I OM. The Story of Rosie

by OneTaste Living Library  Sep 4, 2013

Imagine being told a lie repeatedly until it became your truth. Until you believed it. Until you created your reality around it. Until nothing else penetrated it. And so you lived that lie that had become your truth.

You are fat, ugly and stupid. The words fell from my father's lips. You are a disgrace. Eyes that cross, spilling your milk with such ease it seems to be on purpose. Stumbling like a drunk clown, creating messes wherever you go. You are wrong. Everything about you offends me.

I believed it. photo

Sexual abuse started in the fourth grade and was committed daily. I was reminded that it was because I was disgusting, ugly, stupid and fat. Rape, sodomy. It hurt. I was in pain and couldn't show it. And yes at that point I yielded to the belief that it was because I was some sort of horrific monster, barely able to make eye contact for fear that others would look away in disgust.

I did everything right, hoping for some relief. Perfect grades, perfect citizen, perfect at sports, perfect body, perfect mind. I excelled at everything—yet kept getting the message that I was innately flawed. The words of encouragement that I received at school from sports where outweighed by the words that I heard and the actions that happened when I got home. There were 11 abusers total. Some of them just fondled while others wanted me to hurt. They hurt my pussy and they hurt my clit. Their sick desire was to torture me, to see me hurt and not allowed to respond, cry, or flinch. The last incident was at 19 and was the most brutal. I moved out the next day

After high school my body got bigger, and bigger, and bigger until I realized the actual size I had always seen myself as in my mind. The shield that kept away anyone from getting too close or even wanting to touch me was my body now. Safe. Staying safe and not hurting—that's what I did so I wouldnt get hurt anymore.

Many years later I saw Nicole speak on TEDTalk. What got me was when she talked about touching this place inside, that unreachable place that had been yearning to be noticed, to be touched. That place I thought I could ignore and it would go away. I've had injuries, been cut almost in half battling ovarian cancer, and been left with missing pieces. I understand that to heal the hurt you have to touch the spots that hurt the most.

Then OM entered my life.

If I wanted to heal the spot had been hurt the most I had to let someone touch it.

So when I get into the nest and spread my legs apart to allow you to not just metaphorically but physically touch the that has been so hurt—so tortured—then I am allowing you to touch, heal, and—yes—find pleasure in my deepest wound.

In this way, OM is my healing.