old.
I have a history of being sexually abused. The first time was by my younger brother’s friend when I was around 7. It awakened something scary inside me.
Soon after that, my female cousin convinced me to kiss her and rub on her. I was so desperate for a friend or attention that I’d have done anything, so I did.
Another time when I was about 10, I was offered money to touch a grown man’s penis (a family member). I declined and he went away, but the memory stayed forever.
I was not, and I am not, a regular-looking person. Most people call me ugly. I’m scarred, short, and outrageously sarcastic.
We moved constantly when I was young. I didn’t have many friends, and after being severely bullied, I became a bully as well.
I turned to books as an escape, and I found books that made me “tingle” at a young age. I liked the feeling, so I chased it. I would read erotica in the form of romantic suspense books written for adults. I would rub myself on the edge of the bathtub or on my teddy bears. I’d pretend to make out with my teddy bears, too.
I felt ashamed and scared of my desires and feelings. My interest in sexual things didn’t seem to end. As I got older, I stopped rubbing myself on things but continued reading titillating books.
When I was 13 years old, I was having a sleepover at a cousin’s house (not the same cousin mentioned before), and an older male cousin, around 20+ years old, touched me inappropriately. I just tried to forget what happened.
At 14, I started to hang out with a group that always drank. One day I got drunk with “friends” and one of them tried to have sex with me. He was unable to make it work, so he gave up. I guess the group realized I was so desperate for male attention that I’d do almost anything. So every weekend they’d get me drunk, and I made out with some of them.
One night I went to a party with my best friend. I got very drunk and her older brother, about 20, led me out to his car, where he asked me to do various sexual things. We got caught, but I was so drunk that I don’t even remember how I got home. I’m just so happy I didn’t get pregnant. I was more careful about my drinking after that.
I never told anyone about any of these incidents, and I was embarrassed.
At 15 years old, I met my husband. He was 18 at the time. We went on our first date, a movie and dinner. Later, I was on his lap in his truck, we were making out. I liked him, so I thought that to keep him, I should have sex with him. So I made advances, but he denied them and said it was too soon for that type of relationship. He dropped me off at home like a gentleman.
We continued to go out for over a year, with no sexual contact. After I turned 16 and he was then 19, he asked me to marry him. I said yes. (Puppy love, what can you do?) Soon after that, we had sex for the first time. I became pregnant immediately.
When my parents found out, my dad didn’t talk to me for months, but my mom supported me unconditionally. My husband’s parents are very conservative/traditional and insisted we get married. No one, besides my sister, knew we were already engaged.
So at the ripe old age of 17, I became a mother and shortly thereafter a wife.
I became obsessed with sex. I bought books about it, watched porn, and thought about it far too often. I tried to copy the positions I saw, the noises, and even the facial expressions. But I never found satisfaction in any of it, not even in the physical act itself.
I eventually found a genre of books specifically enticing: werewolves—books where the characters have sex both in and out of werewolf form.
It got me curious, and it led me to a very dark side of porn: beastiality.
I became obsessed with watching people with animals. I was embarrassed and disgusted with myself. I knew it was wrong. I was horrified when it brought me to an even darker side of porn, and an ad popped up about children. I was so horrified, mortified, and scared I exited out immediately. I cried. How could I have gone so far as to have that advertised to me? I had become a monster.
I threw away all my educational books on sex, stopped watching porn, and tried to get right with God.
Years went by. We moved far away from family, and my husband was constantly working. I became very depressed. I started reading erotic romantic suspense books again, which led me to porn and touching myself.
I had finally found out how to have the big O. Anytime I had time by myself, I’d masturbate to porn—woman with man, woman on woman, man on man—anything got me going. Eventually, bestiality came to mind again. I was more careful about which websites I went on. I kept to animals and went no further, but it still felt so dirty and shameful.
This continued on and off for years. At times I’d feel severe conviction and stop for months or years at a time, but I’d always come back.
I’ll add here that my husband loves me and wants to have sex often. He loves trying new things. He does not lack for libido, it’s I who struggles with libido. Fighting with depression and anxiety, being on and off prescriptions, and having a partial hysterectomy takes its toll.
This year, it came back to me—the need to self-release. I try not to watch porn—I stuck to the sexy parts of “normal” movies, and I’d gone on to read sexy stories online, but the beastiality kept coming back to my mind.
Now every time I masturbate, I feel dirty, and the conviction is strong. I failed again. Even if the stories are about men and women, I still feel horrible. If I read about a woman and a dog, it gets me off, but then I’m ashamed again.
Why am I so disgusting? Why am I a monster? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I get rid of this once and for all!!!???
Literally no one in my life knows this about me. I have no close friends to confide in. I tried online therapy, but they thought I was joking. I’m a sick human being in need of help.
I go to church regularly, I love God, but I fail constantly and so hard. Sorry for the dragged-out story.
I’m ready for the ridicule. Have at. Light your pitchforks and come at me.
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From Marriage Heat: Again, please remember to maintain a Christ-like attitude of grace and love while you are commenting.
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