Is it normal to sleep around after getting sexually abused?

Warning: this post is long as fuck.

When I was thirteen, I was home alone and my friend messaged me and asked if I wanted to chill with him or whatever. This was a pretty normal thing for me, since my mom didn't get home from work until late at night. So I hung out with friends and walked around town a lot while she was gone. Anyway, long story short, we hung for a few and then he asked if I wanted to have sex. I said no multiple times and as you can probably guess, he raped me.

Anyway, my baby sitter also fondled me a lot. He never raped me, because thank god he had erectile dysfunction, but these two things made me self conscious and vulnerable. I wanted to tell my parents, but I thought my mom would blame me, and my dad had cancer. I didn't want him to die knowing that I had been violated. So I kept it a secret.

So, after I was raped, it was the last straw for me. I wanted to give my virginity later in life as a gift to whomever I fell in love with. I could no longer do that, and it really upset me.

As a result, I thought people would only love me if I gave them everything they wanted. After that, I let all the boys at school touch my titties and sometimes I'd let them finger me under the lunch table. I didn't really care if people known about it. I met up with some of my guy friends and let them touch me wherever I wanted, and I loved it and I couldn't get enough. I wanted more. It felt so good to be touched by someone I didn't despise. I wanted to know what sex felt like when I said it was okay, too.

But here's the thing. When I got in relationships, I would constantly cheat and lie, cover up and act like people were just talking shit about me. Even if I cared about the dude. I needed some sort of stimulation to distract me from the terrors I went through. I sucked a lot of dick, but I hadn't actually had sex even though I desperately wanted to.

Sometimes, I got online and lied about my age so I could show older guys my body. Not like... old older but typically guys around 20-30 or whatever. I liked all the compliments and attention I got, and it excited me having so many people watch me excitedly. Bear in mind. You can't rightly call most of them pedophiles. They thought I was 18, because that's what I told them and I knew how to look the part. Most of the men were repulsed when I guiltily broke down and told them I was still a minor.

After my dad died, we moved into his place, because the rent was cheaper and it was home to me. But see, it was a bigger town. A large neighborhood. You can see where this is going.

One night, I was walking around,and this guy catcalled me and asked if I'd be his prostitute. I asked him if he could give me weed instead, because I wanted to fuck anyway and I'd just spend the money on weed anyway, because it made my panic attacks less terrible. When I was high, I felt bliss. I wanted to try more hardcore drugs, ones that could make me forget completely, but I didn't want to deal with the health problems that came with them. So, after that it became a constant thing with us. I'd meet him at least twice a week, chill with a beer and a blunt, fuck, and leave with a good stash. I also had sex with others, but that's not all too surprising, I guess.

When I was alone, everything made me feel guilty. I felt like a monster. I would cut myself. I contemplated suicide. I cried for hours upon hours. I had flashbacks and panic attacks. Oh, and did I mention I still had that baby sitter? I guess you're wondering why I was home alone so much if I had a baby sitter, but see, he offered, and he was a friend's relative. My mom thought I could handle being alone... until she found out about my self harm.

One day, I was video chatting with one of my look-at-me buddies, and I found out his friend was a drug dealer. And I mean, he sold everything. I'd agreed to fuck him and his dealer for a nice arrangement. I was hoping to get every drug I could get my hands on. It was a suicide plan. I would fuck them, get high off my ass on a charade of drugs, and then overdose on the most potent of them. I just told him I liked to experiment, though.

Luckily, before I had the chance to go trough with it, I got a message. I didn't know who he was, only that he probably found me online and decided to hit me up. He told me I was beautiful, and actually tried to get to know me. When I offered to show him my body, he didn't reject- he is, after all, a male. But he did something nobody else did. He asked me questions. He got to know me. I got to know him. And decided I'd stick around just a bit longer. As I realized I was falling for him, I felt a frantic panic. I was a cheater. A whore. I could never deserve him. Others had sweet talked me, but he seemed to like who I was.

I told him sometime later that I liked him, but I was fucked up in the head. I wanted to be with him, but I wasn't sure if I could change my ways. We met up, and we really got along. We decided to be together, but he told me he would only date me if I agreed to change. It was a hard and rocky road, but after one particularly bad argument, I broke down and told him exactly why I was such a slut. After a minute, he just said that I should have been honest with him, because he'd been beating himself up for falling for someone like me. I begged him to be rough with me, to do everything he could to change me.

He told me he didn't want to change the person I was. Only the terrible things I did to myself. I finally convinced him that I wanted the same thing as him, and that I needed him to be hard on me to help me. He was still kind to me, and he showed me a lot of compassion along the way. I was so fucking happy, because he gave me the will power to stop doing all the things that only made me feel like shit in the long run. He made me realize I was worth more than what had happened to me and what I had put myself through. He made me stop cheating. He made me stop cutting. It took a long time, it really did! But I loved him, and more importantly, he taught me how to love myself, and that I should put myself before anyone else, even him. He helped me change, and I am still grateful. After all this time and all we've been through, we're now engaged.

Luckily, I had a happy ending. Many things could have happened to me. I could have become a sex slave. I could be hooked on drugs. I could have died. Yet instead, I found love in a truly hopeless place. I just felt I had to finish the story, because I wanted you all to know that I'm doing much better now. Regardless, I still have my panic attacks. And, well, quite frankly... I still wonder... is it normal for girls to do all that crazy shit when they get sexually abused?