This is a long diary, so I'm breaking it into two parts. But this is how I came to not only acknowledge my own sexuality, but the fact that I was capable--no, entitled--to be a sexual person in the first place.
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My first crush was on a boy named Johnny in first grade. Johnny had freckles, bright red hair, a big grin, and gave me my first Valentine.
My second crush was on a girl named Shana in second grade. Shana had light blonde curls, blue eyes, and was nice in an off-hand, perfunctory way.
And then, when I was eight, I was molested, and that experience stretched out until I was eleven. I had no more crushes until I reached high school, and I deliberately put distance between myself and the person on whom I had the crush. After all, past experience had taught me what sex really was--and how could I say what had happened was a bad thing if, in the end, I found myself wanting to touch someone?
I channeled my energies into schoolwork, writing, and singing, and tried to suffocate my depression through binge eating. I avoided most boys--after all, I knew what they were after. Girls were safer, because I could hug my friends and satisfy my need for affection without acknowledging it was a need for something more.
I succeeded in smothering my sexual needs and awareness until I was in my twenties.
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