**Trigger Warning-Discussion of Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault**
We were both 17 when we met. He was beautiful. I was the pretty girl with no sense of self-worth. I was still a virgin. I felt lucky to be wanted by him. He was like the hero in all the romance novels I had been reading. There were no indications, at first, that anything might be wrong, because usually, there aren't.
We had been together a month when I decided that I was ready to "go all the way" with him. And then the pain happened, and it hurt so bad I begged him to stop. I was crying and hitting him but he was very strong.
When it was finally over and I tearfully asked him why he didn't listen, he said that he had "a job to complete". Now, after a pronouncement like that, I should have said goodbye. I should have left. I should have tried to file charges. But this was 1993. Opinions about consent were a different thing and I had initiated the act. How could I withdraw my consent in the middle? Besides, all the romance novels said that the first time could be rough but that his love for me would eventually gentle him.
It didn't get better. In fact, it got so much worse. It was shortly after that night that the possessive behaviors began. I spent all of my free time, in and out of school, with him. We lived 2 blocks away from each other so he came to my house every morning to catch the bus. In the afternoons we alternated between my house or his, depending on who would be home but we always had much less supervision at his house. Weekends were spent together for as long as possible. When we separated physically at the end of each night, we both went home and got on the phone with each other until I eventually would doze off. Only then would he let me go to bed. I rarely went anywhere with friends because I might do something I shouldn't be doing. I couldn't even tuck in my shirts because someone might look at my backside. Every single thing I did, every thing I wore, every place I went was approved by him.
Wrapped up in all of this was an incredibly severe case of OCD that resulted in hand and face washings that were so frequent that his skin was affected. This did not help matters.
And yes, the sexual assaults continued. I don't remember all of it, but I do remember some episodes very vividly. I don't know dates or times but I remember the moments like it was yesterday. I remember bruises, and being sore all the time. He never really hit me though. Almost, but never quite until that last night, about a year in, when I finally said no and he jerked me across the room by my arm. Because that's the key here. I never really said no. I didn't know that I could. I might protest but I always gave way. But on that freezing cold January night, I fled back to my house. He stalked me for about two weeks before my parents finally threatened to have him arrested. I never told them what really happened. Maybe they knew, maybe they didn't.
And now you're asking the inevitable question: Why didn't I leave? Why didn't I tell my parents? Why didn't I do something? I didn't leave because I thought we were in love. I didn't tell my parents because I didn't want them to say "I told you so". I didn't leave because I thought I deserved this. I was 17, I was damaged, and I thought that this was what true love was.
I would re-count the story of my first time to people in later years and shrug it off as just a bad first time. Social conditioning led me to believe that it was normal. It wasn't until a few years ago, when talking to my husband about it, that I finally began to call it rape. That's when I could see how this experience, with the most beautiful boy I had ever seen, had colored every sexual interaction I would have in my life going forward, and the ways that I interacted with people in general. So much of my self-esteem was broken in those moments, in that year, and when the breaks healed, they healed wrong.
It took me almost 25 years to accept what happened to me. Am I all better now? No, of course not. But I understand myself and my actions better. I know what real love is, and is not. I know myself now, my value and my worth, and I know that I am not a victim. I am a survivor.
We were both 17 when we met. He was beautiful. I was the pretty girl with no sense of self-worth. I was still a virgin. I felt lucky to be wanted by him. He was like the hero in all the romance novels I had been reading. There were no indications, at first, that anything might be wrong, because usually, there aren't.
We had been together a month when I decided that I was ready to "go all the way" with him. And then the pain happened, and it hurt so bad I begged him to stop. I was crying and hitting him but he was very strong.
When it was finally over and I tearfully asked him why he didn't listen, he said that he had "a job to complete". Now, after a pronouncement like that, I should have said goodbye. I should have left. I should have tried to file charges. But this was 1993. Opinions about consent were a different thing and I had initiated the act. How could I withdraw my consent in the middle? Besides, all the romance novels said that the first time could be rough but that his love for me would eventually gentle him.
It didn't get better. In fact, it got so much worse. It was shortly after that night that the possessive behaviors began. I spent all of my free time, in and out of school, with him. We lived 2 blocks away from each other so he came to my house every morning to catch the bus. In the afternoons we alternated between my house or his, depending on who would be home but we always had much less supervision at his house. Weekends were spent together for as long as possible. When we separated physically at the end of each night, we both went home and got on the phone with each other until I eventually would doze off. Only then would he let me go to bed. I rarely went anywhere with friends because I might do something I shouldn't be doing. I couldn't even tuck in my shirts because someone might look at my backside. Every single thing I did, every thing I wore, every place I went was approved by him.
Wrapped up in all of this was an incredibly severe case of OCD that resulted in hand and face washings that were so frequent that his skin was affected. This did not help matters.
And yes, the sexual assaults continued. I don't remember all of it, but I do remember some episodes very vividly. I don't know dates or times but I remember the moments like it was yesterday. I remember bruises, and being sore all the time. He never really hit me though. Almost, but never quite until that last night, about a year in, when I finally said no and he jerked me across the room by my arm. Because that's the key here. I never really said no. I didn't know that I could. I might protest but I always gave way. But on that freezing cold January night, I fled back to my house. He stalked me for about two weeks before my parents finally threatened to have him arrested. I never told them what really happened. Maybe they knew, maybe they didn't.
And now you're asking the inevitable question: Why didn't I leave? Why didn't I tell my parents? Why didn't I do something? I didn't leave because I thought we were in love. I didn't tell my parents because I didn't want them to say "I told you so". I didn't leave because I thought I deserved this. I was 17, I was damaged, and I thought that this was what true love was.
I would re-count the story of my first time to people in later years and shrug it off as just a bad first time. Social conditioning led me to believe that it was normal. It wasn't until a few years ago, when talking to my husband about it, that I finally began to call it rape. That's when I could see how this experience, with the most beautiful boy I had ever seen, had colored every sexual interaction I would have in my life going forward, and the ways that I interacted with people in general. So much of my self-esteem was broken in those moments, in that year, and when the breaks healed, they healed wrong.
It took me almost 25 years to accept what happened to me. Am I all better now? No, of course not. But I understand myself and my actions better. I know what real love is, and is not. I know myself now, my value and my worth, and I know that I am not a victim. I am a survivor.
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