FIGHT OR FLIGHT?
Last night, I cried myself to sleep. I watched my
husband as he hastily put his clothes back on and
stormed out of the room. He was angry with me,
again. The tear that had begun to form in the corner
of my eye dropped softly to my pillowcase as the door
slammed shut.
“I’m so tired of this,” I thought, as I buried my head
in the pillow, sobbing.
I hate sex. I loathe it.
I remember as an adolescent girl dreaming of how
magical my first time would be — breathtaking,
passionate, pure ecstasy. A deep, intimate connection
with the love of my life.
My heart, my head, and my body would
simultaneously explode, and for a brief moment the
world would stop spinning. Like movies and books
had always told me.I never imagined my first time
would leave me curled
up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth on a
cold bathroom floor, sobbing hysterically, begging for
my mind to erase the flashes of memory from the
night before.
I loathe sex because the first time I had sex I was
raped. Now, sex is painful. It’s excruciating.
Even after years of therapy, of consciously trying to
heal my body and brain from the scars of that night,
sex is a relentless trigger for my post traumatic stress
disorder. I jump when my husband touches me. Af-
ter eight years of being together, my body still goes
into fight or flight mode when he touches the back
of my legs. My brain can’t remember what hap-
pened to my legs but, regardless of how hard I try,
my body won’t forget. My body just can’t let go.
Last night, I was unprepared. I was caught off
guard. I thought we were just going to cuddle but
my husband wanted more. My husband need-
ed more. My body couldn’t handle his touch.
My mind couldn’t find its way to a safe space.
The more my husband pushed, the more I pulled away.
His cute, innocent flirtations began to feel aggressive.
-Christine Suhane