Codependency and Intimacy

If you ask someone who is codependent what intimacy is, chances are, they will reply, “sex” or honestly have no clue what it is. Many codependent individuals have been abused at some point or another in their lives. MANY have been victims of sexual abuse.

I am a recovering codependent. I have been a victim of sexual abuse since the age of 6, or at least that’s the first time I can remember. It continued until I was 18, with various individuals.

I’d like to begin with one very important clarification. What my step-grandfather, grandfather, brother, and ex-boyfriends did to me WAS NOT SEX, it was abuse. It was not love, affection, intimacy, or sex, it was ABUSE.

At some point what has been done to me needs to find it’s own place in my memories. It does not need to define me or my relationships. It does not need to define what sex or love is. It needs to be filed away in a drawer marked ABUSE from assholes who did not care about me, love me, or want anything from me EXCEPT to abuse me. I was just an object for their own selfish desires, it could have been anyone, sadly it was me. What they did was not appropriate or right, no matter what they called it.

I endured years of abuse, from almost everyone I came in contact with. Come to think of it, I really didn’t receive any sort of appropriate affection from anyone. My mother, whom I believe to be codependent, withheld any sort of love, affection, touch, or praise from me, starting at age 8. No hugs, no I love yous, no warm fuzzies, nothing but emptiness and rage. My dad wasn’t around. Those who were left abused me. Warped my sense of what affection and intimacy are.

Somewhere along the way, my brain learned that sex was intimacy. I never wanted to be a tease or frustrate anyone. I didn’t want to be harmed, so I gave in. A lot. It didn’t matter what I wanted. I was doing what I had been programmed to do. Do the deed with as little interaction as possible. In, out, done. Make it quick and stay safe.

I went through the codependency thought process where Dickie was just using me for sex. I felt dirty and used. Instead of enjoying sex with my husband, it became a chore not even worthy of doing. Yet, I did it. Because, wasn’t I supposed to do it?

And foreplay, what was that? Give me a kiss and take off your pants, or wait, just take off your pants. Years of abuse, before meeting Dickie, left me so very broken. Dickie, well, with all that abuse clouding up my brain, he wasn’t safe.

Touch was a bad thing. Touch was unsafe. Touch, no matter how gentle, hurt somewhere deep inside.

So now, I’m about a month into recovery and words like intimacy intrigue me. What does that mean? How does it feel? Can I have intimacy? Can I give intimacy? I can give pleasure. I can give pain. But intimacy, it seems kind of intimidating.

How can I unlearn so many years of bad things? I’ve unlearned a few things before learning I was codependent:

I remember when I had my 2nd child. My oldest was 4ish. She wanted to hug me. I remember thinking, I have to let this child hug me. I have to let her touch me. It’s ok for her to touch my arm or scratch my back. It is ok for her to hug me, to sit on my lap, to touch my face. That was so very hard for me, but I did it. It is ok for my kids to touch me. I’ve had to keep that thought in my mind and let my kids touch me. My kids touching me, hugging me, being near me, is a good thing.

Sex is good. Sex is enjoyable. That one took five years to fix. Poor Dickie, I don’t know how he endured so much trial and error and more trial…poor guy.

Cuddling is good. But cuddling isn’t touching. It’s more of a smooshing together while unconscious. Don’t judge, it makes sense to me.

But we are talking about intimacy, specifically, touch. I’m ugly. Five babies has left my body in a very flabby state. Ten years of breast feeding have depleted any sort of bounciness in my boobs. I sag. I’m stretch marked. I’m covered in imperfections and I see them all. How can I let someone touch me? What if he sees and feels all my damaged parts?

So last night the experiment began. Touch. I spent two hours exploring all of Dickie. Touching, tracing, rubbing, licking, kissing, caressing, feeling. Some sexual, some not so much. Exploring. I felt like a kid in a candy store and everything was mine for the taking. We talked, what he liked, what he didn’t, yes please, do that again. At the end of my exploration, I felt like I had shared more with Dickie than I had ever done in the past 24 years.

And we slept. Peacefully.

Sitting in Dickie’s shoes, I can see a man terrified to touch me. I’ve rejected his touch for years. Any touch. All touch. Please do not touch me. So, how do I let the man I love and have been married to for over 20 years touch me? Yeah, I get it, we have 5 kids, apparently some touching went on. But not really. Nothing intimate.

I woke up to Dickie running his hand down my spine. He made me feel so small, in a good way. He touched and explored and amazingly, I let him. To be honest, it scared me. A lot. What if he saw all my imperfections and didn’t love me any more? What if he found me revolting because of a mole or a pimple? What ifs suck. Thanks codependency.

Intimacy isn’t sex. Intimacy is sharing oneself, willingly. Little bits and pieces, or huge chunks. It is sexual and not sexual. It is something I need to work on. I believe I will enjoy working on with Dickie. Such a brave man. Did I mention I love him? A lot.