Christians Don’t Talk about Masturbation, and it Sucks.
Whenever my sister and I got The Talk, when I was 11 or 12, there was no mention of masturbation. Later, when I read the word in a magazine, I asked my mom what it meant. She briefly mentioned that it was possible for people to reach orgasm on their own, and that whether it was sinful or not was controversial. That was it. No one told me how many health benefits accompany masturbating. No one told me that it would increase my self-esteem, or that it was associated with higher levels of satisfaction in married life. No one told me that it was normal.
And so, for the most part, navigating my sexual coming of age was all up to me. I tried to make guesses about sexual arousal — when was it okay? When should I feel guilty? Should I try to resist it, hope for it to pass, or enjoy it? Where was the line between affection and sexual attraction? What type of touching is it okay to enjoy, and when was I enjoying being touched too much? Around me, urgent messages swirled about purity, about the sanctity of sex, about lust being as bad as adultery, about cutting off the hand that causes you to sin. I think that most of these messages were really intended to keep me and my classmates from sleeping with each other — I’m not sure if my instructors, mentors, or pastors understood that, being a child without access to additional information and very little knowledge of the world or myself, I was applying all of these admonitions to self-exploration, as well. I quickly concluded that the fantasies that popped into my head, that the pleasure I soon discovered I could cause myself to feel, were abhorrent.
Being an early teenager, that obviously didn’t stop the thoughts from coming. And it didn’t stop me from liking them. It just caused me to associate sexual pleasure with the forbidden, and prompted me to try to channel and manipulate my own sexuality in countless unnatural and strange ways.
Sexual arousal became associated with lust, lust with adultery, and all with sin and shame. I grew an increasing distrust of my body and brain, and the way my sexuality manifested continued to contort, attempting all kinds of spiritual gymnastics as I tried to reconcile my physical responses and desires with my concept of who I was, who I should be. I had always been a good girl.
Coming of age should be a magical season — so many pieces of the self wake up for the first time. We learn what we are capable of — what our brains can do, what are hearts can do, what our bodies can do. The process of discovery should be empowering and enlightening as we come into our own. Masturbation is an important part of this self-exploration — we learn what draws us, we learn what we are looking for, we learn what we like, and we grow pride in our abilities to give and receive pleasure.
Instead of empowerment, teens like me, who grow up in Christian environments in which basic phenomena like sexual attraction are taboo and condemned, and the feelings we’re experiencing aren’t discussed anywhere, ever, by anyone — we are saddled by baggage. Self-doubt, disappointment, shame, and guilt run rampant in our spaces. We develop low self-esteem as we identify natural processes as sinful. We begin to lose faith and respect in ourselves, as, try as we might, we are unable to maintain the type and levels of purity that we strive for. We feel out of control, we feel dirty, and we increasingly identify sexuality with sinfulness.
Later in life, instead of getting over it, so many of us develop sexual dysfunctions. While I don’t really want to go into the world of trouble I caused myself, here’s a fitting example of what I am referring to. The sexual shame follows us, too, as discussed by sex therapist Matty Silver, here:
Shame often turns into inhibitions. Women may not like their body shape, the size of their breasts, the look of their vagina or the fact that they find it difficult to have an orgasm. Some men find it difficult to show their feelings because they believe it’s not a manly thing to do; they also may not like the size of their penis, or worry they may lose their erection or come too quickly.
Now in my mid-twenties, I still have so much to sort out about my sexuality. I’ve learned that many of my Christian-raised friends are in the same boat, and struggling to figure out what to do next. My appetites and my triggers aren’t healthy. I’ve got unlearning and relearning to do. It’s embarrassing. At the same time, I feel like I’m missing out on so much. Figuring out how to find peace with and cultivate healthy sexuality is a long journey for me, but it’s a path I’m glad to finally be on. I look forward to a future in which I don’t shut down when I’m meant to wake up, or turn on when I’m meant to turn away, and when I don’t fight repulsion at my own existence as a sexual being, or at my own physical form. I want to embrace my sexuality and feel at peace with it. Christianity messed that up for me, but now that I’m moving away from it, I think there’s hope for me.
