The Shell of a Soul Sophia Ungaro + Inma Vivas

THE SHELL OF A SOUL

Inma Vivas

Sophia Ungaro Photography by Writing by

MY BODY

In seventh grade, I knew I wanted to have sex. Regardless of my unmanageable frizzy curls with eczema chapped skin, I carried around my sex crave as a heavy burden that not even a supplemental catholic school education could destroy.

Unfortunately, I gained my inspiration from ABC Family’s supremely problematic “Pretty Little Liars.” Their sex — if you could even call it that — is thoroughly G-rated, but I ate it up.

The four characters bent men to their will using sex and intmacy and it was never just about male pleasure, which was something new to me. Before watching, I believed sex was an act performed by a woman exclusively to please a man.

Then I never feared sex as an act of intimacy. I used to tell my middle school friends that I wanted to have sex before marriage and felt crucified. When I shared this, I was faced with a peanut gallery of open mouths and my friends telling me I would face God’s wrath for premaritial sex in Hell. I felt so uneasy for sharing my desire, and bottled up my fascination with sex for the time being. I was a clumsy ballerina and never the apple of my teacher’s eye. I let the fancy French commands buzz around my skull as I face planted often and looked like a farm animal learning to walk. But despite my lack of promise, ballet influenced most of my personality.

Dance taught me to use pessimism as a shield. We did productions every few months and so every few months I would trip in an audition, be too developed for a role or not fit the vision. After years of disappointment, I told myself to never have hope in my goals so that I couldn’t be disappointed; my mindset was to expect nothing and be happily sur prised if I succeeded.

The transition from middle to high school came with the tail end of puberty and dating expectations from my peers and family. However, I trusted too quickly and fell in love too fast.

In high school, I dated two men — both assholes. In my first relationship, his family didn’t want us together. The secrecy never felt fun to me, always painful, but I

never doubted his commitment to me. He was grandiose with sharing his emotions — until he wasn’t.

In true high school form, he would send me the modern day version of love letters: long texts detailing the reasons he liked me, the features he appreciated about me and praise for my accomplishments. In public we could only be friends and it felt like I was in a relationship to my text messages rather than a flesh and blood person.

The first time we were alone was my first consensual and enjoyable sexual experience. It was classic high school nonsense straight off Disney Channel and into real life; making out in the back of a Mazda is a rite of passage.

I confessed my love for him and was slapped with a “no, you don’t.” Plain and simple. Our relationship continued for five months after this interaction, but it never felt the same. I saw the “love letters” for what they really were: tools.

If I couldn’t sext him because I was doing an assignment, he’d send me a long list of compliments to guilt me into sending him nudes. Off I went to the yellow app with a ghost logo. As I exposed myself, I relinquished my power in the relationship. Sending nude photos only gave him satisfaction and left me feeling open and raw, as if I were being gawked at in a zoo.

Our sexual relationship changed after he rejected my “I love you.” Not particularly in a bad way, but I understood our hookups were not romantic. I still enjoyed being alone with him though, and I never mistook our sexual endevors as anything more than sex.

We never had sex, thank goodness, but for the first time in my life I felt hot. I felt attractive, and I felt wanted. It made me feel good and so I continued pursuing it, despite the high risk of our relationship.

Even though I had said I loved him, I didn’t. I loved the way he made me feel, I was stimulated in a new way.

After his mother told him he couldn’t see me anymore, he told me he “deleted his feelings for me” and could not process why I couldn’t do the same. I was 16 and even though the end was no surprise, my heart shattered.

MY MIND

Depressed, suicidal and reveling in my pain, the world seemed to not let up. A few months later, my grandma died of cancer. Later, a close friend of mine, who was only 20, also died of cancer, and the only thing I had left was my dog, Ginger. I lost my faith in people and spent lots of time on long walks with Ginger. She was young and hype, but she was my security blanket. My speechless therapist--she couldn’t invalidate my pain or gaslight my experiences. But soon after I lost my grandma and friend, I lost Ginger too.

I hid behind humor, joking about the coincidences. But on the inside, I was dissolving. Every facet of my being liquified by a stinging tortuous acid. Even smiling felt like an internal war.

At the same time, my ex began dating one of my best friends.

Everything I bottled up detonated on a drive home as I approached an onramp. The what-ifs rang loud in my brain. I wanted to hurl myself off the bridge, it didn’t seem worth it anymore. I still don’t know what kept me driving, but I did.

The school year ended in chaos, and that summer, I turned 17. I was finally rid of my braces and I grew into my body. My years of disordered eating seemed a thing of the past. I finally felt in control; I finally felt attractive

again. My love of sex had been supressed by the depression and grief.

I had a few casual kisses and what not, that’s when I met him.

It was an Orange County summer romance that turned into love. For a long time, it seemed like bliss. We explored sex together and intmate pleasure became a pillar of our relationship. I achieved my “Pretty Little Liar” fantasy and found control in my sex life.

We were together for almost three years. I committed to USC, and he joined the military. We ended things. It made sense.

Then, the strangest thing happened — I wasn’t sad.

It was confusing. That wasn’t like me. I was always an overly emotional Cancer sun who wore her heart on her sleeve, but I went on with my life. I had a few crushes and enjoyed my college experience. The freedom tasted good.

Six months later, I was half-listening to a podcast in traffic on the Interstate 5 southbound when it clicked.

Our “fairy-tale” three years had been a mess — a complete and utter fucking disaster. I started a deep dive without rose-colored glasses to see how I could have missed it.

Models Lydia Monterde Marta Rosmeri Jordana Serrano Maria Romea

Art Direction & Styling Inma Vivas Maria Iribarren

MY SOUL

I lost my virginity to him, and I loved the consistent sex — it made me feel confident. As our relationship progressed, I started birth control. My weight began to fluctuate, and my disordered eating returned in full form.

My devoted partner was no help. He commented on my appearance and avoided having sex with me. I felt like a disgusting animal. The continual jokes from him about my race, appearance and lack of appeal festered. I became contrite towards my sexual drive.

The truth of the matter was that I was naive. My love language is words of affirmation; I am profoundly self-conscious with a diagnosed generalized anxiety disorder. Due to his constant berating, I asked for reassurance that he had really loved me. His sour words were murderous to my self-esteem, but I was blindsided by what I thought was love.

He’d brush it aside and tell me I was wrong, so I’d drop it. Three years of insults that I misread as jokes became transparent.

I had laughed off the racial slurs delivered to me by my own partner; slurs based in the color of my skin. On a specific occasion, he threatened to break up with me if I got any darker because then I would look like *insert derogatory slur here.* He reinforced my neediness, yet would say that I required too much reassurance.

The realization that I put up with years of emotional abuse hit me like a landslide. I wanted to go on a sexual rampage, but I couldn’t. Even though I was always a sexual person, something was holding me back. To no surprise, it was the years of emotional abuse that built scars on my brain and body. I saw myself in the mirror as weak, ugly and fat. My internal narrative — dangerous. I couldn’t even bring myself to masturbate, despite the fact that I masturbated regularly in the past.

I, at my core, did not believe I deserved an orgasm.

I was a husk of my former self — a hollowed-out soulless shell.

My current friends know me as staunchly anti-love and anti-relationship, but it all bleeds back to my insecurities. I was poison to myself. I let a man dictate my venomous inner dialogue.

Luckily, I am blessed with supportive friends who keep me going. I never felt like the main character, just a side character with a dark backstory. My goal in life was to always support my friends rather than myself.

And to be honest, now, at 21, I still struggle. It has been almost three years since the relationship ended, and I still despise myself. I don’t believe I am deserving of love.

I fear romance. I find love repulsive and I can’t bear the idea of being in a relationship at a surface level. I’m perpetually single and proud of it.

Alas, this is only a slice of my semblance. I own my history and am very proud of who I am, I honor my trauma. I do not hide my scars.