Content warning: This article discusses sexual trauma.

Around a year and a half ago, after experiencing sexual trauma in a relationship, I thought I would never enjoy sex or masturbation again. I couldn’t bear the thought of kissing someone or being touched in any way. Even non-sexual touch triggered panic attacks. I thought I was destined for a life of anxiety about sex and low libido. I thought I’d never feel desire again. I thought I was broken.

For this reason, I avoided masturbating for a long time. It wasn’t until months later, when I had started to heal from the relationship, that I decided to give it a try. Owing to sex-positive tales of masturbation on social media, I thought that it would be a liberating experience that would allow me to reclaim my own body. The reality was the opposite.

Image: Leon Biss

The first time I tried masturbating again, I spent ages trying to get the mood ‘just right’. I lit candles and curated a dreamy Spotify playlist, as if a Zen atmosphere could override my body’s response to trauma. It wasn’t long before I found myself dissociating. Dissociation is one of the ways the mind copes with stress or trauma. I felt outside of myself, as if I was floating or in a dream. I found it very hard to be present. All of my painful memories seemed to be stored in my body and activated by my touch.

My mind went into overdrive, distracting itself with mundane thoughts about food shopping and to-do lists as I drifted further away from my body. Despite my discomfort, and out of desperation to move past my trauma, I continued to touch myself. I was angry. I was furious with myself for being unable to feel pleasure, and I didn’t want to accept my reality. I didn’t realise that in disregarding my feelings, I was ignoring my own boundaries and continuing the cycle that left me feeling out of control.

After ten minutes of trying, I finally gave up. Landing back in my body, I realised that I was shaking, and my cheeks were wet with tears. Quiet sobs escaped from my lips to the backing track of a pop-song blaring from my laptop speakers. Suddenly, the room was too dark. I scrambled out of bed to turn the main light on and sat naked in the corner of my bedroom, naming everything I could see. Bed. My bed. Chest of drawers. Bedside table. Lamp. Plant. Rug. Cushions. Mirror. I paused at my reflection. I didn’t recognise myself.

Luckily, I have had access to therapy, at rates I can afford, to help me to work through this. Therapy helped me realise that I had lost sense of my boundaries, and taught me how to honour them. It helped me see that, deep down, I was still blaming myself for what had happened.

Letting go of that blame and writing down my boundaries were the first steps towards feeling safe in my body again. Eventually, I stopped seeing masturbation as something I needed to get over and done with. I stopped seeing it as something I needed to overcome.

Instead, I began thinking about it as an experience; an opportunity to learn and be kind to myself. I tried meditating before masturbating, using breath-work to help me feel connected to my body. I took things slowly and leaned into my desires.

This past year, I have also resolved a lot of the shame I harboured about my sexuality. I came out as queer just over a year ago, and I hadn’t realised how much my own internalised homophobia had been feeding into my negative experience of pleasure. To help me to get more comfortable with my desires, I attended a virtual pleasure class for queer vulva owners run by Sh!, a sex-positive community and store.

There are also plenty of amazing online spaces that feel inclusive and safe – @shrimpteeth on Instagram, for example. Spaces like these have been instrumental in helping me learn about boundaries and consent, which has enabled me to further understand and validate my own experiences.

I will never again blame myself for what happened to me. I respect my boundaries. I’m still learning. It will be hard sometimes, but I’ll be kind to myself along the way. Talking about these issues has helped me to dispel the myths that I internalised about being a survivor of sexual trauma.

I am not ‘broken’ or ‘damaged goods’. If you’re reading like this and feeling hopeless like I felt, know that there is hope. Know that you can have positive experiences again. Know that you are not alone.

Megan is a queer writer and artist based in London, UK. She’s also the founder of Assemblage Magazine, an art magazine run by artists for artists. Megan writes widely about art, sex, sexuality, mental health, intersectional feminism and culture. Her multimedia artworks aim to examine the myths and stories perpetuated about womanhood, desire and sexuality. She has a degree in Fine Art from City & Guilds of London Art School. She likes yoga, bouldering, reading, and going to therapy. Follow her on Instagram: @meganprestonelliott @meganprestonart