The Breaking

Before reading the below, think carefully. The subject of this post is one that some might find distressing, and for others it might trigger unwanted memories. The purpose of my blog is not to upset people, but to show you the pieces of my life in the hopes that someone might find comfort in a shared thought, moment or experience. It is also my attempt to connect with myself, lost as I am, and hopefully to look back at my life with less judgement and to accept it for what it is, and move forward.

It is extremely difficult for me to remember the two encounters I am about to describe, one of them was of my choosing, and the other, was not.

I was eighteen, in college, and searching for validation, for acceptance from others. I desperately wanted to be wanted. I wanted to be the interesting girl; the pretty girl; the funny girl; the fun and carefree girl that boys picked. I was none of these things, still am none of them in my opinion. I briefly dated a few boys in the year ahead of me at college, but I felt awkward and unsure when alone with them. Up to that point I had very little experience with the opposite sex, I had never gone beyond kissing them and was acutely aware that I was one of a dying breed at that age: a virgin. As time went on, I decided that I this was something that needed to change. That if I could overcome the initial fear of sex, I would be less anxious and shy with boys. More importantly, if I couldn't offer them my body, how would I ever compete with the carefree, fun, interesting and pretty girls?

So I decided it was time to rid myself of my virginity, and after considering all the options available to me(none, who would want to see me naked?), I chose alcohol as my method. It was on a night out with friends from college, and after many, many snakebites and a game of 'I've never', I set out to entice my prey. At least that's what I told myself I was doing, that I was being an independent woman and taking charge of my body and sexuality. In reality I was a drunk, damaged girl looking for just another way to hurt myself, to punish myself. As inebriated, obvious and barely clothed(I cringe when I remember my night out ensembles)as I was, I unsurprisingly had little difficulty finding a willing participant. What followed was a quick and painful encounter in the men's bathroom. The deed is mostly a blur in my mind and if my partner in crime was standing right in front of me, I wouldn't know his face. Or any other parts. I made a vague attempt to clean myself up, pulled my skirt down and stumbled back out into the bar to drink myself into a stupor. As seedy and unhygienic as those five minutes were, there is nothing nefarious or outrageous about them. They probably seem entirely unimportant to you, and indeed they did to me that night. But they were important. At eighteen I thought so badly of myself, believed myself to be worth so little, that I chose to loose my virginity to a complete stranger in a toilet. And I did it because I thought I would then have something to offer men, because I knew I had nothing else, and without their advances I had nothing. I was nothing, I was worthless. The next day I was filled with a mix of relief, and shame. Shame that grew and grew, until the very thought of repeating the act repulsed me. I was ashamed of my actions, and ashamed that I couldn't just be 'normal' and glib about it. Either way, I had now had another piece of evidence to affirm my beliefs about myself. I could do nothing right, I would always be a failure.

A few months after the above, having shied away from dating completely, I went out with some old friends. We were going to a nightclub, the type of venue that was definitely not a place I would choose to spend time. A place where a girl in baggy jeans, a tank top and a tie(don't start) would be t turned away from without hesitation. But I went anyway, dressed up in borrowed clothes, a suitable sleepover lie in place with my mother. The night began at a house party, some rich, arrogant rugby player with too much of daddy's money burning a hole in his pocket. I stood awkwardly to one side of my friend for the entire time at the house. These boys were not like the mostly unassuming and good-natured ones I spent time with in college. My relief when we left for the club was palpable.

As soon as we arrived I knew I had made a mistake. It was too loud, too full of people who sneered at my converse, and I quickly lost my friends in the crowd. I couldn't leave until the girl I was staying with did, I couldn't bear the atmosphere surrounding me, so I did the only thing I could think of: started drinking. After a few vodka and cokes I started to relax slightly, found myself a seat in a corner to perch on and watch the world go by. After a time, the rugby player joined me, and I had drunk enough that I was able to ignore his bravado and my shyness and talk to him. At some point a challenge was set, who could drink the most. I can feel your incredulity at my stupidity through the screen. How did I ever think I could out drink a 6ft something rugby player? Hey, I never said I was the sharpest crayon in the box. All too quickly the nightclub was closing, I had drank far too much and discovered my friend had left. Before you think badly of her, I discovered the following day that she had told me she was leaving, but my vodka filled brain obviously couldn't comprehend English by that point. Luckily, the rugby player still had plenty of money in his pocket and offered to share a taxi with me, my friends house was only a slight detour on the way to his house. If I had been thinking clearly I would have remembered that this was not the case.

If I had been thinking clearly I would have wondered why getting out of the taxi early and walking for a bit seemed like a reasonable plan.

If I had been thinking clearly I would have wondered why we stepped off the path and slid down into a wooded area.

I would have pulled back when he kissed me, because I wasn't attracted to him.

If I thought more of myself, I would have stopped kissing him, because I wouldn't have felt a tiny spark of pleasure that somebody wanted to kiss me.

If I hadn't led him on I wouldn't be lying in the dirt and wet leaves.

If I wasn't so drunk I would have said no louder.

If I wasn't so weak I would have pushed harder.

If I wasn't so pathetic I wouldn't have given up struggling and just lay there and cried.

If I wasn't so stupid I wouldn't be sitting in the bathroom trying to scrub blood and dirt off of my friends skirt.

If I wasn't so disgusting I wouldn't be sitting in a waiting room for an STD test.

Over and over I told myself all of these things, I told myself it was my own fault. Then I told myself that it was because he saw me for what I was, nothing more than a warm body when all the other options are gone. But at least that was something right? The worst thing that could happen had happened, I didn't need to be afraid of sex anymore. Sex didn't mean anything, it was just something people did to each other. Because if it means nothing, than that night means nothing, and I can forget it. It means nothing, that night meant nothing and most of all, I meant nothing.

What I know now, is that not one second of that night on that wet ground was a result of anything I did. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. I still only half believe it, although I want to believe in those words with every inch of me. Because they are the truth, even if I can't yet allow myself to accept them. After that night, something died inside of me. Some small vestige of self respect, crumbled and blew away on the wind. I would spend the next year proving to myself just how worthless I was by engaging in another charming BPD trait - promiscuity. Not that I am saying there is anything wrong with casual sex. Have it as often, and with as many people as you feel like. But not it if makes you feel like less of a person; not it if makes you hate yourself. I wasn't promiscuous because I was enjoying it, but because I was now able to use sex to find validation. Only it didn't quite work out that way, it never does.