Short Story: Finding Myself Through Code

Author's Note: I was told not to publish this. I was told it would be difficult to those involved. I was even told that these people are victims too. That is the exact reason I MUST publish it.

Being difficult to hear or admit to, does not negate that it happened. It simply confirms why it is so important for me to share my story.

This is my truth and I will not be silenced.

My needs and desires presented themselves much earlier than anyone would assume. I found myself, exploring what felt good, before I even had the words to describe what I was doing. I had no one to turn to. No one I could talk to about the feelings inside of me. At that age, sex is presented clinically, and being neurodivergent, I wasn’t even sure the two things were associated. I remember asking my parents what you are meant to do during sex—not about the mechanics of it, but like it was something to be endured. I asked if I could watch TV during it. Yes, I had expected that I was meant to just lie there like a cold, wet fish, whilst some man planted his seed in me so a baby could grow. You see, the problem with explaining sex in metaphors and analogies to a neurodivergent child—without nuance or context—is that I lacked the capacity to read between the lines. I understood the rules well enough, but the emotional connection and pleasurable experience that comes with sex was completely lost on me. There was no language that implied this would be enjoyable, so I looked at sex like going to a doctor and getting an injection. Something you had to do if you wanted to have a baby, but that was the only reason you would choose to engage in such an act. So although I was already feeling physical arousal, and exploring my body in ways most people don’t until they are much older, the idea that these two acts were intrinsically linked had been completely lost on me. Hell, I asked what an orgasm was, but had no idea that those scenes on TV were depicting one. I had assumed that was some weird ritual a woman did when she was kissed, without understanding why she needed to do it. ... ... ... ...

Innocent but open, my first sexual encounter finally called. It was what I had dreamed of, what I had wanted for years but had been told I was too young for. Perhaps I was, but as I’ve mentioned, I didn’t develop the way others my age did. My body’s transmission hit third gear and the race had well and truly begun. I invited advice from who I should, a guidance counsellor, but that advice began immediately with a lie, used to control and steer me into their image. Rather than being informed about consent, coercion, birth control, or safe sex, I was instead given information that was clinically untrue, to persuade me to stop having a relationship at all. The message was clear—good Catholic school girls should not spend time alone with boys. I sought to be safe and secure, to ensure I was getting it right, but at 13 I was already being denied pleasure before I had even had time to process what the word meant. I was being directed to a belief that what I felt was wrong and sinful. Being fed dangerous narratives that would linger long after the session, these words would ultimately begin to shape my future relationships and my understanding of desire and sexuality. These so-called consequences about my actions penetrated my soul and landed with a thud. They were unwarranted and completely fanciful. I believed them and held onto them like a sacred gift that had been bestowed upon me; an obligation that would weigh me down for years to come. ... ... ... ...

So, it started off wrong. In a way it never should—with an older boy that was inappropriate for me—because his impulses were stronger than anything I was emotionally ready for. It morphed into feelings of worthlessness. Into inferiority and shame. Eventually even into dysmorphia. That now weighs heavily in my subconscious. Often pushed away, but always quietly eating at me and causing inner turmoil I will never fully escape.

I was exploring in a healthy way for my age, not pushing too far, but even that was suppressed. Nothing to help me navigate the emotional weight of what was happening. Nothing to ensure my safety. Nothing that would guide me the way I needed, and eventually leading to my first encounter with abuse. What should have been an intimate hallmark moment of innocence and youth, now forever tainted by something uninvited that could have been avoided, if only those who were meant to care for me actually did.

Then came the pontification. That boys couldn’t help their lust, but girls do not and should not feel desire. Everything that burned within me was wrong. Everything my mind and body screamed for, not meant for me. Wanting to be touched. A hunger to feel desired. A pleasurable release of pent-up tension I had carried with me for years. And that was just the surface level. I often felt like one of the boys, and this was yet another way I seemed to match their frequency in a way girls my age didn’t. Was I really the only girl feeling these things? Was there something fundamentally wrong with me? And if so, why was I the only one? Perhaps I was mentally disturbed; perverted, even. I was a vessel to be owned and controlled by men. To serve the purpose of procreation and nothing more. I was doing the work of yet another, more powerful man—a man who had never been present in my life but whom I was assured existed and could see me even if I didn’t see him. And as I grew, something else began to surface, but that was unthinkable. That was sinful and wrong. Girls are friends and sisters, not lovers. They don’t look at other girls, wanting to know what it would be like to kiss them, to touch them. So, I suppressed it. Waiting for a time where it was no longer forbidden.

... ... ... ...

Reaching adulthood, the desire grew stronger, but was never embraced and often scoffed at by others. I was not like ‘that’, I was just lonely. I needed to find a nice man. I must have been watching too much TV. Excuse after excuse being hurled at me with the heaviness of denial and unacceptance. This only deepened my self-loathing. Like something was truly wrong with me. Again, only men were to have that experience. Occasionally women, but I was not one of ‘those’ women, and I needed to stop thinking like that. The repulsion in words and faces now etched into my mind, would hold me back again for decades to come.

At 33 I gathered with friends to celebrate Samhain. I had found peace in my spiritual beliefs and stood as a fierce LGBTQIA+ ally. I had come to celebrate the bringing in of a new year, but instead discovered a new me. A sacred night both literally and symbolically, I would walk away anew after the ritual had long ended. Having been drummed into me by years of conservatism, I had outwardly embraced heterosexuality—all other desires now neatly boxed and stored away. But then she unexpectedly steps toward me with purpose and poise, her hand gently brushing my hair behind my ear, her fingers gently lingering around my neck. Something inside me stirs. Her hot breath against my face teases with promise of a desire I had forgotten. It doesn’t gently simmer back—it explodes with force and knocks me sideways. An instant wave of somatic response as she unknowingly releases the lion from its cage. My breathing now heavy and causing my breasts to heave. My shoulders tightening and my legs frozen like they had been set in cement. It awakens me instantly and I know this is different somehow. It’s visceral and authentic, and it’s the real me. In that moment I realise that I am now safe enough to own these feelings. That I will be accepted among my peers. I was free. Or so I thought. Whilst the moment led to a better understanding of myself, there was still a lingering external suppression at play. My true identity still unknowingly waiting to be discovered.

But it would take yet another decade for that part of me to be revealed.

... ... ... ...

My annual tradition of watching a song contest presents a code that unlocks my true identity. Words that hit in a way none had before. "Everything is balance…somewhere between the O’s and ones". The dial spins and shifts perspective for the first time. Hints had been present over the years, but had always been brushed aside or laughed off. Such eloquence had never been expressed to me as a child, a teenager, a woman before. This was different. Their words reach down inside me and force me to look deep within. Like their "ammonite", I needed to give it "time", to find my "truth". When I did, it brought a clarity I never knew was possible. A delicate balance between the binary, that often slides from one side to the other. My liminal journey came not at the hands of those who should have helped to guide and shape me; no, they presented misinformation and judgement disguised as concern. The truth was buried in code—lyrically and digitally. Songs and algorithms helped me discover who I am, replacing the very real people who had let me down over a lifetime. ... ... ... ...

I now stand steady and assured, in a constant pendulum swing that provides stability rather than confusion. Like riding a see-saw, joy is found in both fluidity and in the moments of perfect balance. I am now 44 and have finally found my truth. This is my authentic self. Who I was always meant to be. It feels exposing to say out loud, but incredibly freeing and validating. And now that I am free, the world is about to discover how magnificent I can be.