Anonymous Confession
There’s a number that lives inside me, a silent, heavy secret I’ve carried for years. It’s a triple-digit number, and it represents every person I’ve slept with. Over one hundred. Just typing that feels like a confession in itself, a weight lifting and pressing down all at once. I’ve never said it out loud to a single soul, not even my closest friends, because who could ever truly understand?
It didn’t start with a bang, or some grand, rebellious decision. It was a slow, creeping kind of emptiness that settled in my chest right after high school. I’d always felt a bit invisible, a quiet observer of life rather than a participant. Then, one night, after a few too many drinks, there was a guy. He was just… there. And for a brief, dizzying hour, I felt seen. Desired. Important. The morning after was a blur of awkward goodbyes and a strange cocktail of shame and exhilaration. But underneath it all, that hollow space in my chest felt a tiny bit less empty.
That’s how the pattern began. It wasn’t about love, or even deep attraction most of the time. It was about chasing that fleeting moment of attention, that brief flicker of feeling like I mattered. Each new person was a temporary balm, a distraction from the constant hum of loneliness in my own head. They were strangers from bars, friends of friends, people I’d swiped right on. Each encounter promised a temporary escape, a way to forget myself for a little while. I’d tell myself it was just casual, that I was independent, free-spirited. But deep down, I knew I was just… running.
The tension grew with every new addition to that silent tally. The bigger the number got, the more layers I added to the wall around myself. I became an expert at small talk, at surface-level connections, at making myself just appealing enough to get what I thought I needed, then disappearing before anyone could scratch beneath the surface. I never let anyone in. Not really. How could I? If they knew, if they *really* knew the extent of my secret life, they’d see me as cheap, broken, unlovable. The fear of judgment became a constant companion, heavier than any single secret.
Sometimes, after a night that ended with a stranger’s arm thrown over me, I’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling utterly, profoundly alone. The physical closeness would evaporate with the dawn, leaving behind an even deeper void. The guilt would gnaw at me, twisting my stomach. What kind of person was I? Was I just using people, or was I allowing myself to be used, all in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything? I’d look at friends who had stable, loving relationships, and a wave of confusion would wash over me. What was wrong with *me* that I couldn’t find that kind of lasting connection? Was I beyond repair?
I’m tired of the secret, tired of the emptiness, and tired of the constant vigilance required to keep this part of my life hidden. I yearn for something real, something honest, but the shame of this number feels like a permanent stain. It’s like I’ve built a house of cards on quicksand, and every new casual encounter just makes the whole structure more precarious.
How do you even begin to untangle yourself from a past like this and find a path towards genuine connection, when you feel like every fleeting touch has chipped away at who you were supposed to be?
