---
Chapter 3: Unworthy
After many years of doing it… one night, something shifted.
I had just finished, and I was lying in my bed—silent, still, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers.
But all I felt was… empty.
Like a vacuum had been carved out of my chest.
Like whatever joy or satisfaction I thought I'd find in those moments had just vanished, leaving only shame.
I felt dirty.
I felt unworthy.
That night, I whispered to myself, "This isn't me. This can't be who I really am."
I didn't recognize Chloe anymore.
Not the version of me that used to wake up every morning talking to God.
Not the girl that used to read her Bible in bed and smile at the smallest things.
I was losing her.
I began to hate mirrors. Not because of how I looked—but because of what I saw inside.
I started avoiding eye contact with my mom.
Any time she showed me love… it hurt.
Because I didn't feel like I deserved it.
And God?
I felt so far from Him.
Like He was sitting up there, looking at me in disappointment.
Even though I still prayed… a voice in my head kept saying:
"You're too dirty to talk to Him."
"He doesn't want someone like you."
"You had your chance—you ruined it."
That voice haunted me.
One time, my mom hugged me from behind and said,
"My precious girl, God loves you so much, you know that?"
I smiled.
But inside… I was dying.
I thought to myself, "If she really knew what I do when I'm alone… she'd never say that."
I tried to stop.
God knows I tried.
I deleted all the videos.
I deleted the novels.
I threw away the books.
I even changed my playlist—everything that reminded me of that side of me had to go.
I fasted. I prayed.
I cried on my knees and begged God to take the urge away.
For a month, I stayed strong.
One whole month.
I felt alive again.
I started to smile more, breathe better, even sleep peacefully.
But slowly… slowly, the hunger crept back in.
It started with a memory.
Then a thought.
Then I found myself back in the same place—touching myself at night, and crying right after.
The cycle continued.
Again.
And again.
Each night, when I said "Amen" after prayer, the very next thing I'd do was fall into the same trap.
It was like I had two sides of me fighting:
One that wanted God desperately…
And one that wanted pleasure recklessly.
I felt weak.
Broken.
Like I was trying to run from sin, but it had chains on my ankles.
Sometimes, I'd go to the bathroom after doing it, turn on the shower and just sit on the floor under the cold water.
I'd cry and rub my skin hard like I was trying to wash the guilt off.
Like maybe, just maybe, if I scrubbed hard enough, I'd feel pure again.
But it never worked.
I felt fake.
When people looked at me, they saw "sweet Chloe."
But inside, I thought I was rotten.
I envied those who had never touched themselves.
I called them lucky.
I called them holy.
I called myself... cursed.
There were nights I held my pillow tight and whispered,
"God, please don't give up on me."
Sometimes I'd hear a soft whisper in my heart saying,
"I still love you, Chloe."
But my mind would fight it,
"He can't. Not after everything."
That voice that kept accusing me…
That guilt that never left…
That shame that buried itself deep in my heart…
It became my shadow.
Even now, as I write this, I don't know if I've fully healed.
But I know this:
I'm not giving up.
Even if I fall a hundred times… I'll keep crawling back to the God I love.
Because somewhere inside me, the real Chloe still lives.
And maybe one day… she'll rise again.
---