***A very pink and fuzzy diary that almost appeared to be picked out of the kids section at a local store would be a bright beacon from just beneath and to the side of the dumpster by the Grind. As though someone was having coffee and writing in the journal only to half heartedly chuck it on a second thought. The poor journal never quite making it into its destination. Only one entry could be found. No name. The ink of one word towards the bottom smudged with a round splash of clear liquid.*****

After suggesting so many of my patients do this, I thought perhaps it was time to take my own advice. It seems I have told this story sparingly to friends, family, and lovers. But few have heard it all. And even in the retelling, I only do so in short bursts. A piece at a time. And never allow myself to be present in my thoughts, to never connect to the recollection. If that makes sense.

Once upon a time, I was young. And like many religiously and conservatively raised young, unpopular girls, my virginity was a sacred and well protected thing. Even past my rebellion from religion and conservatism, the ideal that my virginity was to be spared until the moment of marriage or irrefutable love was still present through out most of high school.

Soon enough I was driving. I was dating silly high school boys, and although there were a few precarious situations, I still managed to hold tightly to that shield. And in that was power. In that was a force that demanded I be seen as myself, and what I offered outside of my sexuality. And none of my self worth was tied into my sexuality, as I hadn't even begun to experience it.

But soon, I was 18. Working part time just before college, taking a few local college classes until I would transfer in the fall. And at my embarrassing teenaged job there was Sean.

In retrospect, as a woman grown, he was an uncouth, unkept, insecure, loser driving a moped with no drivers license. But he was 22. He was a full grown man. Taller than me. And he could make me laugh. I've always been a sucker for a beau who can make me laugh.

Not so unusually, there precarious situations and desperate but seemingly patient pleas for entrance. But I was stalwart to the idea that this virginity, my virginity was precious. And like a young untried girl, I trusted. Something even now I haven't quite shaken.

Many nights we sneakily managed beds here and there to spend the night spooned and giggling but chaste. Parents out of town. Motel rooms. It was all a very romantic notion. And with this man, I wanted, I trusted to have my first experience getting drunk. And how convenient that he could buy the drinks! And we could wrap up the evening by falling asleep in each other's arms.

So motel room and alcohol were purchased. Excuses were made to my parents. It wasn't unusual for me to spend the night with my then close friend Sara. So no one raised a brow. I was set to sneak away to meet my boyfriend for our secret rendezvous.

It was much like any other evening. Until the booze were opened. Mike's Hard Lemonade. I'll never forget that.

Shortly into the evening, my limbs felt heavy. Everything from my neck down to my feet felt languid, my head began to feel fuzzy and distant. I supposed this was just the effects of alcohol. And so I laid down, so trusting, thinking too take a little nap with my boyfriend standing watch over me. Keeping me safe.

But something was wrong. I couldn't move. I couldn't think. I could barely keep my eyes open.

But he could move.

From there it was bits and pieces. Like flash backs in a movie.

Flash back to the first scene and I was suddenly naked. Another flash back and there was a lot of pain. Another and the was blood.

Tears were hot on my face. And some woman's voice was crying "No. Stop." over and over again. A man's voice was cajoling that you had wanted it. You had teased for it. You brought this on yourself.

Six more times it hurt. Six more times in a sleepless night the woman's voice cried 'no'.

And then just as gently as I had laid down, a warm cloth was cleaning me in places only I had ever touched in my recollections. And I was held, and whispered to that I was loved.

I woke up to the sunshine. Clothed. Had it happened? The slight ache between my thighs said it probably had. But this was my boyfriend. We'd had sex. He said he loved me. And I had to love him because he possessed my virginity now, like it was some badge of ownership you could keep in your pocket. And who could I tell? My parents thought I was at Sara's. They didn't even know I had a boyfriend, let alone one four years older. I somehow thought they would be more upset about the lying than the previous night's events.

And besides, I loved him.

Over night my value was equated to my sexuality. Over night I had nothing to lose, so "why not?" became my motto. And these things seeped into me for years to come. I didn't avoid sex. I needed it. I needed to make it my own. Even as a casual man standing next to me in a grocery store made my skin crawl and my mind go blank. I needed to have sex. Lots of it. In lots of different ways. I needed it to be mine. And I needed to get better at it so that I was valuable again.

And I needed to be stronger than the violence. And I found much violence in my love life.

When I was 21 and home for the summer from college. A nice Christian boy and I were alone in my room watching a movie with the door closed. Tickling each other. I was screaming and shouting with laughter. The night before I had, through tears and frogged voice, told my father about Sean. About being afraid to go to class with all the men. Afraid to go to the grocery store without my brother as a chaperone. About falling college because of the crippling fear to go outside. But not about needing the validation.

He walked in. And with the most disgusted look, he breathed, "Liar." Then walked out.

((Please excuse poor grammar, punctuation and misused words. Typed on my phone. ))