Growing up in a sex negative environment
For something that’s not meant to exist, sex really manages to permeate every decision made in a sex negative household.
It was made very clear to me from a young age that sex was not a vernacular I could share with my mother. From her inability to say the word itself, even to this day, to sincerely telling me that the best gift I can give my husband is my virginity, I knew that she could never accept a reality where I’m anything other than the second coming of the Virgin Mary. And with that, even at a young age before I even had the desire to explore my sexuality, I knew I could never be completely open with her. And when one aspect of my existence is immediately and irrevocably shut off, all the others tend to follow.
When I was 11, she told me off for being too physically affectionate towards my step-father, towards whom I had developed a penchant for hugging, y’know, like a child would towards her shiny new parent. She laced her words with innocuous substitutes, but even 11- year- old me could vaguely sense the undertones of what she was saying, and 21 year old me recoils at the audacity and gravity of her implication. Because of course I was the one getting chastised.
I always grew up with the understanding that the world my parents were living in was incongruent with the one I was growing up in, and knew that in one way or another it would come to a head. But I always wanted to have my cake and eat it too. I wanted to be able to jump rope between both worlds, because I had been conditioned to seek approval from both. So when I came to a crossroads, I found myself fragmented by the dividing line.
I was always a smart kid. I got good grades, other parents would marvel at how I’d always have my nose in a book, and by all scales imaginable I passed the test for a fairly well-adjusted teenager. Then when I was 16, I fell in love.
But because love meant sex, I was treated like a caged animal unable to act in their own best interests. They automatically assumed the worst, and never entertained the possibility of me proving them wrong. The smallest misstep would be traced back to my budding relationship, the subtext being that sex on the brain was poisoning my once perfect behavior.
My step-father straight up asked me what would happen when I got pregnant, and before I had the chance to say that 1) I was waiting until I was 18 and out of high school and 2) I would obviously use protection when I did, he laughed at the mere refusal of his statement.
For the record, I stuck to those resolutions. I lost my virginity when I was 18, out of high school, law school bound, 2 years into said relationship; and I have never had unprotected sex. I went on birth control behind my parents back, but couldn’t shake the weight of guilt in my stomach when I was there. I hated feeling the need to hide making a responsible decision about my health, like it’s akin to some real problem. And when doing the right thing doesn’t satisfy your parents, what’s left?
Sex was this immediate red herring, and at its mention, all rationality and credibility I may have to them goes out the window. It was the perfect cocktail of sex negativity, ignorance and Roman Catholicism that always managed to rear its ugly head. It’s my mother accusing me of getting an STD because she found some old thrush medicine and didn’t know any better, and refused to believe me on the mere virtue of me being in a relationship (Read: having sex, which at the time I actually was not).
All of these experiences just amalgamated to show me the complete and utter lack of respect my parents have for me as a sexual being, and an autonomous person. It took a long time to me to stop feeling guilty for natural tendencies, and even longer to wait for independence and agency to seep in with age.
Whenever I think back to those years, my throat closes up and my chest tightens, like the breath and voice are literally being squeezed out of me. I didn’t even have the space to make mistakes let alone the right choices, and there was absolutely nothing I could do or say to change my situation. I tried rationalizing, debating, screaming, and crying, but no words, good grades or kept promises could open their minds. I was truly stuck, and felt suffocated in my youth.
But you know, I still can’t completely go guns blazing against my parents. They are merely products of their environment, as we all are. The Roman Catholicism aside, the Philippines has something of an unplanned pregnancy epidemic. I can name 5 unplanned Filipino children off the top of my head, 4 of which I personally know, one of which being the daughter of my step father himself. That much exposure and commonality would naturally breed a certain mindset, and honestly, I can’t blame them for that; it makes perfect sense. I just want to draw attention to the real damage such deeply ingrained sex negativity can wreak on a child, particularly a child growing up in a different culture and generation who is being socialized alternatively. I can understand it, but that doesn’t make it okay.
And of course, I’m not trying to crucify parents for showing concern for the health and safety of their child. I just wish those sentiments could’ve been channeled into more supportive, respectful methods, rather than abrupt, complete distrust from the get go. Because I know that my parents care for me, but that didn’t make them reading my private Facebook messages feel like any less of a betrayal.
I spent years ramming against a brick wall, but eventually learned to pull back before I broke my skull. I’m working towards a place of acceptance. Acceptance that I am out to live my life a certain way, and I have the right to do, and also acceptance that my parents will never completely approve of me, and that’s okay.
