Disgust
By: Cary Bach Donahou
Tags: Sexual Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, This Happened To Me, Metoo, PTSD

dis·gust/disˈɡəst/noun

a feeling of revulsion or strong disapproval aroused by something unpleasant or offensive.

synonyms: revulsion, repugnance, aversion, distaste, abhorrence, loathing, detestation,odium, execration, horror, nausea

A few weeks ago, I attended a self-love seminar. It was really amazing, and even in the last two weeks has been trans-formative. We were taught mirror work. To look ourselves in the eye, and treat ourselves as we would our best friend. There was more, but that’s the gist of it. It’s so not easy, it’s a practice, that eventually will become a habit. I am really glad I went and have been practicing.

During this seminar, we were told to look into the mirror and recognize what we were feeling and practice saying something nice to ourselves. I did say something nice to myself. It felt… scary and then I really looked into my eyes and all I felt was disgust. Absolute disgust. Then I felt physically nauseous.

I struggled with that feeling for a few days. Attempting to find the source and work my way through it. I went to my therapy appointment, and talked about the experience. My therapist said “whose voice was it?” and I told her, I wanted to say my Dad or Harry… but it wasn’t their voices, it was my Mom’s voice. There I was working to be kind and loving to myself and her disgust for me, reared up at that moment.

My Mother the one person I should have been able to count on unconditionally loving me, literally put me into the arms of a monster and turned and walked away, fully knowing he would sexually violate me. Not once or twice, an uncountable number of times. Over and over again, she turned the other way and allowed him to hurt me.

She was filled with self-disgust, but not being brave enough to face it, she projected that onto me. A child, the most vulnerable being. I had no way to protect myself. I had no choice but to take that disgust into myself and believe it. I have been carrying her disgust, as mine, my whole life.

I peel back the layers of my trauma and find more layers. I can remember her telling me I was disgusting. She gave me to my Dad to do with as he wished, and he told me it was love. All I wanted was to be loved. So I did what he told me, and I did whatever I could to earn his love… and she loathed me for it. For loving him and wanting him to love me. I never knew anything different. All I ever knew was abuse, disguised as love.

When they divorced, she pretended nothing happened. No one talked about it. No one talked to me. I was 4 years old…? I had created a coping mechanism for myself. Whenever I had bad feelings I would masturbate. Because a clitoris is a bundle of nerves, that feels good when stimulated. It didn’t necessarily have to be sexual, but it was. It was, because my Dad conditioned me to want that good feeling when something felt bad. When he was hurting me, he also made me feel good. When I knew it was wrong, he was making me feel good. So, as a way to cope with feelings I was too young to understand or process on my own, I would masturbate.

When she would find me masturbating, she shamed me. She told me it was dirty and I was disgusting. She didn’t talk to me, try to help me, take responsibility for her part in any of it. No, she let me carry it all. How can a 4 year old, process and carry all of that pain? It didn’t end there. With no help, and a Mother projecting her self-disgust on me, I carried that — always. That disgust, has been with me, my whole life.

First as a child, I masturbated whenever I felt bad. The sexual violation may have stopped, but not the memories. With no one to talk to, and no way to understand what happened. I felt bad a lot. Can you imagine? I remember being so sad because I wanted my Dad to love me, but I couldn’t even see him. How could I do what he wanted and make him love me? Why did I have trouble falling asleep? How could I miss something that hurt. Why didn’t he love me? Why didn’t my mom love me?

I remember a nightmare I had when I lived in our farmhouse. I might have been 5 or 6. My mom wanted to murder us. My oldest sister hid the rest of us in the house under couch cushions, and I could see my mom outside walking around the house, looking for a way inside and she had an ax and was going to chop us up. But my oldest sister protected us.

There were family friends who saw me masturbate, and I even told them “it’s okay, my daddy does it”. No one helped me then. I was in 2nd grade and I remember a janitor catching me masturbate in the bathroom at school… no help then either. Over the years, I continued to masturbate, whenever I was upset. Which was a lot. I didn’t understand that what I had experienced wasn’t normal. Because, to me, it was. No one talked to me about it, it stayed secret. I couldn’t connect to my peers… they didn’t know the same traumas I did. I saw the world differently. I wanted to be loved so bad, and I had a Dad who sexually violated me then disappeared. I had a mom who I couldn’t connect with because she was repulsed by me. I erroneously thought it was my fault.

Pre-teen years… what a mess I was. I wanted so bad to have friends and connect with my peers. I’d seen my Dad sporadically over the years, in my mind he was still my daddy. Someone who I wanted to love me more than anything in this world. I remember one time, my mom asking if I wanted to see him. I said yes! She said “you know he’s a child molester, right?” I said yeah. But I had no idea what she was talking about. In my mind molester meant minstrel. Someone who plays music! Because we NEVER talked about it. EVER!

I couldn’t connect with anyone. Peers didn’t have my same cares. Adults “knew” something was off, but they didn’t want to be bothered with my trauma. I wanted love so bad, I was needy, desperate… and they found it repulsive and pushed me away. I had a Mom who hated me, because she couldn’t face her own guilt and shame. I was utterly alone, left to try to make sense of all of this.

Young teen years, wow. A sexually violated girl, going through puberty, with absolutely no idea what had happened to her, still masturbating. I was so confused. In my mind, sex was love. My peers were talking about sex. Finally, maybe I could be loved. Ha! No, I was shamed again by my peers. I was called a slut, of course. Conditioned my whole life to believe you payed for love by allowing yourself to be used for sexual acts, and at the same time conditioned to believe you were disgusting if it felt good. Conditioned to believe I was unworthy of love. Never understanding relationships, or myself.

High School for any ordinary kid is usually horrendous at best… for me? It was torture. My first serious relationships… absolute disasters. I still didn’t know how to connect. All my worth was tied up in sex, and a desperation to be loved. I couldn’t relate to anyone. I was emotionally stunted. I would have sex with anyone who showed the least amount of interest, because I had no idea how to say no. I didn’t even think I could say no. I would do anything to feel love, even for that small moment.

What my parents did to me, can never be excused. My dad sexually violated me. My Mother knew exactly what was going on and allowed it over and over. Then she pretended nothing happened, while projecting her self-disgust onto me. There is no child in the world who can process that. She left me to survive as I could, without her help. Or anyone’s help. There is no way I could process that on my own. There is only finding coping mechanisms, if you are lucky, and surviving until you are in a safe place, to unravel the complexities, and weave together self-acceptance and self-love from what is left.

I am not responsible for what they did to me. I did not deserve what they did. I am not disgusting.