I'm 23. I shall tell my tale in chronological order, under the cut. I've never told anyone all of this before, although various people have heard various parts.
When I was very young, although I can't be certain of my age (around 6-9), a 13ish year old cousin of mine used to visit annually, and he used to touch me inappropriately. My memories of this period are sketchy, but I do remember that he constructed a sci-fi game that involved him using my nightdress as a "dressing" for his "injured eyes". I was very aware of not wearing underwear under my nightdress, so he was getting a good look at everything between my legs. If I turned away, he told me I'd suffer back injury, and I also very clearly remember the feel of his erection against my feet and legs. I also know that I used to fret over how I could avoid his visits for years to come. I repressed all of this until I was around sixteen, and read an Ian McEwan short story that focused on incest, and it slowly came back, in dribs and drabs. It was horrific. I shared a watered down version of my new, frightening memories with my best female friend of the time, although in less detail, but she dismissed them and said "all cousins go through confused sexual feelings". She made me feel like I was crying wolf, and I accepted my experiences as normal.
I do remember being 13, however, on my last family holiday before my parents split. We were in New York, and I was in the hotel bathroom peeing. My urine hit a boil, or spot, on my inner labia and it was agony. I didn't dare tell anyone. I've had oral cold-sores for as long as I can remember.
When I lost my virginity, it didn't hurt at all. Several men who felt my vagina beforehand commented on how "loose" I was, and I don't remember feeling my hymen break, even though I'd never been sporty, or used tampons. Over my teenage years, I had multiple sexual partners. We always used condoms, but I also always remember these occasional spot-like boils. I was too young to take responsibility, or admit I had been - technically - sexually active since I was six, so I ignored them. When I reached eighteen or so, I realised I probably had herpes. I went to see my GP, in the hope of having my sores checked out, but also with the intention of being put on the pill.
Said doctor launched straight in with a speech about how I was morbidly obese (I was a size UK16) and I left without mentioning any of my sexual health problems, in tears. Since then, I've also visited a Brook Advisory clinic, during which the nurse bought out a diagram to demonstrate how overweight I was compared to herself. I concluded the pill was clearly not for me. I must stress, I was still a young, inexperienced girl. I had never had consensual sex without a condom (although several men had forced themselves into me over the years, when we'd been fooling around, even though I'd said I didn't want to sleep with them without a condom). I have since had a further twenty sexual partners, always with condoms (although again, apart from one man who forced himself upon me despite my protests), but never when I've had a "sore". I just ignored my problems, and hoped they'd go away.
I'm now 23, and have since come to terms with the fact that I very likely have herpes. I have not had full sex with anyone for two years, since I realised "sores" on the vagina aren't normal. I'm haunted by how I - technically - lost my virginity, and I'm now terrified that I've passed herpes onto the various sexual partners that I've had over the years, including at least three that forced themselves upon me when I said no.
I'm frightened to go to a doctor, in case they don't see past my weight (I'm a size UK18, and 5'3"), or judge me for my former mistakes, or judge me for not seeing a medical professional sooner.
Additionally, my father was a surgeon, so any previous medial issues I've ever suffered (such as sprained ankles, blocked ears, etc) were always dealt with by him. He died last year (suddenly, horribly) and the thought of being near a doctor breaks my heart. I miss him so much, the only comfort I have is knowing that he'll never know that I was abused.
I feel so fucked up, and complicated, and diseased, and disgusting. My family are so loving, close; I've always been the self-harming, drug-taking fuck up. Now that I'm an adult, I recognise how broken I am... but I still have these health issues that I'm too frightened to deal with.
I guess I just wanted to tell someone about it all.