The Tormented Life of a Promiscuous Girl

6/2/2019

I hate myself see, for being so unclean, my self-esteem so low that I’m cheaper than a hoe! See the only value I have for me is when a man’s gaze is fixed on me that I give myself for free, cause no one knew how to love me except by saying I was pretty.

Sitting here alone I think, “could someone ever love me?... I’ll let them do me IF they promise to stay, cause the sex is ok… but what I really WANT… is for someone to stay, and hold me, caress me, give me lots of kisses and hugs, cause this my friend is the only way I get love.”

I’m hurt you see, I’ve been raped repeatedly, mentally tortured by manipulators, assaulted by deceivers and traitors, scarred by haters, neglected and rejected by the safe – loved and nurtured by danger. Destined for pain and misery, mixed-messages and promiscuity; every dying second… anticipated, every love-less sex… my soul mutilated.

I’m addicted you see, to the pleasure process, from when the eyes meet, lips kiss, adrenaline, and the chemicals released before and during sex. Feeling privileged and completely blessed, forgetting about the after-effects of unprotected sex! In the arms of a lover feeling safe and protected, pain no longer detected, engrossed in the delusion of being intimately connected, forgetting the many ways I’m rejected and believing for the moment I’m accepted.

And when the deed is done all the blessed feelings quickly fade, my insecurities rise up and I begin to masquerade as if all is well inside me, “I’m ok if you leave or stay” “cause I’m a strong girl and ‘No’ I’m not afraid to be alone, leave or stay! I’m OK! I’m OK!” but with a smile on my face I know I made another mistake. Another mistake, another face, another name to the list I Hate! Another reason to hate me more, another asshole out the door.

Rage and self-rape sizzle under my skin as the torments of emotional pain begins. I hold myself responsible… another asshole is out the door cause I believed for a moment I was loveable when I’m nothing but a whore. The pain in my chest begins to suffocate me and a screaming in my head begins to shout “I…HATE…MEEEEE!” I fall to the floor and cry till I can’t no more, re-living the list of reasons no one will ever see me as more.

I wake up to a new day and to everyone I seem happy, repressing the details of the night before I’m able to be smiling and laughing, hugging and clapping, but when the service is over I’m lacking. Needing love like lungs crave oxygen my eyes go on the prowl for a man’s gaze again. Avoiding the unattractive married or committed, trying to respect others with my limits, but having no form of boundaries except “Don’t hurt me please.”

Confusing pleasure for kindness and flatter for respect, I’m re-engaged in the Tormenting Pleasure Process. Living a life of ambiguity, increasing the pain of unloveability, seeing the world as an unsafe place to be, and … Tears… my only hope for purity.

The purpose for sharing this poem is to wake the self-righteous, the religious and the shallow minded to the reality that all sinful lives come at a price, and even when people don’t seem remorseful for their sinful or immoral behavior, it does not mean that they are not afflicted and crying out to God for help in their solitude. The church must rise up and seek the Lord for a Holy Love that will not compromise the Truth. All sin beats us up and we live in a time where the children literally do not know right from wrong.

May the Lord magnify His love and His Truth, may we the people seek God with a renewed urgency to help, love and heal; May we seek the Lord with a new hunger and thirst for righteousness and pursue the power of holiness in America, for the glory honor and praise to the One who was, who is, and is to come! Amen.

By Noemi Soto

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This blog exists for people who still want God but have grown disillusioned with the American Church as it currently operates.
It examines the gap between institutional Christianity and the life of real discipleship—hypocrisy that destroys trust, form without power, performative community that leaves people lonely, and a Gospel that claims to set captives free yet leaves so many still in chains. Drawing from Scripture, personal lived experience, and the hard-won wisdom of recovery culture, the writing diagnoses these failures honestly and points toward a recoverable alternative: the recovery of the Acts Church through BG2G Home Groups. These gatherings adapt the structural strengths of 12-Step fellowship (honest sharing without performance, rotating servant leadership, anonymity, and financial independence) while placing the Bible as the sole authority and centering progressive freedom from bondage.
Posts range from raw personal testimony about trauma, addiction, and the soul-level cost of broken intimacy, to carefully reasoned essays on the loneliness epidemic, the human trade of lasting glory for temporary pleasure, sin as slavery rather than mere behavioral failure, and the rational roots of institutional distrust. The consistent call is not to abandon faith, but to wake up—to trade image for integrity, programs for presence, and empty religion for the kind of transformative fellowship the early Church actually practiced.
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