Growing up, my sexual education was strikingly limited. I was merely taught two key points: Firstly, that women possess eggs which shed during menstruation and develop babies when a "little fishy" (sperm) swims and attaches during sex. Secondly, having sex outside of marriage was regarded as incorrect. I was not educated about my own body or even the act of having sex itself. This undoubtedly piqued my curiosity as I reached my teenage years.

Unveiling the Hidden Struggles of Sexual Identity

Section 1: The Influence of Hookup Culture

During this time, hookup culture dominated. However, my conversations with friends led me to believe that achieving an orgasm as a woman was nearly impossible. Even as I watched Samantha Jones engage in numerous one-night stands on "Sex and the City", my conclusion was straightforward: Her pleasure stemmed from accumulating a growing number of sexual partners.So, I treated sex as a form of sport, constantly rotating through a list of casual hookups, even when I wasn't fully invested. It was merely a means to pass the time, disregarding orgasms. In my mind, I was sexually liberated in every aspect. I thought viewing sex as a transactional pursuit of pleasure (even when I myself experienced little to none) was a form of empowerment. If I didn't care, I couldn't get hurt.

Section 2: The Realization of Sexual Assault

Perhaps it took me a year to realize that I had been sexually assaulted. You might be thinking, how could I not have known about this intimate violation? I asked myself the same question repeatedly after the realization hit me like a Mack Truck a year after the incident. The only answer I could come up with was that I hadn't explicitly said "no".This haunted me as I struggled to shake off the flashbacks, panic attacks, and nightmares that plagued me daily. Even seeing or reading about a sex scene on TV would trigger my body's fight or flight response. My stomach was constantly in knots. Worse still, I felt powerless and dirty, as if I had lost all the strength and courage I once had. I was constantly torn between wanting to shout about my sexual liberation from the rooftops and wanting to completely avoid sex.It was difficult to reconcile my response with this violation. I thought I had no right to feel this way since I hadn't protested at the time. But I didn't say "no" not because I didn't want to, but because I was terrified of the consequences.My attacker was someone in a position of power over me at that time. The last thing I wanted was to lose opportunities because I didn't give him what he wanted.Admittedly, there was a part of me that wondered if I was only feeling this way because I regretted sleeping with this person. Maybe blaming my assailant was just a way to make myself feel better. In my mind, the sex had been consensual. I not only allowed it to happen but it wasn't the first time I had had sex with someone without being fully into it. All those other times, having sex was still a choice I made, and I thought this was no different.But consensual sex doesn't make your stomach drop when you think about it the next day and every day after that. Nor does it cause sleep anxiety due to being terrified of being alone with your thoughts at night.I had experienced consensual sex before and I knew deep down that this was not it.Yet, I continued to live in denial. I didn't listen to my best friend when she said my attacker was older and "knew exactly what he was doing". When I started dating my boyfriend a few months after the assault, I downplayed the incident completely, making it seem like a momentary lapse in judgment that I regretted.I refused to be a victim, but that's exactly what I became. Refusing to acknowledge the severity of the situation forced me to constantly relive the experience. Whenever I had sex, I was instantly transported back to my attacker's couch, and I couldn't reach climax without seeing his face. I thought ignoring it would make it stop, but it actually kept me in a state of perpetual helplessness. The vicious cycle was never-ending, and the PTSD was inescapable. After three long years, I finally admitted that my approach wasn't working.

Section 3: The Journey to Healing and Empowerment

Many sexual assault survivors talk about the powerlessness they feel after the attack and the crucial moment when they regain their power. For me, this happened in two parts. Firstly, when I found a therapist and admitted to her that I had been sexually assaulted. She immediately validated my emotions and made me feel safe. This gave me the courage to fully open up during our sessions, releasing a flood of emotions such as guilt and shame. I hadn't realized I had been carrying these emotions around for years, but I was finally able to let them go.Secondly, during a deep breathing session with my therapist, I saw a white light emanating from my belly - the place where my body first alerted me that something was wrong. When I told her about it, she explained that the belly is the center of power. "He took your power away from you," she said. "That bright white light was you finally taking it back."This gave me the strength and courage to move forward, not only in my sex life but in all aspects of my life.Acknowledging and accepting that I had been violated in this way helped me develop a healthier relationship with sex. I realized that I had a distorted view of it throughout my life. I thought my needs didn't matter - I would agree to have sex with partners when I wasn't in the mood, fake orgasms, and pretend that the sex was enjoyable when, in reality, it was the opposite. I was afraid to disappoint my partners and had never taken the time to learn about my body.Before the assault, I (like many women) suffered from body dysmorphia. But after the incident, the negative view I had of myself was magnified by the shame I felt. I used to love dressing brightly, but I swapped my animal print, neon hues, and skater skirts for sweatshirts and sweatpants. It was a desperate attempt to hide the body that I felt had betrayed me.However, therapy allowed me to connect with myself on a more intimate level than ever before. I not only took the time to learn about my own anatomy but also realized that my body is strong, beautiful, and resilient - it is nothing to be ashamed of. Slowly but surely, I became more comfortable wearing tight clothing and showing off my curves again.The most amazing thing was that I finally found the voice that was missing during the assault - the one that couldn't say "no".I was no longer satisfied with being a passive participant in the bedroom. I learned how to speak up during sex and ensure that my needs were met every time.Of course, this change didn't happen overnight. It was a long and hard journey filled with hardship and heartache. It was particularly difficult while in a relationship. My boyfriend had been watching me suffer for years, and I wanted to be completely honest with him about my journey. We agreed to discuss my therapy sessions and what I had learned from them as long as I felt comfortable. Having these open conversations made it easier for me to express my desires in the bedroom.To begin with, I started voicing what was and wasn't working and what I thought would make intercourse better for me. I also became honest about whether I had reached orgasm. And for the next two years, this was sufficient. I felt safe, sexually satisfied, and loved. But after a consensual quickie, I had an epiphany: We had made progress, but we still hadn't made discussing our sex life a regular occurrence. This was the missing piece that would ensure I felt completely safe, cared for, loved, and satisfied in and outside the bedroom - something I now believe is essential in all romantic and sexual relationships.I explained this to my boyfriend, and together, we decided to discuss sex before and after having it - not just during. Although it was a bit awkward at first, we learned how to talk about what we were in the mood for, what we thought worked and didn't, and what we wanted to try next time. My boyfriend also started checking in with me afterwards and the following day to make sure I was okay. It might seem tedious, but this process has become an integral part of my life. This open dialogue has helped me reclaim my sexuality tenfold.Sex is no longer a transactional act for me; it is something I engage in with care, choosing to give my body to someone only when I fully trust them not to harm it. I will never be able to have spontaneous, passionate sex again, but I'm at peace with that. There is a great sense of empowerment in expressing my sexual wants and needs. This realization has not only given me a healthier relationship with intimacy, my partner, and my body but has also given me the best sex of my life.