I've been putting off making this damn entry for a while now. I want to write more here, but I don't want to do so before writing this and put it off even longer. I may as well just get it out of the way and be done with it. I don't know if I'll ever be able to overcome the guilt I feel of having enjoyed being molested by my dad for the first several years it happened, but if I can, maybe the first step is just dealing with it by openly acknowledging it. I'm going to get graphic here, so please heed the trigger warning.

So, the first couple of times, I didn’t enjoy it. Even if it felt good, it was also terrifying for me because my body was reacting in ways that I couldn't possibly understand at 8 years old. That and I just knew it was wrong. But by maybe the third or fourth time, I slowly began resigning myself to it and enjoying it. I began closing my eyes and becoming wrapped up in my little world while my dad performed oral sex on me. Sometimes, I would actually stand in position for him, legs spread and just lean back with my eyes closed while my dad would either be sitting or kneeling down in front of me.

He would ask me how it felt, I would enthusiastically tell him how good I was feeling. He obviously knew the answer, but just wanted to hear me say it. As young as 8 years old, talking like a sexually active adult. I may not have been an adult, but I was made sexually active. The way my dad did it for the first several years, there was always a gentle focus on my pleasure. When I was older, he started getting rougher with it, but when I was a child and preteen, he knew how to make me feel sexually fulfilled long before I should have known what that was. I don't know what having a happy sex life is like as an adult, but I'm sure it's just like how I had felt back then.

It made me feel happy. I hate that it did, but it did. I would smile when my dad would sweet talk to me while molesting me sometimes or when it would evoke strong reactions out of me. Of course, when being given an orgasm too. After he would do it, I would usually be in a good mood afterward. "Glowing", as it's called. When he would make me climax consecutive times in a row, I would just be filled with elation. I wouldn't even be able to remain still and become restless by how good my body felt. I would be overwhelmed and not in a good way, looking back on it. Restless to the point of being unable to stand it! My body just wasn't ready for that kind of pleasure.

It did feel good though. Even during the first few times it happened and during my teen years after I stopped enjoying it, it always felt good. It felt so good... I wouldn't use that language when I wasn't enjoying it, but when I would be, I would outright say it. How incredible it felt was all I could think about in the moment; all that mattered. I never wanted it to stop. I knew if my mom or anyone found out, it would. I had become so addicted to the feeling, I kept it a secret and took measures with my dad to avoid getting caught. That's part of the reason why it went on for so long.

In my very first post I made on this site, when I first opened about my trauma, I said in regards to whether I enjoyed it, that my answer was "yes and no." That I enjoyed the physical feelings, but also knew it was wrong and felt guilty. As you see, I kinda watered down the enjoyment aspect, but there was still shame even back then. Sometimes, after I would climax, I wouldn't be "glowing" afterward, but snap right out of it and quickly remember what just happened was messed up. As I've said before, despite not truly comprehending all that was happening, I still knew it was very wrong. I don't know how, but I did.

I would try convincing myself that I didn't care because it felt good. Sometimes I would think about the crap my dad would occasionally say to me about him molesting me, making it out to be normal: that he loved me and that was his way of showing how much he did. But I never believed that for a moment. I would maybe contemplate it sometimes, but I never bought it. I knew this wasn't normal and I knew it wasn't right. Even then, I would feel guilty over it, but it remained a guilty pleasure until I stopped enjoying it.

Now here I am experiencing nothing but the guilt, utterly disgusted with myself for even focusing on how much I enjoyed back then in this entry. But perhaps it's something that needs to be done. Admitting to myself fully, if you will. I've spoken with other survivors who enjoyed being molested and can casually reflect on how they did without batting an eye. They're not reminiscing fondly or anything, they're just acknowledging that it happened. Clearly, they feel no guilt at all. So they shouldn't! It makes sense because they were children! It's only logical that they shouldn't be judged for it.

Now why can't I adopt this same perfectly reasonable perspective with my own molestation? Why do I have to never let myself hear the end of it and shame myself? I've spoken with a therapist on it and other survivors who gave similar advice my therapist did. It seems I just can't be helped. One or way or another, I will simply have to live with the grim reality that I enjoyed being molested at one point. Be it a simple acknowledgment or it haunting me for the rest of my life.