Roe: On Sex after Trauma, and New Year’s Sex Resolutions

Dear Roe,

I was r*ped about four years ago, right before I started college (forgive the asterisk, even writing out the word in reference to myself makes me feel nauseated) and since then I’ve had a weird relationship with my own sexuality.

I had only had one sexual experience really before it happened. Counter to the stereotype, I didn’t become averse to sex/being touched — if anything I became hypersexual. I had a series of one-night stands in the year after what happened, none of which I really enjoyed because I was too preoccupied with the intense anxiety I’d be feeling the whole time/trying to push through and ignore the anxiety/pretending I was fine so the person I was with wouldn’t notice. Looking back, I think I was trying to have enough sex that sex wouldn’t matter much to me, because if sex didn’t matter then what that guy did to me didn’t matter either.

Since then I’ve developed a far healthier attitude to sex. I enjoy my sexuality, but I definitely have some mental blocks associated with what happened. It’s annoying; even when I’m consciously *very* enthusiastic about having sex with someone, this reptilian part of my brain will kick in and make me panic, even though I rationally know I’m not in danger and also really *do* want to have sex.

I normally have to briefly draw a halt to things and take a second to collect myself before continuing. I’m good at coming up with excuses/ensuring it doesn’t look abnormal, so that the person I am with doesn’t realise what I’m doing. It’s not a big deal, but it still ruins the experience for me a bit, so my question is: how do I get rid of that anxiety? I just want to be able to experience unfettered enjoyment of sex without having this cognitive dissonance hanging over me.

Until recently I got around the anxiety by always being drunk/high when having sex. The first time I ever had sex sober was about a year ago.

It’s probably worth mentioning that I’ve never been in a committed relationship, only ever had casual flings/short-lived kind of affairs/one-night stands. I know that probably contributes to the fear, not ever knowing the people I’m sleeping with extremely well. I know the answer is probably to wait a while before having sex with someone, but when I feel attracted to someone I generally just want to dive straight into sex, because sex is great (bar the anxiety part). I will confess to being a little impulsive and trigger-happy in that regard. A part of me worries that this willingness to have sex is somehow blocking me from developing more intimate/long-term relationships, but I feel like that could be patriarchal conditioning.

Any advice would be so appreciated. I have read your words on this topic before and they’ve been so helpful. Reading your column has helped me get through the darker moments where I feel like I “made up”/mentally exaggerated what happened, or when I panic that I made mistakes that night that means what happened was my fault, or when I get paranoid that the small group of people whom I have told don’t actually believe me. So thank you so much.

Darling girl.

Sometimes people ask me if all the questions in the column are real or if I make them up. Reading your question, your experiences seemed so viscerally familiar that I had the oddest experience where I had to pause and think, “Did I write this?”

When I was sexually assaulted, within the first month of starting college, I had never had sex. I had never done anything but kiss men. And after my assault, I didn’t just seek out sex – I sought out sex with the man who had assaulted me.

In my mind, if we had consensual sex, it would somehow undo this violation; if I said yes this time, it would retroactively undo him ignoring my no. If we had meaningless sex, the assault wouldn’t mean anything. If he did me, I would stop being undone.

He turned me down. I both hate him and am so deeply grateful to him for this. It’s a complicated blend of emotions because, as you are experiencing, the recovery from and emotions surrounding sexual violence are complicated, so much more complicated than the public narratives will ever admit.

I too had a lot of casual sex after my assault, for the same reasons as you. I don’t regret any of it. Sometimes it was great, and fun, and most of the men were good dudes.

But I would also disassociate. Certain positions and actions and gestures made me mentally check out of my body. Physically, I would be doing all the things people do during sex, but mentally and emotionally I was on autopilot.

I didn’t feel what was happening to me, and would have to stare at spots on the wall or ceiling, feeling like if I let my gaze waver, if I thought anything, if I felt anything, if I acknowledged and felt what had happened to me in that room when I was seventeen, I simply wouldn’t be able to cope, and would cease to exist. I stopped being there during sex so I could continue to be here the rest of the time.

It took me years to realise that I had done the same during my assault; that at some stage after repeatedly pushing him away and saying no and crying and panicking – I just stopped. I froze, shut down. Stared at spots on the wall and the ceiling and tried not feel what was happening and just waited for it to be over.

It took me even longer to learn that this is how PTSD often works: when faced with a reminder of trauma, our body often reverts to the reaction we had in the moment. That people who are filled with adrenaline and who fight or run during their trauma are more likely to panic or lash out when triggered, while people who freeze are more likely to disassociate. Our bodies and minds remember trauma, even when we try our hardest to forget.

Why am I telling you this? Because I have very few concrete answers for you. I can’t tell you what will make your anxiety go away. I can’t tell you when you will have sex for the first time and be so incredibly, beautifully, ecstatically present.

I can tell you that you’re not alone. I can tell you that what you’re experiencing is a common side-effect of having survived trauma, that it’s your mind and body trying to protect you. I can tell you that having casual sex doesn’t make you wrong, or bad, and doesn’t mean that what happened to you didn’t happen or that you ever deserved any second of it.

I can tell you that I experienced so much of what you’re experiencing that I feel like we’re connected, that just as you wrote to me looking for an answer to make you feel less alone, reading your question made me feel less alone.

I can tell you that trying to pretend that I wasn’t experiencing something profound and complicated kept me stuck. That the fear of disassociating and trying to conceal it became a self-fulfilling process, where I knew I wouldn’t be able to relax fully during sex, so I wasn’t able to relax fully during sex.

I can tell you that having lots of sex didn’t heal me but neither did it damage me further. I can tell you that I’ve had both fuck buddies and men who I loved deeply who were both wonderful to me and for me, and with whom I felt safe setting boundaries and stopping sex when I needed to. I can tell you that feeling safe and accepted and respected and cared for during sex made me feel that way during life – and vice versa.

I can tell you that I went to therapy, and it was hard, and I was terrible at letting my guard down and talking about what was going on in my head. I can tell you that it still helped, is still helping now even though I’m not currently in therapy, because it was a confirmation that what had happened to me was real, that my feelings were worthy of exploration, that I was allowed to have feelings that were contradictory and complicated.

I can tell you that reading and learning about trauma and recovery helped me recognize and intellectually understand what I was experiencing, and seeing it normalized by professionals made me feel less anxious about it.

I can tell you that talking to other women who have experienced sexual assault and hearing about their own unique experiences of complicated emotions and decision-making and self-preservation has been invaluable in letting me feel supported, and making me realise some of the complexities of my own thought process that I had previously tried to ignore.

I can tell you that there’s nothing wrong with having casual sex, and that I had a lot of it after my assault. I can tell you that my assault also left me scared of intimacy and being vulnerable and getting close to someone.

I can tell you that you’re allowed experience both of those things; that having casual sex does not mean you don’t also deserve something meaningful when you’re ready. I can also tell you that casual sex can sometimes be a very easy way to avoid experiencing sex with emotions, and avoiding emotions is never a good long-term plan.

I can tell you that letting someone love me and falling in love was scary as all hell and was a huge step in my recovery process. I can tell you that it’s not because of some bullshit patriarchal fairy-tale idea of love (or a man) saving all, but because of the psychological fact that breaking patterns and doing what we’re scared of makes you confront what you’re scared of and process it, and that’s what helps you heal.

I can tell you that like anything else, if your current behavioural pattern is making you unhappy, changing it and seeing if what happens is something different is something you should try.

Casual sex will always be there. Learning that you can say no and have it respected, learning that some people will wait for you and to have sex with you, learning to enjoy the build-up of frisson and tension and excitement and emotion before having sex, taking time to process your anxiety about sex before the act rather than during – they are lessons that were instrumental in my recovery process, and they could help you too.

I can tell you that you deserve great sex, and positive emotions, and love, both separately and together. I can tell you that intellectually knowing what you deserve and actually demanding it and refusing to expect less is the battle of a lifetime.

I can tell you that you’re recognizing that something is missing for you in the sex that you’re having, and that you know your experience of sexual violence is the source. You’ve taken the first step, and that’s a brave thing, and healing is a road made of these tiny steps. You’ve started. I can tell you that this road can be hard, and you may stall, or take steps back, but ultimately it always leads you forward.

I can tell you that I know this answer isn’t enough, and that I think therapy and speaking to supportive women and having respectful sexual partners and learning to acknowledge your emotions will be far more helpful than anything I can ever offer.

I can tell you that my sexual assault no longer defines my sex life, and that I’m happy. That you will get here too. That you are brave, and worthy, and that you survived.

I can tell you that I’m going to be thinking of you for a very long time. That your letter meant a lot to me, because I could see so much of myself in it, and it made me feel less alone.

So at the end of all of that, let me tell you one final thing: thank you. For surviving, for feeling your emotions, for taking the first step to recovery, for writing, for being a woman who reaches out and makes others feel less alone.

Thank you.

Some New Year’s Sexolutions

Now, dear readers, I think we can all agree that 2016 was largely a shitshow of hellish proportions that will be henceforth known as The Year That Shall Not Be Named, and that 2017 needs to be better on every single level.

In the interest of taking individual action and thinking locally, and with New Year’s Eve fast approaching, I think it’s time to start making some New Year’s Sexual Resolutions. Here are just a few to start; feel free to leave your own in the comments, and have an orgasmically wonderful Christmas and New Year.

1. Shame Be Gone

This goes for both the shame we place on ourselves and on others. Let’s try to stop feeling shame about harmless sexual desires or activities. Allowing yourself the freedom to embrace your orientations, your identity, your kinks, your needs, your sexual history will immeasurably improve not just your sex life, but your life at large.

But we also need to stop shaming other people. Shame is a force that only survives through complicity and contagion so if you hear people trying to shame others by criticizing their sexual desires, activities, or expressions, stop it in its tracks. Remember that a lot of shame comes from small comments that enforce oppressive ideals, so keep an ear out for people casually shaming others for how they dress, for having casual sex, for having a different sexual or gender identity, or for having sexual-health issues.

It can be easy for us to let comments slide when they sneak into good old-fashioned complaining sessions about people we don’t like – laughing about our exes’ kinks, ranting about that woman who pisses us off and throwing in a judgmental comment about her clothes or relationship history. But letting these remarks fester perpetuates the weaponising of shame as a larger social force, so let’s be mindful of that and cut shame out of our vernacular.

2. Body Positivity and Inclusivity

Part of eliminating shame about sex and enjoying it more ourselves means eradicating the idea that some bodies are more worthy than others, and projecting ideas of sexuality and respectability onto people’s bodies.

Let’s stop criticizing people’s bodies and instead start looking for everyone’s beauty, and start being aware of whose bodies are represented, celebrated, and policed. So often we only celebrate the bodies of white, cis, able-bodied, slim people, and see other bodies as examples of failure, deviancy, hypersexuality or non-sexuality.

Remain aware of how both mainstream culture and individual conversations address weight, body shape, disability, race, and gender expression, and commit to celebrating diversity, rather than criticizing everything that doesn’t conform to one often-unattainable ideal.

And that goes for your own body – start being kind to it, allowing it pleasure and embracing what it can do and what makes it feel good, rather than focusing on the things that are too often dismissed as flaws.

3. No Faking

Faking is often synonymous with women faking orgasms and that does indeed need to stop. Women fake orgasms for numerous reasons, but doing it routinely indicates both that there’s a lack of communication occurring and that the woman’s pleasure isn’t being prioritised.

Faking an orgasm wastes an opportunity to express your desire for something more pleasurable and teach your partner how to pleasure you, so ladies – start speaking up when it’s not happening. Men can also fake orgasming, because of a deeply gendered idea of male sexuality that posits that men are always ready, willing, and easy to please, and that not being in the mood is somehow a problem.

But faking can also be smaller, such a feigning comfort with sexual activities or discourses that we’re not okay with, or pretending that our sexual past is more exciting or less exciting than it is because we want someone to approve of us.

Let’s be authentic and honest, and, instead of expending our energies on pretending, use the same amount of energy in creating truly great experiences.

4. Pay for Good Porn

Most people consume pornography at some stage, if not regularly, but in 2017 let’s try be more ethical and aware consumers.

Paying for porn supports ethical and regulated pornography, which ensures that the porn you’re watching features of-age, consenting actors who were fairly paid for their work. Paying for porn supports independent studios and adult filmmakers, who often produce more inclusive, feminist, diverse pornography that gives representation to bodies, kinks, and gender expressions often ignored in mainstream porn.

For more information and some recommendations of sites and filmmakers, see here.

5. Let’s Talk about Sex

From formal sex education to casual chats to mid-coitus sex talk, work on becoming comfortable discussing sex, expressing your desires, and learning about the language of gender and sexuality.

Learning to communicate clearly about sex will not only allow you to express your needs and desires and improve your sex life, but speaking openly about sex and sexuality will break down the taboos, prejudices, and shame that comes from silence.

Having conversations about sex and sexuality will also introduce you to ideas, language, and experiences beyond your own, and will allow you to understand and be more respectful of others.

6. Have Fun!

Try something new! Buy a new sex toy, try a new position, do something silly or mischievous or spontaneous.

Have days where you treat yourself by pampering your body, have a night where you see how many orgasms you can have. Share sex tips with your mates, and laugh about sexual misadventures and disasters.

Life’s a ride, lads. Make sure the ride is as enjoyable as possible.

Do you have a question for Roe? Submit it anonymously at dublininquirer.com/ask-roe