Tape Can't Fix That: A Letter to Virginity

Written: October 2018

Edited and Published: November 2021

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Sex.

There, wow, I said it. That big word that lurks and lingers in a room like a hazy fog in the brains of every high school dance, college karaoke night, and wedding reception attendee.

Whether you like to admit it or not, most people aren’t in fact virgins, and have participated in some act of sex. Of course, this word “virginity” holds various meanings, depending on the user. I, personally, define sex in the most "textbook" form, a man and woman join in a physical way in the hopes of reproducing… or just having fun...

Here, I’ll say it again for anyone still astounded that this is my topic: SEX.

Growing up, we are taught the preconceived notion that sex is the physical embodiment of love- and why wouldn't we, seeing that society romanticizes the act as dazzling? It’s deemed this fabulous act of affection between two individuals, that, at a time when both people are ready and truly enamored with the other, join in this final act of admiration and passion. It’s a wonderful, liberating, joyful thing.

As much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news: life sucks.

Though shattering to our charming childhood illusions, life isn’t a movie, and it usually doesn't live up to all it's expected to be.

***

Red.

It was the color of

everything that night.

My cheeks, my eyes,

Seemingly the air,

the floor, my neck where imprints of you fingers

remained still;

The table, the bed.

Cold.

a bitter, misty

October night greeted me

as I slumped to my car.

The fog seemed to seep under the

window-

and through the

vents-

and into my

core-

As an always “yes” type of girl

I figured

My “no” would

hold more importance, given its scarcity in my vocabulary.

Shocker.

I was wrong,

and he was strong,

and everything was red,

that night I turned cold to the world.

***

It’s funny, easy, and even common to laugh about “losing it”, because it’s probably the one thing every person mutually has, or will have, or even wishes they had, in common. Despite where/how/when/who, we all know the flood of emotions that come with this great act of “love”.

But am I wrong to call it love? Or, better yet, am I wrong to refuse to recognize it as such?

If I could, I would ask my virginity, something that made its sudden disappearance presently known that God-awful night: Did it feel like love to you? From my perspective it was aggressive, eager, the unwanted checking of a box. I liked you, and wanted to keep you, but you were stolen from me without a second thought.

I sometimes think back on my own ~night~, when I’m alone and the sadness I keep locked up begins creeping out of its box and back into my heart.

I wish I had never dated him. I wish I had found the courage within myself to tell my mother that despite her hesitation, I wasn't afraid of being alone my senior year- that I didn't need a man to be successful. I wish I had been stronger, been able to muster up the strength to prevent my head from hitting the wall, capable of keeping my legs squeezed tight, held my hips in place, had enough lung capacity to scream louder, had less makeup experience so the bruises would show on my neck, arms, legs, ribs...

I wish I had been stronger and able to stop him before the final act.

I wish I didn’t cry, then and now. That the memories didn't crash into my soul like a tsunami randomly when I’m walking to class, partying with friends, or attempting to rest late at night.

And my God I wish more than anything I could forget. Because, maybe then, I would learn to love “love” again, and stop wishing I could tape myself whole once more.

***

No matter who a person appears to be, where they come from, or where they’re going, everyone, each individual we meet, has a moment where they break. This breaking isn’t an act that can be repaired by a physical form of “glue” (like casts, braces, hugs, food). This is a deep wound that will bleed within them forever. A moment that changes their very outlook on life, and makes them wonder the inexplicable question: “why?”.

Too often, sex is a defining moment for people. I have friends that wish they could re-do their moment. I see their regret morph into actions against themselves further, almost attempting to erase their past by digging further into the hole. "It's just a body" they say.

I have other friends who realized it was something they disliked greatly. They formed a cast around their broken hearts and signed it “never again”. They swore off feelings and swore off love.

Rather than turning on others, I shifted my identity to taking my body back, something that was no longer my own, in the form of harmful actions of self-hate. But, no matter how hard I tried to keep it all together, to hide the hurt and rid myself of the past by erasing it from my mind, no one can hold it together forever. I knew my wounds couldn’t be fixed with a bit of "tape" and a fake smile.

But neither can anyone else’s. Each of us experiences this defining moment where we are truly broken. As the commonly used analogy goes, once a plate is shattered it is never truly the same, even after it's glued whole once more. If we are, metaphorically, the plate, we are changed forever. Parts of us will go missing. Our cracks will show. We will hurt. But it is not how we tape ourselves whole again that matters, but that we do it.

Each of us is broken, and not in ways tape can fix. But each of us fights a daily battle to mend the broken pieces within our souls to make ourselves functional, and alive, every day. So, my dear readers, I just ask that you be kind to one another, because though the cracks may not show, you could be the tape that's mending someone's broken pieces.

I don't share this story to invoke a pity party. God is in control, and everything happens for a reason, and I believe that whole heartedly. Though His reasons might be unclear, they exist and one day will make themselves known. If you or someone you know is struggling, reach out to myself, a trusted adult, a therapist, a or a trusted friend.

You are never ever alone.