Traumasexuality by Peter John Schouten
Clearly I am late to the party. As I am with most things to do with all of this. The Mentor mentioned it, mentioned it in such a way that I paid attention. Thought I would get a copy and have a read. I really don’t do this, you will never see my bookshelf with its own section of self-help books or theories on this or that. Not my thing at all. I like the Malcolm Gladwell 10,000 hours/Tipping Point shtick, but that’s practically pop culture. Whatever he thought he was doing, he became one of those zeitgeist moments at the turn of the century.
I’m a novels, literature, and autobiographies reader. On a beach, a train, waiting around in a hotel lobby, I will always have a book to hand. Martin Amis, John Irving, Douglas Adams, Michael Chabon, David Sedaris, Tintin — that’s my normal view across the bookshelves.
I feel duty bound to warn you against going straight to the publisher, as I did. Maybe it’s the only way to get a copy nowadays. It was expensive to start with and then more again with postage and import taxes. It’s Dutch, so maybe the translation bumped the price. I decided it was about equal to an hour of therapy, so probably worth it.
Yes, I used to live there, yes, I can speak a few sentences, but they are firmly in the ordering of beer and thanking the beer-bringer school of linguistics.
So this was a departure for me. Very much an academic book, and it feels more aimed at therapists than casual survivors. I’ve read it through once and I intend to read it again in the next week or so. I read a bit fast and have a tendency to skip stuff.
I don’t want to say too much because it is one of those things that works best if you read it open-hearted and willing to engage, and me offering a watered down version isn’t fair to the writer. If you have read it, or heard about it, or chattered about it in the chat rooms, then I’m sure you get the general idea.
One second at the start where the abuse explodes in your body and does its damage everywhere. And then a whole book about that and the repercussions. Well of course I’m being flippant — I’m hardly going to write the whole book here am I.
I read that first section about the one second almost breathless. It slotted into me like I had been waiting all my life for someone to explain it that way. A framework for what I always instinctively believed about abuse and what it does to us. I locked into that idea immediately. I was completely receptive to what he was saying.
Often over the years, enough that I know I say it, I have commented that I was lucky I didn’t really notice puberty. No embarrassing voice changes, no acne or spots, hair growth subtle and gradual. Everything so gradual that I assumed I barely noticed it.
And then I read this:
Sexual development is accelerated, halted and influenced. You do not experience or only faintly experience puberty. Your tempo has been raised and as a result you miss the step-by-step discovery of your own sexuality with all its details and refinements that are important for your development.
One line. Now I understand. What kind of harm has that done? Is it the key to other things? Have I ended up in confused places with my sexuality because of that one second? Well obviously. But was I always unwittingly describing the repercussions of the one second? I just didn’t know to call it that.
I am very shaken by the idea of his sexuality being imprinted on me, which the book talks about. I described it recently to The Mentor as if I had a memory chip implanted in me. He taught me sexual things, programmed me to respond and do sexual things. The imprint idea is stomach-wrenchingly accurate to me.
It goes a long way to explaining my sense of sexual identity confusion. I could never explain it. I could never find the right words. Labels never worked. I have always struggled to answer the question what am I. Now I know why. I’m not straight, gay or bi. I am him.
I don’t like that one little bit. I not only identify with that, I feel it completely and utterly. The disgust I feel at that concept extends directly to the disgust I feel about myself. About my sexual feelings. About the things I sexually engage with.
Before coming here and talking to you lot, and that’s a term of affection, I was adamant I had very little use for a therapist. I have shifted slightly on that stance, just a small step to the left, would never step to the right. If I could find an English-speaking therapist trained in the ways of Traumasexuality I would book them tomorrow. Yes don’t worry, I am working on it. I have even considered slipping over to The Netherlands and doing some kind of crash course.
In the meantime, I am perfectly happy to wear the label Traumasexual. To be entirely accurate, if my friends are to be believed, my full title should be MetroTraumaSexual. Now who do I know with a badge maker.