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Well here i am, back at it again with a lot of personal information to share
Typical me, though.
Why waste time?

Two years ago in July, i posted this...
www.deviantart.com/fae-captain…
I finally unearthed the courage to talk about a traumatic experience in my youth, and how it effected me mentally, emotionally, and even sexually.
How it almost ruined a dear friendship.
It was a pivotal moment for me, being so bold as to share that, but as i read back over it this morning i saw just how ashamed i was.
I openly stated i was ashamed, too, and casually compared my pain to that of others.
I downplayed it, even though it's basically a fucking novel about how it completely scarred every aspect of my life.

I have long felt...just plain guilty for having this trauma.
But in the two years since i made that post, i've learned a lot about myself, and how brains work, and how my family dynamics and placement, as well as emotional manipulation and abuse have boxed me into such a guilty people-pleaser with some of the most heated Imposter Syndrome you can imagine.
It's commonplace for me to downplay my pain, as i struggle to find the balance between letting it consume me, and trying to pretend i don't have any at all.
In fact, my Imposterism is so bad, it was only a few weeks ago that, in one major aspect of my psyche, that bitch finally got cut down to size.

---

---TW// sexual trauma, medical trauma---

---

I am a survivor of medical sexual trauma.
I was not intentionally abused, i was not wheeled into that dark room as a punishment.
The procedure was for my health, my safety, but it was rape.
My urethra was penetrated against my desire and will.
It may not be conventional, but it is what it is, and it's real.
I was raped.

At 27 years old, it took me reading another encounter this morning by another person, who accepted it and wrote it boldly to 100% accept that it's more than just sexual trauma.
Now i can say the word.
"Rape."
But before this, i had struggled to even accept that it was sexual trauma.
From my post two years ago, it's very obvious that i had not yet accepted it as such, despite the reality of it.
Part of the reason why i couldn't accept it, was i simply still had no idea what in the world happened to me.
What was done to me?
What was the name of that procedure?
When i asked relatives, no one knew -- if they even remembered.
No one knows how old i was, either.
I spent most of my life pushing that memory down, pretending it wasn't so bad, trying to cope with what it left me with.
Because of the lack of recollection, and my having no idea what it even was or more fine details, for years it's felt like i was the only one.
The experience alienated me, made me feel like i was sick or weak.
It's like i've spent years living with a ghost, haunted.
I've been haunted by it for so long.
But now, at long last, the apparition is being torn into the light from behind the musty drywalls of that dank old basement in my mind.
This ghost is taking shape as a physical, tangible thing.

      Several months back, i finally got up the nerve to start doing some research.
I wanted to know what urinary medical procedures (routine ones) could be done on kids.
Evidently, my brain had chosen to finally open a cabinet, sensing i was ready to begin my healing journey.
I came across urodynamics and branches of those (spoiler alert, none of those are what happened to me).
Since i could find nothing else, i assumed this was what i went through.
At least, some form of it.
But the procedure just wasn't quite the same.
I found a video on YouTube of a nurse(?) prepping a (cis) woman for a urodynamics test.
But seeing it was so different, i left a comment explaining vaguely what i had undergone, and that it had traumatized me, and ended that by asking if anyone had any idea what i underwent.
Some months passed -- just a couple.
In that time, i wrote a fic on Ao3 about Peter Parker in an AU where he was abused for most of his life, and then had a dynamics test done on him.
This was me just wanting to cope, and do it in detail.
It felt great to do and get off my chest, and has been received well by a small amount of people.
Can't complain there!
But even then, i still struggled with the Imposterism.
I still compared myself to others, and then accidentally even triggered myself into tears and detached depression by viewing a scene from American Crime where a boy had to get a rape kit done.
I felt like dogshit.
"How dare I react like this, use these real life experiences to satiate my stupid needs over something that wasn't even that big a deal," i thought.
For about a day, i hated myself deeply.
I felt like the scum of the earth.
What happened next was nothing short of Divine Intervention.

Seeing my scorching self-loathing, Kitten (my boyfriend of ten years, in case ya'll are new lmao), talked to a friend of his in person about what i was going through (in loose detail).
That friend, who experienced sexual abuse as a child, said they actually believed my case was sexual trauma.
They even made it known that if i ever wanted to talk to them about it, the door was open.
When that was relayed to me from Kitten, it truly meant a lot.
I figured "Well, if a real sexual trauma survivor says it's real, it must be, right?"
Still downplaying myself, it did push me closer to acceptance.
But still, so many pieces were missing...
I also felt reaching out and talking about it with a survivor of "real" sexual trauma would be unfair to them, although they kindly would disagree with that sentiment.

Later that same phone call with Kitten, a part in the clouds finally tore.
The light of heaven poured in on me, as i got a notification on Gmail.
While Kitten was talking to me, i opened the message; it was a response from someone on that comment i left on that video months back.
They said:

"I think you're describing a VCUG.

I had one as a preschooler and it definitely traumatized me and impacted my life pretty severely.

There have actually been studies done on that procedure and it was found to affect children the same way sexual assault does.

I'm so sorry you went through it but you are not alone!"

That changed my life.
It's only been three weeks, and i can tell you without a doubt, that changed my life.
A stranger sent by God Themselves, on the perfect day at the perfect time, handed me the key to power, acceptance, and self-forgiveness.
Imposter Syndrome drained from me, and i just...sort of went quiet.
Best of all, was i had Kitten on the phone to "witness" it, and be there for me.
He even wept for me, because he was just so happy i had an answer.
I myself was sort of just shut down, because the revelation was so big i couldn't feel anything yet.
Typically, when i learn something big and emotional, i don't feel it right away.
It kinda just sits there.
Kit and i call it "the box."
I have many mental boxes for many different things, including my sexual interests.
My boxes make me emotionally intelligent, as i can often analyze them or prepare.
Many boxes aren't closed so much these days, but i digress.
While on the phone, i briefly googled "VCUG trauma," and by golly, a lot of information suddenly popped up.
People asking questions, sharing experiences, articles debating sedation for children getting the procedure, etc.
I didn't read it all or anything; i just needed to know it was real.
And the ghost began to take on flesh.

After maybe ten or twenty minutes, after we hung up, i walked outside and stood in the sun, and began to smile.
Began to feel pride, relief, and power.
Power.
I felt powerful.
I still feel powerful.
So many questions answered already.
I vowed that day to find a way to turn this pain into power, and have since decided it is my mission to someday become a certified sexologist.
I've been interested in the subject ever since i was traumatized, and i always will be.
It may be 20 or 30 years before that dream comes true, but goddammit i will do it.
And i will be an educator about all things sex, ranging from basic biology to trauma and how to cope.

Funny thing, that.
Maybe it's because i'm Autistic, but i've always had a fascination with events of the mind, and how the brain processes everything.
Sometimes i detach from my emotions, and just think about my experiences on a clinical level.
I think about it in plain, doctoral terms, psycho-analyzing myself and my past.
When i do, oddly, it satisfies me, and helps me understand myself better.
It makes what's hidden in my emotions, obvious in the space around it.
I can mentally "back out" of myself sometimes and view it like a third party.
Not everyone believes in this stuff, but i remember reading in high school that people born on October 9th are natural psychologists with a knack for reading and analyzing human behavior.
Even my mom gets mad at me for analyzing her on the spot, but only because it angers her to have her behavior called out.
It makes her mind feel naked, so she lashes out and shuts down.
But again, i digress.
Another fight for another day.

    Most people try to deny their trauma because they don't want to believe something so terrible could have happened to them.
For me, i already knew it was terrible and that it happened, but my reasoning for denial has always been different.
It's always been me thinking i never "earned the right" to call it what it was, and accept it.
All the fighting...
All my life, things have been handed to me.
I've been sheltered, given opportunities and care my parents, and my older sister did not even have.
The sad irony is that's what all generations strive to do; make a better world for the generation after them.
But then when we actually get opportunities, we're told we're "weak," that we "could never survive" the life our predecessors had.
But...isn't that what you wanted...?

My mom and dad never intentionally made me feel bad for being sheltered.
My mom has allowed it to make her believe i'm incapable of doing anything, but that's a different angle.
My sister, however...
She's ten years older than me.
As we were growing up, she was dealt a very unfortunate upbringing.
She's adopted by my mother, and it was our mom who saved her as a young girl.
Then i came along, and i was adopted in, too (my mom is actually my grandma and she adopted me from my birth mom, it's complicated).
And by the time i came along, a lot of cards fell into place.
Parents bought a house, got out of the trailer park.
We had money, we had stability, we were out of the hood, out of danger, out of Tornado Valley.
I was born and raised into the first most ideal circumstances my mom ever could provide for her kids, and i wanted for very little (except affection and lots of attention, lol).
And as the youngest, as the baby, i got my way a lot.
And as mom and dad worked to maintain our lifestyle, Sis was tasked with babysitting me a lot, and also cleaning a lot.
She had her own trauma, her own PTSD, her own issues, and i didn't make it easier on her.
But i was a little kid; how could i know any better...?

She got mad at me a lot.
It took years for me to understand why she was so cruel at times, but she loved me, and she did everything she could for me.
But whenever something arose that caused me upset, or even if i was just a tad too advantageous, she would remind me that i was spoiled, and looked down on me in seething anger.
Her jealousy, her pain, became my burden over the years -- without her meaning to.
When i was scared about having my first job, and mentioned my physical weaknesses, as a grown woman, she irritably reminded me "people are in worse situations than you and make it work, Alyssa."
I was reminded a lot growing up that my life was good.
And because my life was good, i was not supposed to have negative emotions; only gratitude, only happiness.
No complaining, no being scared, no this, no that.

Being Autistic and highly emotionally responsive made it difficult to express myself right.
And before the VCUG, i wet the bed on the pullout couch i was sharing with Sis one night.
She had been stuck watching over me.
She was angry at me for it, angry she had to clean up my mess.
And to top it off in life, i was the oddball.
"Gifted," perhaps, but ultimately, the freak show.
Everyone adored me, but yet also viewed me as the black sheep.

These days, that charcoal coat of mine just keeps getting darker.
I've been really peeling off the mask since the pandemic started, really letting my emotions finally pour out, and defend myself.
I've put my foot down about a lot of things, though admittedly i've been doing so since i was ten years old.
After seventeen years, my family still cannot seem to accept that i am who i am and as i get older, the more they try to pin me down, the angrier, meaner, and more detached from them i am going to become.
I may not have wanted much physically growing up, but mentally and emotionally, i was robbed blind, and to this day, my family is incapable of providing me with the love and total acceptance i know i deserve deep down.
Toys, food, a bed and roof are wonderful, but that cannot give me acceptance and unconditional love.
But what fuels me, is knowing i'm not the only black sheep out here.
Every person i draw close to me is their family's black sheep, the odd one out, the misjudged, misunderstood, and most tragically, underestimated.
I won't rest until i've surpassed black; i want to be vanta.
I won't be snow white, i won't be who anyone wants me to be.
I'm gonna be a sinner and singer and a lover, a writer, an artist, an outspoken millennial progressive fighting for equality and body acceptance, and a cleaner world for the future generations.
I will be who i am and i will embrace myself and my needs, even if it means burning bridges in the end.
For years i've tried to make myself and everyone around me happy, but these days, i realize it's me or them, because when i'm happy, my family isn't.

I know this took a weird turn, but it is relevant to the sexual trauma.
I can't talk to them about it...
They wouldn't understand, or would downplay it.
And any time I've asked questions to mom, she all but shuts down and brushes me off as quickly as possible.
If i were to open up about that to them and be shut down, it would cripple me.
This trauma and my progress are so important, so fragile, i have to guard it with my life.
I have to understand fundamentally that my family cannot help me with most of my needs.
Much of that is them choosing not to.

I'm not mad at my sister for our childhood, either.
What she had to deal with was unfair, and her jealousy is more than understood.
When she had my nephew when i was 14 and i was left to do for him as she had done for me, i had the same emotions.
Jealousy, anger, loss of privacy, frustration, aggression.
I was very mean to him at times (but i also played with him and had more fun with him than Sis had with me.
Which is still okay, though.
I understand).
I intend to someday let him know that i'm aware i was mean to him, and that i'm sorry.
He loves me, and i love him very much, too.
I know he will be forgiving and understanding when i find that right moment.

I'm not mad about what happened in my childhood.
What angers me is that i know i will never get an apology, or be able to have a civil discussion about it without them becoming angry and defensive.
That is my anger.
My anger is at 37 years old, Sis will never be able to accept that she almost single-handedly caused my inability to be okay with having had a decent life.
What a weird fucking sentence, man.
I'm trying to unlearn this toxic idea that having things handed to you must make you a bad and weak person, because other people are suffering.
I forgive the little girl who was angry, i forgive the teenager who just wanted personal space and to enjoy her life without the burden of a younger sibling.
She's okay...
I'm sorry she went through that.
I'm sorry she couldn't have what she needed growing up.
I hope she finds it, and finds peace.
She too, is a very angry and chaotic person.

--

      When i made my post two years back and explained i had trauma, i mentioned my mom and dad being allowed to finally come into the room towards the end of my procedure didn't exactly make me feel better.
I mentioned how, had my mom been allowed to be there the whole time, it might not have made a difference.
I went on to say i didn't understand why that is, either.
But oh, now i know why.
It's because ever since i was little, i've known i'm different.
I've known my mind isn't like most people's, which i now know to mean "neurotypical."
Much of my emotions and needs were unmet and misunderstood -- not on purpose, but it was what it was.
I knew that my support system wasn't actually...the support i needed.
As one person said, having their parents in the room was no help, because they spent their lives wondering why mom and dad stood there and allowed them to be violated that way.
Well...i already have those feelings without them being in the room, but with the answers that make me forgiving.
I knew that they knew what would happen, i knew that they knew i would hate it, and i knew that they didn't like it.
I understood it was for my health -- that's why i was compliant, even though it hurt.
That's why i didn't fight.
Now, when i think about finally having to have a GYNO visit, my first thought is "the second they reach to touch me they're getting kicked in the face."
I think about a doctor trying to touch me, and my first thought is always "KICK."
A short while ago, i just thought about it and my legs twitched; fight or flight toils away in me.
I feel the energy pulse through my veins, like electric shocks, ready to battle for my protection.
...I might have to work on that...

The person i read about this morning online said she had Vaginismus, just like i do.
She also has chronic vulval pain, which she believes are both resulted from the trauma.
Maybe that really is why i have it, then.
At 27, a doctor hasn't interacted with my genitals since the VCUG.
And if one ever has to again, they better put me out, or otherwise wear a mouth guard.

About a week or so ago, Imposter Syndrome crept its way back in when i was talking to a different friend with childhood SA experience.
That person, who doesn't like to talk much about it, told me about their repressing the memory until they were in high school.
I took note of them not being as open about it, all while being supportive and letting them know they can tell me anything if they ever want to.
But upon thinking of this, and then reading a fic that was way too dark for me (and accidentally getting upset by it), i told Kitten i felt bad about the fact that i am open about my trauma.
I said it made me feel like i was "bragging" about it, like i was proud of it or something.
It made me feel inferior, yet again.
But again, he talked to that one friend of his, and they said they actually talk about their own experiences all the time.
They reminded me that everyone deals with their pain in different ways, that some feel better and cope easier by being very forward and open about the fact that they suffered through something.
This checked out, and i instantly felt better.
I think my older followers and friends know by now that i am a very open book, and sharing everything just relieves my mind.
So if you don't like that...
Tough coconuts, buddy.
I'm here to stay.

    I think i actually repressed my experience, only for a short while.
I remember being sexually aroused by bladder-related things, and being frustrated sexually because i had a need i didn't know how to satisfy, but never thought about where it came from.
My mom caught me with my hand on myself once and quickly reprimanded me.
Upon visiting that subject later in life, she tried to say, "I thought you were scratching and didn't want you to think you could do that in public or something."
...?
Even if you actually thought that, i wasn't allowed to itch myself at home, in a fucking bed, privately?
Doesn't really add up, but nice try, buck-o!
Regardless, that one snap at me made me think i shouldn't touch myself ever.
Finally, at the age of twelve, i discovered a cup and water in the bath, and loopholed my way to success.
At long last...RELEASE!!!
Now i do what i want.

    This subject fascinates me, too.
Many of us with sexual trauma actually inadvertently become aroused by things that relate to it.
Yes, i have a fetish, and i don't want to talk about it in detail -- but i'm finally not so ashamed as to say, i have a niche sexual interest, related to bladder things, because of trauma.
It's not gross, it's not wrong, it's just me.
And it's a pretty big community, too.
I remember taking baths, having my first O's, and doing so while...oddly enough, thinking about my school bullies at the time.
I remember my sinister thoughts, using them mentally as puppets, deriving intense pleasure from their misery.
Little did i know i was hitting two birds with one stone; i was taking power back over my pain from the VCUG, and finding a way to feel control and power over my bullies.
I remember going to school the day after that first time thinking about that bully, and seeing him in class.
I wasn't attracted to him, i didn't like him.
I thought he looked like Sid the Sloth, honestly, and sounded like him too, but i was a very nice little girl, and despite what he put me through, never said that to his face.
But after that session in the bath, after humiliating him in my imagination, i remember just smiling.
From that point on, he could never hurt me again, because i had control and i had a release.
Nothing he did ever fazed me again, and from that point on, bullying melted away from my life.

I thought about a lot of things you would hope a kid doesn't.
I knew i liked boys, but i related to girls, so before the bath, i would think about...women...with...penises..???
Funny, i don't actually know how i knew penises were a thing, but i knew boys had them -- i had known since the VCUG (note my feeling empathetic and terrible for boys when the nurse told me boys always cry).
I remember feeling aroused at the thought of penises, however vaguely i envisioned them, and was curious.
Genitalia, sex, toileting, and attraction become a massive part of my mind, and remains so to this day.
I've had boyfriends since i was in first/second grade.
Always innocent, but damn, i sure liked boys.
Now as a grown woman, i like men!
...
It really sucks liking men!
LMAO!
But, moving back into the darker aspects of my life...

I remember in sixth grade, looking through my textbook in Health class, and coming upon a small section about sexual assault.
I remember this being an awakening for me mentally.
That word, highlighted in my textbook.
"Rape."
I was fascinated.
I was obsessed.
I would randomly go to that page and re-read those little vague passages, craving more information.
Playing in the yard, i would thinking about.
But i knew that i couldn't talk about it, really.
People would judge me -- this was a bad thing, so why was i so eager to learn about it?
There was shame; i felt disgusting.
It was bad enough that i pleasured myself, i thought.
I felt like a degenerate.
Why was i envisioning my favorite characters going through this shit?
It was more about them getting comfort, really, but for a small portion of my life, i know i wasn't thinking about the VCUG.
I think i did repress it.
When it came back to me, i have no idea, but it wasn't devastating.
It was more like "Huh...oh yeah, that happened...maybe that fucked with me a little."
Oh, if i only knew.

Finally, i understand what i was experiencing was normal.
It was less graceful, granted, because of my being Autistic and severely lacking manners by asking my friend, a SA survivor, mildly invasive questions that kept them stressed out.
After everything, and two years after that last post, yes, i do still feel like shit for what i did.
Some guilt i really will take to my grave, i think.

The hardest thing has always been my instinct to compare my trauma to that of others.
But as Kitten lovingly explained to me, comparison is pointless, because if everyone compared theirs the way i do, no one would technically have it, because someone out there would always have it "worse."
Not to mention, the varying human perspectives of what's "worse" for a person.
He's right.
I shouldn't be comparing as a way to diminish my experiences.
This journey should be about opening up, learning, accepting that i was hurt, and turning my pain into knowledge.
As for my fixation with SA and the like (and now i more boldly am using bladder trauma in my hurt/comfort, too), Kit suggests it maybe is just easier for me to cope and draw comfort through the lens of a character with an experience somewhat different from mine.
Makes sense to me; the thought of VCUG stuff and lots of catheters has always given me anxiety and makes it hard to concentrate on the comfort.
But as i learn, and as i'm pulling back the curtain, and finally putting flesh on this ghost that's haunted me, parts of me have assimilated.
Things that typically make me nauseas chronically...don't always pack the same punch anymore.
It still fucks with me, sometimes it stresses me out, makes me feel sick, etc.
But it doesn't hit as frequently as before, and as i slowly, at my own pace, expose myself to more information about VCUG's and their processes, i feel my brain changing.
Trauma changes the brain, yes, but...so does healing.
I'm healing.

People who haven't experienced sexual trauma -- and sometimes those who have, have a tough time understanding why someone would "want to subject themselves to the thing that traumatized them over and over again."
But that's just how some trauma works.
BDSM, S&M, often come fundamentally from a survivor trying to get power back over something that hurt them.
People underestimate the power of sexual healing as well, how pleasure and control, or even the safety to surrender it, can heal and sooth the brain.
It's transcendental, it's so agonizingly sweet and good.
We cannot change this, and shouldn't try.
It's also commonplace for some survivors to be unwittingly drawn back to the place they were harmed.
When you've experienced trauma, parts of your brain just play on and on like a record, never going off.
I have my bad days and my good days, and i'm get getting started.
Weirdly enough, i like hospitals.
I like to be in them.
They both perplex me with mixed emotions, and make me feel safe.
They stress me, but also make me think of happy times in childhood.
That much, i do not know how or why.
I'm still learning about why i like hospitals.
Even though doctors and nurses anymore...kinda make my skin crawl.
I want to trust them, but i can't.
My trauma aside, i've been neglected by lazy physicians and specialists for far too long.
I like to put my fave characters in medical scenarios with lots of comfort.
And at long last, i have projected parts of my experience onto the character Tony Stark!
It's been nothing short of easing.

Would i change my fetish if i could?
I don't know.
Would it make a difference...?
My partner and close friends do not see or treat me any differently.
It's not ruining my life, it's not made life harder.
Sometimes i get frustrated by my fetish, because i want to like more vanilla things.
But at the end of the day i can't change it.
As long as i'm accepted by the ones who matter most to me, i can live with it, and make the most of it.

Is this a scar on myself as a person?
Yeah.
It's left a major imprint on my mind and life, and even my body.
All it took was once, just a couple minutes.
I'll never be the same.
But...i'm not broken.
I'm not tainted, i'm not bad.
This is the way of life; experience.
I have come to earth, and i have experienced sorrow.
I will have more sorrow.
But i will also have healing, and best of all, knowledge.
The greatest tools i have ever had coming this far are knowledge, and love.
For the first time in my life, a small, tiny sliver of my soul knows peace.
Those red alarms that went off in my head every time i thought about what i went through flicker, and then swiftly die.
I am learning to be comfortable with my needs, too.
It's been easier for me to talk about the hurt/comfort i think about, and my love and my friends are so supportive, and i just can't believe how fortunate i am sometimes.
They're so beautiful and smart and warm...
I don't know if i'll ever shed my need for hurt/comfort.
I probably never will, but that's okay.
It gives me warmth, it heals me.

    I hope i can be in a support group someday.
I hope i can meet others who share my experience, and i want to hug them.
Cry with them.
Heal with them.
We humans have a need for belonging, and sometimes the deepest wounds can be healed by simply knowing another has been through it.
In addition to this, i want my medical records.
I want to know how old i was when this was done on me, because not knowing my age has been killing me.
It's kept pieces missing, and that makes me angry.
Part of me feels angry at my family for not remembering, like my heart is saying, "how could they not remember that?
It was so important, why didn't they care?"
But i know it's not personal.
They just don't understand what it means to me.

---

So why share all this?
Why put myself out there, reveal so many personal things?
My sexual interests, even?
Ah...
It's just who i am.
I'm never gonna change; i will always be an open book.
And honestly?
Seeing other people do it, and knowing i relate to them, has given me solace.
As happy as i am to analyze, document and share about myself, i'm happier yet to think someone else in the world who's been uncertain, and lost in a sea of sounds and faces and oblivion, might find my writings, and realize "Whoa...that sounds like me.
Maybe i'm not so abnormal after all."

    If this made you cringe, or you thought it was gross or "overly personal," i'm sorry you feel that way.
I'm sorry you're ignorant.
I'm sorry you lack basic empathy and have poor emotional comprehension skills, because truly i could not have made my reasoning more clear.
But if you do feel that way, i don't need to know about it.
You're not that important.

I am not sorry for being outspoken.
I'm not sorry for being a survivor, and finally accepting that my experience is real.
Throughout this, i did weep a few times while typing.
It's an emotional thing, and sometimes it gives me hard feelings.
But the more i open myself up to things, each wave of anxiety or sadness i work through adds another stitch over the wound.
This is an infection being washed out.
Sometimes it's going to sting, but it's a sting that lets you know you're doing great.

    If you read all this, i appreciate you.
If you didn't, that's all right, too.
I get it!
Thank you to my friends and my Kit who have always been here for me, and who will be for a lifetime, i hope.
I am curious to see how else my healing will take form, and what storms will be calmed next.

Much Love.

Description
Well here i am, back at it again with a lot of personal information to share
Typical me, though.
Why waste time?

Two years ago in July, i posted this...
www.deviantart.com/fae-captain…
I finally unearthed the courage to talk about a traumatic experience in my youth, and how it effected me mentally, emotionally, and even sexually.
How it almost ruined a dear friendship.
It was a pivotal moment for me, being so bold as to share that, but as i read back over it this morning i saw just how ashamed i was.
I openly stated i was ashamed, too, and casually compared my pain to that of others.
I downplayed it, even though it's basically a fucking novel about how it completely scarred every aspect of my life.

I have long felt...just plain guilty for having this trauma.
But in the two years since i made that post, i've learned a lot about myself, and how brains work, and how my family dynamics and placement, as well as emotional manipulation and abuse have boxed me into such a guilty people-pleaser with some of the most heated Imposter Syndrome you can imagine.
It's commonplace for me to downplay my pain, as i struggle to find the balance between letting it consume me, and trying to pretend i don't have any at all.
In fact, my Imposterism is so bad, it was only a few weeks ago that, in one major aspect of my psyche, that bitch finally got cut down to size.

---

---TW// sexual trauma, medical trauma---

---

I am a survivor of medical sexual trauma.
I was not intentionally abused, i was not wheeled into that dark room as a punishment.
The procedure was for my health, my safety, but it was rape.
My urethra was penetrated against my desire and will.
It may not be conventional, but it is what it is, and it's real.
I was raped.

At 27 years old, it took me reading another encounter this morning by another person, who accepted it and wrote it boldly to 100% accept that it's more than just sexual trauma.
Now i can say the word.
"Rape."
But before this, i had struggled to even accept that it was sexual trauma.
From my post two years ago, it's very obvious that i had not yet accepted it as such, despite the reality of it.
Part of the reason why i couldn't accept it, was i simply still had no idea what in the world happened to me.
What was done to me?
What was the name of that procedure?
When i asked relatives, no one knew -- if they even remembered.
No one knows how old i was, either.
I spent most of my life pushing that memory down, pretending it wasn't so bad, trying to cope with what it left me with.
Because of the lack of recollection, and my having no idea what it even was or more fine details, for years it's felt like i was the only one.
The experience alienated me, made me feel like i was sick or weak.
It's like i've spent years living with a ghost, haunted.
I've been haunted by it for so long.
But now, at long last, the apparition is being torn into the light from behind the musty drywalls of that dank old basement in my mind.
This ghost is taking shape as a physical, tangible thing.

      Several months back, i finally got up the nerve to start doing some research.
I wanted to know what urinary medical procedures (routine ones) could be done on kids.
Evidently, my brain had chosen to finally open a cabinet, sensing i was ready to begin my healing journey.
I came across urodynamics and branches of those (spoiler alert, none of those are what happened to me).
Since i could find nothing else, i assumed this was what i went through.
At least, some form of it.
But the procedure just wasn't quite the same.
I found a video on YouTube of a nurse(?) prepping a (cis) woman for a urodynamics test.
But seeing it was so different, i left a comment explaining vaguely what i had undergone, and that it had traumatized me, and ended that by asking if anyone had any idea what i underwent.
Some months passed -- just a couple.
In that time, i wrote a fic on Ao3 about Peter Parker in an AU where he was abused for most of his life, and then had a dynamics test done on him.
This was me just wanting to cope, and do it in detail.
It felt great to do and get off my chest, and has been received well by a small amount of people.
Can't complain there!
But even then, i still struggled with the Imposterism.
I still compared myself to others, and then accidentally even triggered myself into tears and detached depression by viewing a scene from American Crime where a boy had to get a rape kit done.
I felt like dogshit.
"How dare I react like this, use these real life experiences to satiate my stupid needs over something that wasn't even that big a deal," i thought.
For about a day, i hated myself deeply.
I felt like the scum of the earth.
What happened next was nothing short of Divine Intervention.

Seeing my scorching self-loathing, Kitten (my boyfriend of ten years, in case ya'll are new lmao), talked to a friend of his in person about what i was going through (in loose detail).
That friend, who experienced sexual abuse as a child, said they actually believed my case was sexual trauma.
They even made it known that if i ever wanted to talk to them about it, the door was open.
When that was relayed to me from Kitten, it truly meant a lot.
I figured "Well, if a real sexual trauma survivor says it's real, it must be, right?"
Still downplaying myself, it did push me closer to acceptance.
But still, so many pieces were missing...
I also felt reaching out and talking about it with a survivor of "real" sexual trauma would be unfair to them, although they kindly would disagree with that sentiment.

Later that same phone call with Kitten, a part in the clouds finally tore.
The light of heaven poured in on me, as i got a notification on Gmail.
While Kitten was talking to me, i opened the message; it was a response from someone on that comment i left on that video months back.
They said:

"I think you're describing a VCUG.

I had one as a preschooler and it definitely traumatized me and impacted my life pretty severely.

There have actually been studies done on that procedure and it was found to affect children the same way sexual assault does.

I'm so sorry you went through it but you are not alone!"

That changed my life.
It's only been three weeks, and i can tell you without a doubt, that changed my life.
A stranger sent by God Themselves, on the perfect day at the perfect time, handed me the key to power, acceptance, and self-forgiveness.
Imposter Syndrome drained from me, and i just...sort of went quiet.
Best of all, was i had Kitten on the phone to "witness" it, and be there for me.
He even wept for me, because he was just so happy i had an answer.
I myself was sort of just shut down, because the revelation was so big i couldn't feel anything yet.
Typically, when i learn something big and emotional, i don't feel it right away.
It kinda just sits there.
Kit and i call it "the box."
I have many mental boxes for many different things, including my sexual interests.
My boxes make me emotionally intelligent, as i can often analyze them or prepare.
Many boxes aren't closed so much these days, but i digress.
While on the phone, i briefly googled "VCUG trauma," and by golly, a lot of information suddenly popped up.
People asking questions, sharing experiences, articles debating sedation for children getting the procedure, etc.
I didn't read it all or anything; i just needed to know it was real.
And the ghost began to take on flesh.

After maybe ten or twenty minutes, after we hung up, i walked outside and stood in the sun, and began to smile.
Began to feel pride, relief, and power.
Power.
I felt powerful.
I still feel powerful.
So many questions answered already.
I vowed that day to find a way to turn this pain into power, and have since decided it is my mission to someday become a certified sexologist.
I've been interested in the subject ever since i was traumatized, and i always will be.
It may be 20 or 30 years before that dream comes true, but goddammit i will do it.
And i will be an educator about all things sex, ranging from basic biology to trauma and how to cope.

Funny thing, that.
Maybe it's because i'm Autistic, but i've always had a fascination with events of the mind, and how the brain processes everything.
Sometimes i detach from my emotions, and just think about my experiences on a clinical level.
I think about it in plain, doctoral terms, psycho-analyzing myself and my past.
When i do, oddly, it satisfies me, and helps me understand myself better.
It makes what's hidden in my emotions, obvious in the space around it.
I can mentally "back out" of myself sometimes and view it like a third party.
Not everyone believes in this stuff, but i remember reading in high school that people born on October 9th are natural psychologists with a knack for reading and analyzing human behavior.
Even my mom gets mad at me for analyzing her on the spot, but only because it angers her to have her behavior called out.
It makes her mind feel naked, so she lashes out and shuts down.
But again, i digress.
Another fight for another day.

    Most people try to deny their trauma because they don't want to believe something so terrible could have happened to them.
For me, i already knew it was terrible and that it happened, but my reasoning for denial has always been different.
It's always been me thinking i never "earned the right" to call it what it was, and accept it.
All the fighting...
All my life, things have been handed to me.
I've been sheltered, given opportunities and care my parents, and my older sister did not even have.
The sad irony is that's what all generations strive to do; make a better world for the generation after them.
But then when we actually get opportunities, we're told we're "weak," that we "could never survive" the life our predecessors had.
But...isn't that what you wanted...?

My mom and dad never intentionally made me feel bad for being sheltered.
My mom has allowed it to make her believe i'm incapable of doing anything, but that's a different angle.
My sister, however...
She's ten years older than me.
As we were growing up, she was dealt a very unfortunate upbringing.
She's adopted by my mother, and it was our mom who saved her as a young girl.
Then i came along, and i was adopted in, too (my mom is actually my grandma and she adopted me from my birth mom, it's complicated).
And by the time i came along, a lot of cards fell into place.
Parents bought a house, got out of the trailer park.
We had money, we had stability, we were out of the hood, out of danger, out of Tornado Valley.
I was born and raised into the first most ideal circumstances my mom ever could provide for her kids, and i wanted for very little (except affection and lots of attention, lol).
And as the youngest, as the baby, i got my way a lot.
And as mom and dad worked to maintain our lifestyle, Sis was tasked with babysitting me a lot, and also cleaning a lot.
She had her own trauma, her own PTSD, her own issues, and i didn't make it easier on her.
But i was a little kid; how could i know any better...?

She got mad at me a lot.
It took years for me to understand why she was so cruel at times, but she loved me, and she did everything she could for me.
But whenever something arose that caused me upset, or even if i was just a tad too advantageous, she would remind me that i was spoiled, and looked down on me in seething anger.
Her jealousy, her pain, became my burden over the years -- without her meaning to.
When i was scared about having my first job, and mentioned my physical weaknesses, as a grown woman, she irritably reminded me "people are in worse situations than you and make it work, Alyssa."
I was reminded a lot growing up that my life was good.
And because my life was good, i was not supposed to have negative emotions; only gratitude, only happiness.
No complaining, no being scared, no this, no that.

Being Autistic and highly emotionally responsive made it difficult to express myself right.
And before the VCUG, i wet the bed on the pullout couch i was sharing with Sis one night.
She had been stuck watching over me.
She was angry at me for it, angry she had to clean up my mess.
And to top it off in life, i was the oddball.
"Gifted," perhaps, but ultimately, the freak show.
Everyone adored me, but yet also viewed me as the black sheep.

These days, that charcoal coat of mine just keeps getting darker.
I've been really peeling off the mask since the pandemic started, really letting my emotions finally pour out, and defend myself.
I've put my foot down about a lot of things, though admittedly i've been doing so since i was ten years old.
After seventeen years, my family still cannot seem to accept that i am who i am and as i get older, the more they try to pin me down, the angrier, meaner, and more detached from them i am going to become.
I may not have wanted much physically growing up, but mentally and emotionally, i was robbed blind, and to this day, my family is incapable of providing me with the love and total acceptance i know i deserve deep down.
Toys, food, a bed and roof are wonderful, but that cannot give me acceptance and unconditional love.
But what fuels me, is knowing i'm not the only black sheep out here.
Every person i draw close to me is their family's black sheep, the odd one out, the misjudged, misunderstood, and most tragically, underestimated.
I won't rest until i've surpassed black; i want to be vanta.
I won't be snow white, i won't be who anyone wants me to be.
I'm gonna be a sinner and singer and a lover, a writer, an artist, an outspoken millennial progressive fighting for equality and body acceptance, and a cleaner world for the future generations.
I will be who i am and i will embrace myself and my needs, even if it means burning bridges in the end.
For years i've tried to make myself and everyone around me happy, but these days, i realize it's me or them, because when i'm happy, my family isn't.

I know this took a weird turn, but it is relevant to the sexual trauma.
I can't talk to them about it...
They wouldn't understand, or would downplay it.
And any time I've asked questions to mom, she all but shuts down and brushes me off as quickly as possible.
If i were to open up about that to them and be shut down, it would cripple me.
This trauma and my progress are so important, so fragile, i have to guard it with my life.
I have to understand fundamentally that my family cannot help me with most of my needs.
Much of that is them choosing not to.

I'm not mad at my sister for our childhood, either.
What she had to deal with was unfair, and her jealousy is more than understood.
When she had my nephew when i was 14 and i was left to do for him as she had done for me, i had the same emotions.
Jealousy, anger, loss of privacy, frustration, aggression.
I was very mean to him at times (but i also played with him and had more fun with him than Sis had with me.
Which is still okay, though.
I understand).
I intend to someday let him know that i'm aware i was mean to him, and that i'm sorry.
He loves me, and i love him very much, too.
I know he will be forgiving and understanding when i find that right moment.

I'm not mad about what happened in my childhood.
What angers me is that i know i will never get an apology, or be able to have a civil discussion about it without them becoming angry and defensive.
That is my anger.
My anger is at 37 years old, Sis will never be able to accept that she almost single-handedly caused my inability to be okay with having had a decent life.
What a weird fucking sentence, man.
I'm trying to unlearn this toxic idea that having things handed to you must make you a bad and weak person, because other people are suffering.
I forgive the little girl who was angry, i forgive the teenager who just wanted personal space and to enjoy her life without the burden of a younger sibling.
She's okay...
I'm sorry she went through that.
I'm sorry she couldn't have what she needed growing up.
I hope she finds it, and finds peace.
She too, is a very angry and chaotic person.

--

      When i made my post two years back and explained i had trauma, i mentioned my mom and dad being allowed to finally come into the room towards the end of my procedure didn't exactly make me feel better.
I mentioned how, had my mom been allowed to be there the whole time, it might not have made a difference.
I went on to say i didn't understand why that is, either.
But oh, now i know why.
It's because ever since i was little, i've known i'm different.
I've known my mind isn't like most people's, which i now know to mean "neurotypical."
Much of my emotions and needs were unmet and misunderstood -- not on purpose, but it was what it was.
I knew that my support system wasn't actually...the support i needed.
As one person said, having their parents in the room was no help, because they spent their lives wondering why mom and dad stood there and allowed them to be violated that way.
Well...i already have those feelings without them being in the room, but with the answers that make me forgiving.
I knew that they knew what would happen, i knew that they knew i would hate it, and i knew that they didn't like it.
I understood it was for my health -- that's why i was compliant, even though it hurt.
That's why i didn't fight.
Now, when i think about finally having to have a GYNO visit, my first thought is "the second they reach to touch me they're getting kicked in the face."
I think about a doctor trying to touch me, and my first thought is always "KICK."
A short while ago, i just thought about it and my legs twitched; fight or flight toils away in me.
I feel the energy pulse through my veins, like electric shocks, ready to battle for my protection.
...I might have to work on that...

The person i read about this morning online said she had Vaginismus, just like i do.
She also has chronic vulval pain, which she believes are both resulted from the trauma.
Maybe that really is why i have it, then.
At 27, a doctor hasn't interacted with my genitals since the VCUG.
And if one ever has to again, they better put me out, or otherwise wear a mouth guard.

About a week or so ago, Imposter Syndrome crept its way back in when i was talking to a different friend with childhood SA experience.
That person, who doesn't like to talk much about it, told me about their repressing the memory until they were in high school.
I took note of them not being as open about it, all while being supportive and letting them know they can tell me anything if they ever want to.
But upon thinking of this, and then reading a fic that was way too dark for me (and accidentally getting upset by it), i told Kitten i felt bad about the fact that i am open about my trauma.
I said it made me feel like i was "bragging" about it, like i was proud of it or something.
It made me feel inferior, yet again.
But again, he talked to that one friend of his, and they said they actually talk about their own experiences all the time.
They reminded me that everyone deals with their pain in different ways, that some feel better and cope easier by being very forward and open about the fact that they suffered through something.
This checked out, and i instantly felt better.
I think my older followers and friends know by now that i am a very open book, and sharing everything just relieves my mind.
So if you don't like that...
Tough coconuts, buddy.
I'm here to stay.

    I think i actually repressed my experience, only for a short while.
I remember being sexually aroused by bladder-related things, and being frustrated sexually because i had a need i didn't know how to satisfy, but never thought about where it came from.
My mom caught me with my hand on myself once and quickly reprimanded me.
Upon visiting that subject later in life, she tried to say, "I thought you were scratching and didn't want you to think you could do that in public or something."
...?
Even if you actually thought that, i wasn't allowed to itch myself at home, in a fucking bed, privately?
Doesn't really add up, but nice try, buck-o!
Regardless, that one snap at me made me think i shouldn't touch myself ever.
Finally, at the age of twelve, i discovered a cup and water in the bath, and loopholed my way to success.
At long last...RELEASE!!!
Now i do what i want.

    This subject fascinates me, too.
Many of us with sexual trauma actually inadvertently become aroused by things that relate to it.
Yes, i have a fetish, and i don't want to talk about it in detail -- but i'm finally not so ashamed as to say, i have a niche sexual interest, related to bladder things, because of trauma.
It's not gross, it's not wrong, it's just me.
And it's a pretty big community, too.
I remember taking baths, having my first O's, and doing so while...oddly enough, thinking about my school bullies at the time.
I remember my sinister thoughts, using them mentally as puppets, deriving intense pleasure from their misery.
Little did i know i was hitting two birds with one stone; i was taking power back over my pain from the VCUG, and finding a way to feel control and power over my bullies.
I remember going to school the day after that first time thinking about that bully, and seeing him in class.
I wasn't attracted to him, i didn't like him.
I thought he looked like Sid the Sloth, honestly, and sounded like him too, but i was a very nice little girl, and despite what he put me through, never said that to his face.
But after that session in the bath, after humiliating him in my imagination, i remember just smiling.
From that point on, he could never hurt me again, because i had control and i had a release.
Nothing he did ever fazed me again, and from that point on, bullying melted away from my life.

I thought about a lot of things you would hope a kid doesn't.
I knew i liked boys, but i related to girls, so before the bath, i would think about...women...with...penises..???
Funny, i don't actually know how i knew penises were a thing, but i knew boys had them -- i had known since the VCUG (note my feeling empathetic and terrible for boys when the nurse told me boys always cry).
I remember feeling aroused at the thought of penises, however vaguely i envisioned them, and was curious.
Genitalia, sex, toileting, and attraction become a massive part of my mind, and remains so to this day.
I've had boyfriends since i was in first/second grade.
Always innocent, but damn, i sure liked boys.
Now as a grown woman, i like men!
...
It really sucks liking men!
LMAO!
But, moving back into the darker aspects of my life...

I remember in sixth grade, looking through my textbook in Health class, and coming upon a small section about sexual assault.
I remember this being an awakening for me mentally.
That word, highlighted in my textbook.
"Rape."
I was fascinated.
I was obsessed.
I would randomly go to that page and re-read those little vague passages, craving more information.
Playing in the yard, i would thinking about.
But i knew that i couldn't talk about it, really.
People would judge me -- this was a bad thing, so why was i so eager to learn about it?
There was shame; i felt disgusting.
It was bad enough that i pleasured myself, i thought.
I felt like a degenerate.
Why was i envisioning my favorite characters going through this shit?
It was more about them getting comfort, really, but for a small portion of my life, i know i wasn't thinking about the VCUG.
I think i did repress it.
When it came back to me, i have no idea, but it wasn't devastating.
It was more like "Huh...oh yeah, that happened...maybe that fucked with me a little."
Oh, if i only knew.

Finally, i understand what i was experiencing was normal.
It was less graceful, granted, because of my being Autistic and severely lacking manners by asking my friend, a SA survivor, mildly invasive questions that kept them stressed out.
After everything, and two years after that last post, yes, i do still feel like shit for what i did.
Some guilt i really will take to my grave, i think.

The hardest thing has always been my instinct to compare my trauma to that of others.
But as Kitten lovingly explained to me, comparison is pointless, because if everyone compared theirs the way i do, no one would technically have it, because someone out there would always have it "worse."
Not to mention, the varying human perspectives of what's "worse" for a person.
He's right.
I shouldn't be comparing as a way to diminish my experiences.
This journey should be about opening up, learning, accepting that i was hurt, and turning my pain into knowledge.
As for my fixation with SA and the like (and now i more boldly am using bladder trauma in my hurt/comfort, too), Kit suggests it maybe is just easier for me to cope and draw comfort through the lens of a character with an experience somewhat different from mine.
Makes sense to me; the thought of VCUG stuff and lots of catheters has always given me anxiety and makes it hard to concentrate on the comfort.
But as i learn, and as i'm pulling back the curtain, and finally putting flesh on this ghost that's haunted me, parts of me have assimilated.
Things that typically make me nauseas chronically...don't always pack the same punch anymore.
It still fucks with me, sometimes it stresses me out, makes me feel sick, etc.
But it doesn't hit as frequently as before, and as i slowly, at my own pace, expose myself to more information about VCUG's and their processes, i feel my brain changing.
Trauma changes the brain, yes, but...so does healing.
I'm healing.

People who haven't experienced sexual trauma -- and sometimes those who have, have a tough time understanding why someone would "want to subject themselves to the thing that traumatized them over and over again."
But that's just how some trauma works.
BDSM, S&M, often come fundamentally from a survivor trying to get power back over something that hurt them.
People underestimate the power of sexual healing as well, how pleasure and control, or even the safety to surrender it, can heal and sooth the brain.
It's transcendental, it's so agonizingly sweet and good.
We cannot change this, and shouldn't try.
It's also commonplace for some survivors to be unwittingly drawn back to the place they were harmed.
When you've experienced trauma, parts of your brain just play on and on like a record, never going off.
I have my bad days and my good days, and i'm get getting started.
Weirdly enough, i like hospitals.
I like to be in them.
They both perplex me with mixed emotions, and make me feel safe.
They stress me, but also make me think of happy times in childhood.
That much, i do not know how or why.
I'm still learning about why i like hospitals.
Even though doctors and nurses anymore...kinda make my skin crawl.
I want to trust them, but i can't.
My trauma aside, i've been neglected by lazy physicians and specialists for far too long.
I like to put my fave characters in medical scenarios with lots of comfort.
And at long last, i have projected parts of my experience onto the character Tony Stark!
It's been nothing short of easing.

Would i change my fetish if i could?
I don't know.
Would it make a difference...?
My partner and close friends do not see or treat me any differently.
It's not ruining my life, it's not made life harder.
Sometimes i get frustrated by my fetish, because i want to like more vanilla things.
But at the end of the day i can't change it.
As long as i'm accepted by the ones who matter most to me, i can live with it, and make the most of it.

Is this a scar on myself as a person?
Yeah.
It's left a major imprint on my mind and life, and even my body.
All it took was once, just a couple minutes.
I'll never be the same.
But...i'm not broken.
I'm not tainted, i'm not bad.
This is the way of life; experience.
I have come to earth, and i have experienced sorrow.
I will have more sorrow.
But i will also have healing, and best of all, knowledge.
The greatest tools i have ever had coming this far are knowledge, and love.
For the first time in my life, a small, tiny sliver of my soul knows peace.
Those red alarms that went off in my head every time i thought about what i went through flicker, and then swiftly die.
I am learning to be comfortable with my needs, too.
It's been easier for me to talk about the hurt/comfort i think about, and my love and my friends are so supportive, and i just can't believe how fortunate i am sometimes.
They're so beautiful and smart and warm...
I don't know if i'll ever shed my need for hurt/comfort.
I probably never will, but that's okay.
It gives me warmth, it heals me.

    I hope i can be in a support group someday.
I hope i can meet others who share my experience, and i want to hug them.
Cry with them.
Heal with them.
We humans have a need for belonging, and sometimes the deepest wounds can be healed by simply knowing another has been through it.
In addition to this, i want my medical records.
I want to know how old i was when this was done on me, because not knowing my age has been killing me.
It's kept pieces missing, and that makes me angry.
Part of me feels angry at my family for not remembering, like my heart is saying, "how could they not remember that?
It was so important, why didn't they care?"
But i know it's not personal.
They just don't understand what it means to me.

---

So why share all this?
Why put myself out there, reveal so many personal things?
My sexual interests, even?
Ah...
It's just who i am.
I'm never gonna change; i will always be an open book.
And honestly?
Seeing other people do it, and knowing i relate to them, has given me solace.
As happy as i am to analyze, document and share about myself, i'm happier yet to think someone else in the world who's been uncertain, and lost in a sea of sounds and faces and oblivion, might find my writings, and realize "Whoa...that sounds like me.
Maybe i'm not so abnormal after all."

    If this made you cringe, or you thought it was gross or "overly personal," i'm sorry you feel that way.
I'm sorry you're ignorant.
I'm sorry you lack basic empathy and have poor emotional comprehension skills, because truly i could not have made my reasoning more clear.
But if you do feel that way, i don't need to know about it.
You're not that important.

I am not sorry for being outspoken.
I'm not sorry for being a survivor, and finally accepting that my experience is real.
Throughout this, i did weep a few times while typing.
It's an emotional thing, and sometimes it gives me hard feelings.
But the more i open myself up to things, each wave of anxiety or sadness i work through adds another stitch over the wound.
This is an infection being washed out.
Sometimes it's going to sting, but it's a sting that lets you know you're doing great.

    If you read all this, i appreciate you.
If you didn't, that's all right, too.
I get it!
Thank you to my friends and my Kit who have always been here for me, and who will be for a lifetime, i hope.
I am curious to see how else my healing will take form, and what storms will be calmed next.

Much Love.