Evolution of a Good Girl

From emotional damage to emotional recovery in 22 short years

I’ve always been a good girl, and it almost ruined my life.

I wasn’t good in the way some people are — by being decent, upright, and honest.

I’d like to think I’ve been all those things. But what made me a good girl was thinking I wasn’t worth much. I could have all those virtues and still be a colossal disappointment.

My goal in life was modest. I just wanted to be good enough — for someone to make me feel good enough. And it always felt out of reach. I did everything I could to grasp for it, but as soon as I reached it, it would be pulled away from my fingers.

I needed the approval of others because I didn’t like myself. As far as I was concerned, I was a pile of shortcomings.

I mostly saw myself through the eyes of others. When I thought about my personality or looked at my body in the mirror, I would see all the things I was sure other people would judge me for, all the things they would be disgusted by, all the things they would look down on.

I felt scrutinized even when no one was around and it made me miserable.

But if others liked me, I could feel like I was worth something.

So, I did everything I could to please everyone and anyone. If I was a good girl, then maybe someone would love me. And then it would be okay that I didn’t love myself.

I didn’t really understand those things at the time — I just thought my crushingly low self-esteem was just the normal feelings of a girl who was worthless. Now, I know that it was the result of emotional damage and I’ve finally found a healthy outlet for those feelings so I can start to heal.

And it only took me about 22 years to get to this point.

The Good Daughter

Like most things in my life, this all started with my father.

Growing up, I couldn’t understand his behavior. He was a popular guy, the kind of person everyone seems to know. He could talk and laugh with almost anyone he ran into. But at home, he was chronically displeased.

I remember moments when he was happy. Like when he’d play 70s rock songs on his acoustic guitar. When he’d take me and my brother sledding or skating. Or when he was proud that I got my photo in the local paper.

But that’s all they were — moments. Mostly, he just seemed upset, like something was always bothering him.

And that something was usually me.

He expected a lot from me. As his daughter, I was supposed to look good and excel at everything — being average wasn’t good enough and being above average barely mattered, too.

I had to keep up the decorum. I had to avoid doing or saying anything that would embarrass him. And he embarrassed easily. All it took was for someone else to have a more impressive daughter for him to feel like I let him down.

But above all, he wanted me to be respectful. That was the most important quality I could have as his daughter.

Being respectful would’ve been easy for me — I was polite and deferential to a fault. But by “respectful” he really meant obedient.

Obeying his every whim and demand was extremely difficult, but I tried. I tried because all I ever wanted was to win his approval. I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted to make him happy. I wanted him to love me.

I did everything I could to be the good girl he needed me to be, but I always fell short. No matter what I did, he’d find some reason to tell me I fucked it up.

I would work hard and get my grades up, but when I did he’d ask me why I couldn’t get an A+ like some of the other kids in my class.

When I worked harder and got that A+, he wondered out loud whether there was any way to get an even higher grade. “There was no bonus question on the test?” he asked me, looking unimpressed.

I applied to a few liberal arts colleges and was overjoyed when I found out I got in the school of my choice. He scoffed at me for celebrating because “It’s not like you got into Harvard.”

Since I was ten years old, I went on every diet my mother tried so I could be the thin daughter my father wished he had. I resisted most temptations, but he would make judgmental comments if I allowed myself a bowl of potato chips — from the bag he had bought and opened.

He would often pick up fast food on his way home from work and declare that it was going to be our supper. I’d sit at the table and eat my fries and nuggets with everyone else. Later in the evening, he’d glance at my body and tell me, “You can’t expect boys to like you if you eat McDonald’s.”

I followed his rules and tried to meet his expectations, but they kept changing. Whenever I felt proud of having done what he wanted me to, I’d find out that he shifted the goal posts and that I wasn’t even close.

From my tween years on, I got a clear message: I needed to be perfect. If I wasn’t perfect, I was worthless.

And perfect girls do as they’re told. Perfect girls make everyone around them happy, no matter what it takes. Perfect girls don’t have needs — they just meet everyone else’s wants.

The Good Girlfriend

I took that obedient attitude and craving for love with me into the dating world.

I didn’t have any preferences when it came to guys. I drooled over Ryan Gosling and I loved the sweet little gestures guys made in romantic comedies. But in my real life, there was just one thing I was looking for: a guy who liked me.

I would’ve even settled for a guy who just put up with me, as long as he kept me around.

When I went out with someone, I didn’t have any expectations of them. I just had expectations of myself.

I put up with shitty boyfriends and bad relationships because I didn’t think I had a right to expect anything else. I had internalized my father’s treatment of me — if they were shitty to me, it must mean it’s because I’m falling short. If I was better, they would treat me better.

I didn’t think I deserved anyone’s attention. So, when a guy gave me any, I worked hard to keep it.

My first boyfriend spent a lot of time trying to talk me into sex. I was nervous about losing my virginity, so I didn’t go through with it.

I changed my mind when he left me for my best friend.

I blamed myself for losing him. I hadn’t given him everything he wanted. If I showed him how obedient I was — that he could have anything he asked for — then maybe he would have stayed with me.

So, I fucked him. It didn’t work. He didn’t take me back. Giving him everything wasn’t good enough.

I wasn’t good enough.

The next guy I met drugged and raped me. I tried to push him off me, but he kept going. I cried out in pain and told him to stop when he penetrated me. He told me it would feel good if I just let him have his way.

It should’ve devastated me, but I just felt numb.

My father had taught me that standing up for myself was disrespectful. So, when this guy fucked me against my will, I didn’t feel any anger toward him, even when I made my way to the bathroom and saw that I was bleeding.

I told my friends I was fine. I didn’t want to make them feel bad, so I pretended nothing happened.

After that came a string of guys I dated or hooked up with — things with them either fizzled out quickly or went nowhere to begin with. But then I met James.

James was out of my league and I never got used to the fact that a guy like him was giving me attention. He was smart, fun, and affectionate. He was the first guy to touch me and kiss me tenderly. I remember feeling his touch and thinking that I finally understood what it meant to be loved.

We would talk endlessly, go on walks together, or just lie in his bed and cuddle. And we’d fuck, of course. Every time I went over, we’d have sex, spend some time together, and then have sex again.

After a while, though, he started losing interest in what we did between the sex. He’d fuck me, but instead of hanging out with me, he gave all his attention to his computer. I waited patiently in his bed, wondering why I wasn’t good enough anymore.

Soon, the sex wasn’t good enough, either.

He got rougher and it seemed to be the only way he stayed interested. I winced and whined but I took it because it seemed to make him happy.

But soon that stopped being enough. He started complaining that I wouldn’t do anal or swallow his come. He told me constantly that I must not love him, because if I loved him I would do those things.

In my messed up mind, I took his demanding attitude as a sign of love. He must really want me if he wants to do those things to me so badly. And I must be a failure as a girlfriend for not giving it to him. It’s no wonder he’s ignoring me again.

I felt him getting distant. I felt him losing interest in me. So, I did the only thing I could to win him back. I agreed to let him fuck my ass.

Physically, it was a bit uncomfortable, but not as painful as I expected it to be. It was tolerable. Emotionally, it felt great. I had earned his love again. Giving him what he wanted made me feel so proud. I was his good girl.

But I wasn’t his good girl for long. Letting him have his way with my ass excited him for a while. Then, it became ordinary. I still wouldn’t swallow, so he went back to being cold and distant.

It’s a problem he decided to take care of at an outdoor party. We drank, made out, and got horny, so we went looking for a little privacy. We walked through the woods until we were just out of sight from everyone else.

He told me to get on my knees, and I did. I felt the rocks on the path jabbing against my nerves, but it didn’t matter. He gave me a command, and I obeyed.

He took his cock out of his pants and I took him in my mouth. I sucked him dutifully until he gave me his second command. “I’m going to come,” he announced. “Swallow.”

A dozen thoughts raced through my mind, and they were a bit of a confusing muddle. I still wasn’t sure I wanted to swallow his come, but I was turned on by how much he wanted me to do it.

I knew it was kind of wrong for him to be so forceful, but I didn’t feel an urge to resist.

Mostly, I told myself that this was it — the last thing he wanted from me. If I swallowed, he would have to believe I loved him. He would see that I was so thoroughly devoted to him. I would be his little fuckdoll — I would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Then, he’d love me back. Then, he’d give me attention. Then, he’d kiss me and touch me the way he used to, before I resisted him, before I gave him everything.

I felt his come fill my mouth. I swallowed.

Physically, I’m not sure I was into it. But it didn’t matter. I felt so proud of myself. I had earned his love.

The next day, he broke up with me.

He said we were going on a break. I held out hope that he’d come back for me, but he started seeing someone else.

I licked my wounds and started looking for someone else who would put up with me, someone else I could give myself to, someone else whose attention I could earn.

And maybe this time, if I was good enough, I wouldn’t fuck it up.

The Good Wife

James taught me what it was like to feel loved. But Jake was the guy who showed me what love really is.

He loved me with passion and respect. He showed me that I could be loved without needing to give more than I wanted to.

He made me feel like I had value that didn’t depend on how useful or pliable I was.

I felt safe with him. I could say no without worrying that he’d break up with me or be upset that I put up a boundary. But I had a hard time adjusting to a healthy relationship. I struggled to be honest or voice my needs. I still didn’t believe that my desires mattered.

I felt guilty if I put up a boundary. I felt like a bad girlfriend, a bad fiance, and then a bad wife for not just doing whatever he wanted me to do.

He didn’t pressure me the way my other boyfriends did. He made it clear that what I wanted mattered to him, too. So, I learned to ask for what I needed. But I never learned to be comfortable with it. I felt bad if I wanted some alone time. I felt bad if I wanted to cuddle instead of fuck. I felt bad that my sex drive wasn’t as active as his.

He didn’t take advantage of the guilt I felt for having needs. But there was a little part of me that felt like it was wrong not to be obedient — I felt disrespectful whenever I didn’t go along with his every whim.

That’s a feeling I couldn’t shake until we started having sex differently.

Having the security of a stable and loving marriage meant I could explore a side of myself that was always there but never saw the light of day. I always knew, deep down, that I could have romantic and sexual relationships outside my primary one without taking anything away from it.

I was polyamorous — I just never let myself express it. Now, I could be honest and tell my husband. And with his support, we opened our marriage.

Eventually, I had a few online interactions with a man named Will. I had admired him from afar, developed a crush, and pursued him hard.

Things moved fast and we started having cybersex and phone sex.

And I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

It wasn’t just because I was being naughty with someone other than my husband — I had done that before but I didn’t feel this way.

There was just something magnetic about this guy. He was all wrong for me. His hot and cold behavior gave me tons of anxiety. I felt like we had a lot of chemistry at first, but we lost it quickly. Eventually I just felt like I was chasing a high by phonefucking him, even though it was less fulfilling each time I did it.

I wanted to quit him. I had to quit him. But I struggled. Something kept pulling me back.

I tried to understand what it was, and then it hit me: he made me feel the same way James did.

I found it hot when James would push me into doing things I didn’t want to do. He was sexually abusive, but I was still aroused by the thought of giving myself to him.

It was the feeling of submission I was craving. That was something that I didn’t have in my marriage — we were equals and we fucked like it, too. But I had it with Will.

I had put Will on such a high pedestal that his sexual attention made me feel small. I gave him so much power in my mind that I felt like I was under his control. And that made me so fucking horny I could sometimes barely breathe when he spoke to me.

Even when the phonesex stopped being as satisfying, it still had that edge. Him telling me what to do. Him telling me to get on the phone. Him telling me when I was done. I needed that kind of domination — I just didn’t know it until I met him.

I managed to pull away from him eventually. There wasn’t enough of a connection to keep me drawn to him. I lost my attraction, I lost my interest and I stopped chasing him.

I felt good once I got over him, but I missed feeling submissive.

I didn’t want to chase another fuckboi to relive that feeling. So, I tried to find a way to get it from married sex.

That would be harder. My husband is confident and he can be assertive. But you just can’t put a guy on a pedestal when you’ve seen him change your kid’s diapers, shook your head at him for leaving the cupboard doors open, or had him bashfully tell you that he ruined the sugar cookies because he forgot to add sugar to the dough.

Getting the right power dynamic would take some work.

I asked him to be more dominant during sex. He eased into it at first, but when he saw how much I got off on it, he dove in hard.

It took more work than just uttering a few words into the phone, but he got me there. With a take-charge attitude, a few playful control games, and some light bondage, he made me feel like I could let go and just follow his lead. Because I trusted him to take good care of me, I could give myself over to him.

It felt incredible. It was exactly what I needed.

The Good Girl

I was always a good girl, and it almost ruined my life.

My need to please and obey others would’ve kept me in my abusive relationship with James for years if he hadn’t left me. And who knows what else I would’ve put up with if I hadn’t met a guy who taught me that I deserved respect.

There are some parts of my upbringing I’ve managed to overcome, but I’m still working on most of them. And then there are some things that are just etched deep into me. They’re part of who I am and might be for the rest of my life. The best I can do is to find a healthy outlet for them.

After about 22 years, I finally found one through bondage and power play.

There’s a part of me that still associates obedience with love. And submitting to my husband makes me feel like I deserve the love he gives me.

I can be more confident in saying no because I know I’ll say yes to him when we’re having sex.

I can assert my needs and wants because I know he’ll assert his when our clothes come off.

I can make decisions and believe in my power without feeling guilty because once the lights go out, he’ll tie me to the bed and make me feel powerless.

He helps me give in to all my submissive, people-pleasing, deferential, obedient urges when we’re fucking so I don’t have to let them control the rest of my life.

So, I’ll let him fuck my mouth while I’m blindfolded. I’ll let him deny my orgasms until I beg for him to get me off. I’ll let him spank me and tell me how to touch myself. I’ll let him pull my hair and gently choke me.

I’ll let him do all the things that make me feel like I’m giving myself over to him.

And when I do, he brings his lips close to my ear and whispers those two words — the two words I’ve wanted to hear my whole life.

“Good girl.”

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