Rediscovering Me

Writing about who I was, so I can understand who I am.

[beautiful-tragic]

J.S.

I was eighteen and in community college when I met J.S. in a night class. He was twenty-five, attractive, and most importantly, he was interested in me. I was in a fragile state after a serious relationship ended with a traumatic break up. I craved male attention and J.S. was giving it to me. 

I really did think he liked me.

Turns out, he liked my company, my body, and what I could give him. I started going home with him after class, at least once a week. It become a routine for us. 

He did care about me. I know he did, because he always made sure I ate, gave me rides when I wrecked my car, and let me talk to him about everything.

But at the end of the day, I wasn't good enough for him. I wasn't "the type of girl" he dated. I wasn't good enough to be his girlfriend, but I was good enough to provide him the pleasure he requested. 

That may have been the grossest I had ever felt. 

As a young, fragile girl, I was crushed by this. I just wanted to be wanted for who I was, not just what I could offer.

I was just an object to him, and I let myself accept that and continued to allow it. Because being wanted for what I could do for him was better than not being wanted at all.

[beautiful-tragic]

Z.H.

I lost my virginity to Z.H. in a dorm room when I was 16. He was 19. I had just met him maybe two weeks previously. I thought, how cool is it that a college guy is into me? He asked me to stay the night with him in his dorm, so I pretended to be elsewhere and did just that. 

We hung out and watched Zombieland, and that's when it happened. . Zombieland playing in the background of my first time. I hate Zombieland. Stupid movie. I won't watch it again. We never really talked after that. On and off, here and there, but neither had much else to offer the other after that night.

I don't know how I feel about it. Some days it feels like it wasn't a big deal, and other days I feel like I was completely used, then tossed to the side once I served my purpose. It feels gross, either way, honestly. 

I never knew how to let go of anyone, so I did reach out to him again a few times, years later. Silly, as there was still nothing new we could offer to each other. I realized that I had attachment issues, and couldn't detach myself from someone I was ever attached to in anyway. 

I'm still learning to fix these issues.

[beautiful-tragic]

C.F.

C.F. was a literal adult who broke my 14-year-old heart. I didn't realize at the time that the situation between us was bad, much less ILLEGAL. 

When I was fourteen, I met a "boy" who I feel head over heels for. He was a senior in high school. I was literally captivated by this grown man at just fourteen, and I wanted his attention more than I wanted anything. He knew my extended family, and I knew he was a pretty decent human being. I bravely gave him my number and he eventually texted me. I was the equivalent of starstruck by this boy I was so interested in. 

I was fourteen. He was eighteen. I did not see this as an issue. However, my parents did not really know about this boy. I wanted to be his girlfriend more than I wanted anything.

One night, I was not at home, and I convinced him to come to where I was so I could see him. He came, and we kissed, then we became more involved that night. Things I had not experienced before, but this 18 year old boy, he was experienced and okay that I wasn't. I have never forgotten that night.

After that night, he pretty quickly decided that I was too young for him and straight up ghosted me. He knew this was my first sexual experience, but the guilt of the age gap was consuming him, apparently. I saw him around sometimes, and it hurt me deeply when I did, because I knew how I felt about him. But again, I was fourteen, and he was eighteen. That wasn't ok.

My thoughts were frequently consumed by this man as I continued to grow up and date other boys. I was 18 the next time we spoke. We picked up where things left off before. We were both enamored with each other. I wanted to be his girlfriend more than I wanted anything. 

But he couldn't commit to a relationship. He didn't want to. That's what I wanted from him. So again, it was over between us.

Unfortunately, that's not where our story ended, but that's where I am ending it.

[beautiful-tragic]

When I First Realized I Was an Object to Them

I was the girl who matured early on the outside, but maybe not as much on the inside. I didn't realize that at the time; however, looking back, it is apparent that I did not have the maturity to handle the things my body and mind were put through at such a young age. 

8th grade was the year that my body become an object to admire. Boys talked about my body to others and they talked about my body to me. I was objectified. Of course I didn't know it then. I thought I was being admired. I was special. I was something for boys to fawn over and get excited about. I let boys talk about my body and I participated in those conversations, as if I were proud of what I had to offer. I don't believe, now, that I was proud. In fact, it was the exact opposite. In many ways, I was ashamed that that was my body. That I was physically more mature than others, and that I was skinny and, with makeup, of course, could be pretty. I gave control of my self-image to boys who thought with something other than their brains (as if they even had brains). 

I remember when a boy in my art class referred to me as "Double D" on a daily basis. I thought I was supposed to be flattered by this. High schoolers were interested in me, even though I was only 13. Boys would throw things down my shirt during class. Rub up against me as they walked by. Asked me for pictures and for other things, too. I know that deep down, I knew this wasn't ok. But I had an image to keep up with — for them.Collapse

At thirteen, I was literally just boobs to them. They didn't really see anything else. I began to see myself as just that, as well. No longer a person with anything of substance to give, but a "pretty girl" with big boobs. That became my personality. 

Thirteen was the year I realized that I was just an object to them. Nothing more, nothing less, and I started to accept that as truth. I became the girl with low cut, tight shirts. The girl who "accidentally" bumped my chest against boys in class. The girl who showed boys what they wanted to see. The girl who was broken, damaged, and worthless. Just an object.