#storytime

The desire to feel wanted unravels into a pile of clothes on a stranger’s floor, only to wake up filled with shame and wondering what his name was again. Milking the hangover with a chicken finger sub, a cool shower, and a nap, you think to yourself: At least I felt pretty and wanted for a few hours, even if now I’m busy slut-shaming myself.

👆🏻 That was the hamster wheel I didn’t know how to get off of.

I used sex as a means of validation, which went so strongly against everything I was ever taught growing up Catholic that I then believed I was unworthy. In this cycle, sex wasn’t fun. I wasn’t chasing the high of orgasms and release. I wasn’t free and experiencing fantasy. I was trapped, without windows or doors, chasing the idea of being wanted after a god-awful breakup that wrecked me—especially since he made sure everyone on campus heard just how crazy I was.

I didn’t know about gaslighting at the time. I didn’t know I was actually being abused, and that between him and the religion I was raised with, I barely stood a chance.

I carried the shame of being a slut around for two decades. Downplaying the fantasies I had. Embarrassed that I lost track of the body count. At the same time, always believing there should be more to it than that.

It’s not lost on me how differently my life could have turned out. At any given time, I could have become ingredients in serial killer stew. For decades, I carried the guilt, the shame—the belief that this behavior somehow made me bad. Sex wasn’t something to be enjoyed by women. I was just “giving it away,” didn’t that make me worthless?

When I finally had to face the trauma and heal the wounds, it was hard. There was a lot I had to unlearn about myself. There were a lot of fake truths I had to rewrite.

The further down the path of healing I got, the more free I became—and the more I realized the impact that our beliefs about sex have on us. Suddenly, my cause of suicide prevention & awareness and sex were melding together.

In an election where we are fighting over pronouns, we fail to realize that people are taking their own lives because the standard set by society doesn’t match who they are inside. Collectively, as a society, we are making lives harder.

And while I cannot personally relate to what any person in the trans community has felt and continues to feel, I have carried a shit ton of judgment for being in an open & kinky relationship. Even more judgment for the fact that I chose to talk about my lifestyle and choices—and don’t plan to stop anytime soon.

I have navigated outlandish and ridiculous misconceptions but I have never experienced discrimination at the entrance to the bar. I have never feared for my life or thought of ending it. I have never been forced to make the choices that we are currently asking an entire community to make.

My healing came when I got honest and truthful with myself. That was the hardest part for me—and I was lucky. For others, getting honest and truthful with themselves is the easy part. Living their truth is the hardest part. And I’d like to believe that if we could boil all of this down to human lives, not even a “Christian” could argue that God would choose suicide over pronouns, haircuts, and clothing.

I’d like to believe that the God I follow is understanding and loving, focusing more on one’s moral bank account instead of trivial things like who they are sleeping with. I refuse to believe in a God who rules out of fear—because that is a dictator. And last I checked, we were a country that stood firm against such dynasties, even if we currently have a candidate seeking such a position.

The value of human life trumps everything. I define human life as having opposable thumbs and the ability to breathe oxygen outside of the womb. Forcing people to fight for their rights only drives up suicide rates. So I ask you: Is their blood on your hands?

Listen to more on YouTube: