Lord forgive me for I have sinned
Written by Ana Salazar
Picture by Van de aarde
My first boyfriend and I lost our virginity to each other when we were in high school. Whilst we most certainly didn't plan it, and it was far from romantic, it was good enough for me. Unfortunately, it wasn't good enough for my religious trauma. I never chose to be Catholic. The church embedded itself onto me in the womb. Somehow, I was still born a sinner and growing up, my parents kept a safe distance between God and me.
I went through baptism, confirmation, and even my first communion. Not to mention, my family and I would attend mass from time to time - but mostly to keep up with appearances. Part of the cultural norms consists of being a participating member of the church (and its many extracurricular activities). These ranged anywhere from mission trips to volunteering during mass. Something I, to this day, don't intend on doing.
A lack of passion for the church and its rules resulted in being labeled as a societal reject. I, for one, lived in the cusp of Catholicism and Atheism. Meaning, I wasn't bad enough to be marginalized. But I wasn't good enough to be praised. In the meantime, I camouflaged as much as I could. Unfortunately, my "safety net" disappeared when I was eight. The year I was exposed to sex. Being born in the digital age made it hard for me to avoid erotic media. My formative, psychosexual years consisted of fear-mongering and Puritan-style sex education. So, it felt as if I didn't have the freedom to be curious. For example, I was taught that people couldn't have sex out of Catholic wedlock. That birth control represented promiscuity. And that pornography violated chastity. I won't speak for every former or practicing Catholic woman. But being interested in sex and relationships from a young age filled me with guilt.
The idea of "breaking the rules" felt tempting yet abnormal. I was afraid of confiding about my new-found feelings with friends or adults. Mostly because I knew they could tell my parents. Once I moved to the United States, I felt a massive weight come off my shoulders. Believe it or not, the US is way more lenient when it comes to religious diversity - compared to other countries, that is. I no longer felt the need to flaunt a religious facade for the first time in 12 years. Another great factor about the US is its acceptance of sex. I've encountered several resources stating how Americans are culturally "prude-ish," which is something I, now, fully believe. But back then, I felt as if I had walked into a forbidden lair - one that sparked both my curiosity and remorse.
Which brings me back to the start of this essay - the day I lost my virginity. My first time was normal in the sense that it was nothing special. Iron Man was on TV, and we weren't sure what we were doing. I knew as much as ten Cosmopolitan articles, and he knew we had to use condoms. We never pressured each other. I felt like I was ready. And although things weren't Hollywood-esque, I was happy that it had happened.
That was until I made the mistake of leaving my phone unlocked at the dinner table. I never expected to awaken my parents' internalized Catholicism by being sexually active. I recognize that I could've been more careful. And that they could've found out in a much better way. But, still, it was startling. Back then, I knew that my disingenuous, religious identity was going to follow me to the grave. But I never thought it'd come back as harshly as it did. Especially through my parents. Every damaging comment I had heard growing up became about me. In a way, it was culture-shock for all of us. What I did wasn't wrong, per se. But it wasn't what we were all used to. So, I suffered the consequences.
Part of my punishment was to join a "youth group" at a local church. We'd meet every Sunday and talk about the Bible and its many modern-day interpretations.Deep down, I felt uncomfortable. But because I had heard how badly I had behaved, I believed I needed to change. Unsurprisingly, my urges crept up on me every once in a while. I couldn't get rid of them no matter how much I cried, prayed, or attended mass. The youth group made me feel safe, but not enough for me to confess. The last thing I wanted to be told was to pray my sexuality away. It just wasn't working.
Transitioning back to a secular lifestyle was distressing as my brain had endured so much change and I felt as if I was trying to recover. Consequently this affected me sexually. Months after I had given up my religious lifestyle, I found myself in bed with someone. Our relationship didn't last and provided more harm than good though at the time, I thought I loved him.
There was no doubt that I wanted to have sex with him. I had fantasized about that moment for months. So why didn't I let it happen? Perhaps, my mind was so used to condemning sex that my body was not letting me enjoy it. It took me four years to have sex again. I spent ages 14-18 trying to overcome my fear of my, very natural, sexual desires. I did mess around with friends and boyfriends here and there, but it never escalated to penetrative sex. Nevertheless, I would cry or get anxious after every encounter. A healthy relationship with sex felt difficult to achieve at that point in life. That was until I realized tear-jerking wasn't going to get me anywhere. I came to the conclusion it wasn't normal.
I'm 22 now, and I'm happy to admit I'm beginning to have a healthy relationship with sex. I won't go ahead and say that it doesn't always feel sinful. But at least I now know how to brush those negative thoughts off. My culture may not be the most socially-progressive, but it is a part of who I am. Educating myself and others is the only thing I have control over. Having sex is great, but having a fruitful union with it is better.
Ana is a Latinx undergrad student living in Houston, TX. She is motivated by her studies, her friends, and her ramblings on sex and relationships. She can be summoned via message in a bottle or Instagram which can be found here