Slut

It's amazing sometimes the things that I still think.  I don't remember the exact conversation or what was being discussed. My first thought was, well, I danced with him.  I did this, and I did that. I was the one who had butterflies.  I was the one who liked the attention, and I thought that I mattered and that he cared.  And the thoughts start rolling, and the next thought is, well, I was just a slut.  These thoughts are more than automatic; they are truly what I experience to the very core of who I am. Some can say something, and before anything kind about myself, my go-to is, well, I was a slut. I danced with him, and I could give you millions of reasons why I am an awful, terrible person. I don't ever remember a time when I didn't consider myself a slut; that was just who and what I was. I do not remember a day in my life when I have known anything other than being a slut.  That word has literally attached itself to me like gorilla glue. I was a slut when I had butterflies; I was a slut that I danced with him, kissed him, and even liked the attention.  All those things made me a slut in every sense of the word. Once a slut, always a slut.

I think even as far back as five, that was what I was; I was a little slut.  Really, I could never have known what that was or all that it implied.  All I knew was that was what I was. To my bones, I felt like I was a slut.  I was a slut standing there picking out one of his tee shirts.  I was a slut when he would grab at my mother and look at me.  I was a slut when they would go take a nap on the weekends. I was a slut when I had to take the evidence to the trash in my bare feet. It really didn't matter the situation; I was the slut; I was the one that was something terrible and grotesque.  I was the one who was sluttish to my very core.  I was ashamed of everything about me.  I don't remember a time ever liking something about myself or being comfortable with who I was. I was hurt because there was something wrong with me.

I have been ashamed of myself my entire life.  I don't remember feeling anything different.  As time passes, I think it has lessened; it never really goes away.  That feeling of being a slut, of being a burden. All those times being a slut makes you a burden.  I always knew that no one wanted to be around me, and I always turned that around and made it all about me.  I always had chicken arms. My feet were ugly and terrible, and let's not even talk about our toes.  Shame was a constant for me because I never did anything right. There was always just something inherently awful about me, no matter what I did. I can remember my father's anger when I didn't do things the way that he wanted. Even when I had to hold his cross so it didn't make any noise. I was the one that was doing something wrong. 

There is a brokenness that comes with the word slut.  It's something that I don't even think that I have thought about or fully understand; it's just something that I am.  To this day, this is something that holds me back and makes me different. That is something that people just can't put their finger on, but it's there all the time, all day, every day. 

Today for the first time in fifty years, I learned that slut is not something that comes from a five-year-old or a thirteen-year-old.  Slut is something that is told to them. Slut is something that is told and reinforced over and over. I was made to believe that is just who I was, a little slut, always asking for it, looking for trouble. I was made to believe that was just who I was.  I will be 50 in 5 months and never ever knew that. I don't know who actually said those words.  I can make a pretty good guess that it was my father.  Honestly, I don't remember him speaking to me much. I knew so much by his actions. All that I knew, even at 5, those feelings and words were engrained, and I took them to mean that is who I was. When my mother would say I have to go make him happy, And they went to the bedroom, I took that on; I was the slut, I was ashamed of myself because of them. Somehow what was happening to her was my fault. 

I even tried to look up a picture of slut that would convey my feelings. I scrolled and scrolled; the pictures I found could never fit the little girl I was. I am so ashamed of all I knew and how I felt like I did something wrong when my parents were sleeping together. It's hard to even give it words. That utter loss of innocence.  Something that I want so badly that will never have.  Even trying to describe the feeling, knowing that my parents were going to have sex and the guilt I felt, the shame that I was doing something wrong. I was a slut for all I knew and all I did. I was even a slut for all the things that I didn't know.  So, anyway that I looked at it, I was a terrible, awful person who was at fault for everything. How unfair to a 5-year-old.  How unfair to a 13-year-old.  How unfair to any child.  Even me. 

I heart your heart.