The Slut I Was, The Woman I Am

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There was a time in my life when I was a straight up slut. At least, in my own personal opinion of myself. It was a wild, exciting time in my life, full of self-discovery and the freedom to explore as a woman, finding out who I was. I was young, irresponsible, and enraptured with the power I found within my womanly curves. For a long time after that chapter ended, I still felt ashamed for what I was, what I did; the choices I made and the way that I lived. I lived with the stigma of that name hanging over my head, but eventually I came to see that back cover summarizes the story as a whole, not just a single chapter.

I can sit here and blame my childhood, my upbringing for who I was then, but that wouldn’t be completely fair. Or honest. I may have had bad examples on how to get the attention, I never had bad examples of what to do once you gained it. My step mom was a trashy version of a Playboy arm trophy, dressed no classier than a strip club shot girl. My father pushed her around, proud when other men coveted her, but despite this, she was as faithful and loyal to him as a preacher’s wife. It was all on me to take the attention I got when I flaunted myself to the next level. And flaunt myself I did, but I never got the kind of attention I wanted for it. It’s probably a good thing that I wasn’t blessed with the classy to match the flaunt, otherwise I would have drawn in the kind of attention I was actually looking for, and would never be where I am today. I never would’ve burned through all the wrong guys, tempted to see if just maybe, there was enough pieces for the glue to hold. But then, because I was afraid to lose out on a better opportunity, I always ended up cheating.

I slept my way through a group of friends once when I was eighteen, just to get back at the ex-boyfriend I naively thought I had loved, all because he didn’t wait long enough for the glue to dry between us before he gave up on me. This is when I figured out how manipulative the taunting of sex was forever taking advantage of what I needed from these douchey guys that seemed to be magnetized to me, somehow. If I couldn’t get the kind of guy I was dreaming of falling in love with, then I was going to make sure I the guys I did hook up with ran away scared of me, no longer innocent in the bedroom. I used to take pride in how well I did these guys, like it would actually be something to be proud of for! I had the body any young, barely twenty-something man boy desires: double-D boobs; a curvy, but not too full, butt; perfectly toned legs with incredibly strong thighs from years of dance, swim team, skiing, and soccer; not quite thin body, but not nearly fat enough to be considered chubby or pudgy thanks to being on the tall side of average female height. It disgusts me now to think that I was so desperate for someone to need me sexually to feel worthy of myself, that I would brag about my skills to other guys, like a creepy infomercial trying to entice you to the buy the goods. In comparison to those who make a living off actually selling their bodies, I’m far from meeting the definition based on numbers alone, mine are less than the total number of digits on my person, but it’s the behavior that counts. I was living like I was on Girls Gone Wild everyday of my life.

It took me a long time of hitting brick wall over and over again, to realize I had it all wrong and the only attention I was ever going to get acting like that was from guys just as broken inside as me. Guys with problems that needed multiple therapists to break apart the tumultuous levels of crazy that go on to the depths of the earth. Guys that had unhealthy habits, cracking any foundation they would ever lay. Two broken pieces will never stay glued together, there’s too many missing shards in between. Baggage from my childhood combined with a mental health illness clouding my mind, creating a monster of guilt and shame that raged down a sexually charged path of inner-destruction, crying out for attention. I just didn’t know it then. Instead, I bounced from guy to guy, searching for answers that I would never find with spread legs wide, sprawled across the bed on my back, only temporarily satisfying that drug-like craving to be loved. I gained reputations amongst my closest friends that left me crying behind closed doors every day. I was unable to discern how to control the impulse to use my goods to feed the monster, living in the darkest corner of my soul, just to feel the love and acceptance that I didn’t have for myself.

Being a woman in this day and age is quite harder than it ever was when women were considered property of their husbands, because that chauvinist perspective has managed to evolve and become, though a slightly softened around the edges version, the collective view of society when casting judgement upon a single woman in question. Which is completely and utterly ridiculous in the hypocrisy of it all, considering the same social acceptance and celebration of women as a group, to be free of any sexualized boundaries that cast judgements upon their expressiveness. These screwed up moral perceptions do a number on a girl’s self-worth and self-love, especially during those early years of discovering who she really is as a woman. The power of my sexuality was falsely believed to be the key to unlock the doors my happiness was trapped behind. Quite frankly- I hated myself for a long, long time, even after finding the help I needed to get my mind in order and find the respect I needed to have for myself to have a healthy relationship.

Looking back with the wisdom of middle-age, the knowledge of awareness, the lessons of therapy, and maturity of motherhood and marriage, I understand where I was coming from during those years. And I sympathize with that young woman now. I feel sorry for the misconstrued guidance she had. She is a part of me, a chapter in the story of my life, who taught me invaluable lessons that have carried on through the course of these years since that time. My inability to see someone as the cover they present to the world is uncanny. The compassion I continually show others stems from a time in my life where there was no compassion to be had, no forgiveness of sins for myself, even. These chapters do not define nor summarize the whole content of the book, and I can respect the slut I once was for the woman I’ve become. And I’m perfectly okay with that.

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9 thoughts on “The Slut I Was, The Woman I Am

    1. I honestly think it’s something all girls kind of deal with at some point before becoming confidant as women. It’s different for everyone. Some only have thoughts, some act out, but it’s a change nonetheless we must have to grow up.

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    1. Thank you for reading with an open mind! After years of reading women dance around the subject on their blogs, it was time to open the door and show other woman that word has no bearing on who we are and doesn’t have to carry with us forever.

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    1. Wow! Isn’t it amazing how we take such a negative word to heart and let it affect our perception of who we are? I’m so glad I’ve moved past that place in my life and found how to love myself for who I am. I want to read your book as soon as it’s published, it has me so intrigued! Thank you for reading my piece!!

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