and my parents still donât know.
The first time youâre in a relationship with someone, you expect things to be great all the time. You expect things to be easy, to get to know your partner on a deeper level than youâve gotten to know anyone. I expected to be treated with respect because I grew up on rom-coms that taught me men were sweet and shy and eager to fall in love with you. I grew up with crushes on people like Jason Sudeikis and Mark Ruffalo. In my head I knew exactly what they were like. In reality, they werenât preparing me for things Iâd have to be ready for. They didnât prepare me for scumbags or men who just wanted to know what the lips of my pussy felt like to later compare it to women before me.
When I met my first boyfriend I was obsessed with the idea of being liked. I was amazed that someone finally thought I was pretty after 6 years of rumors about my sexuality. In the beginning things were ok. I apparently rushed us into it, only to find out months later that all he wanted was a girlfriend. And I happened to be available and lived 50 feet from his building when the girl he really wanted was back home, his âbest friendâ as he put it. In November he got pushy. Kept me in his bed for long conversations about my religion (Catholic). I told him I didnât want to have sex because I didnât know if I loved him. He said I didnât have to love someone to have sex with the person. That night ended with his fingers in me, though I never said he could. I just figured this is what dating was like.
When I told my parents I was dating someone, they told my brothers and all 5 immediately started teasing me about his looks. I felt a knot in my stomach, thinking I had made a mistake but instead brushing it off. I just figured this is what dating was like.
In November he told me he took anti-depressants.Â
In December he made me cry. Told me Catholicism was pointless, that I was wasting my time and that we should just fuck. We shouldnât make love, we should fuck. I couldnât find the words to tell him that I couldnât do it. I couldnât swallow. It was the first anxiety attack without me realizing what it was. He gripped my wrists together and told me I was going to fuck him and it was going to be good. I just figured this is what dating was like.
I donât remember too much about the first time. There was too much shock in my brain for me to comprehend what was happening. It was dark and I was trapped under him on sheets he clearly hadnât washed in a long time. I remember after when he collapsed next to me against the wall, his arm wrapped around my waist, trapping me for the night. I cried slowly and quietly so I wouldnât wake him up and so I wouldnât have to explain anything. I wasnât even sure what I would explain. My entire lower abdomen hurt. I listened to Stevie Wonder sing Golden Lady and I tried to force myself to sleep, but I ended up staying up the entire night, staring at the ceiling and sweating.
When I agreed to bring him to Baltimore for winter break, he asked if I could help move his stuff to my room. When I got to his room he had overdosed on his anti-depressants. He begged me to move stuff on my own. I carried two milk crates worth of records along with a few other things he didnât need down three flights of stairs, 50 feet in the snow, up a flight of stairs and into my dorm. When I finished, he magically felt better.
When I broke up with him a couple months later he threatened suicide, so I pulled his reckless tendencies back into my life. When I finally broke up with him at the end of the year, he disappeared for a few months.
He returned in August, when I still wasnât strong enough to block his number. A new school year started when I was eating alone one morning. I felt someone next to me, it was him. He said he wanted to be friends. I told him ânoâ for the first time that I remember. And he stalked me all the way to my advisorâs office.
My first reports to Public Safety were ignored. I couldnât prove the bruises he gave me, I couldnât claim mental abuse without an evaluation from the Counseling office, which they said âcould take years because of the amount of students they have to see on a daily basis.â They suggested I block his number and social media and stay away from him on campus. They told me to stay away from him. As if it was my fault. As if our campus was big enough for me to avoid him everywhere I went.
When Iâm on campus I still have to see him. He stares me down. I pretend to take a phone call. I say out loud âIâm better than everâ or some variation of that every time. I hide the fact that I canât breathe, that I canât swallow all over again, that my face feels like a thousand needles are poking my skin from the inside out.
His âbest friendâ tried to contact me multiple times. And for what? We never met. I heard everything about her. I donât ever want to know what she wanted from me.
I hate that women have to tell their stories to persuade members of Congress to not vote a judge into the Supreme Court. I hate that we have to recount episodes of distress and they donât. I hate that we have to pull women from their lives as private citizens into the public light to have them tell everyone what happened. I hate that they donât understand how much it hurts. I hate that a lot more women than men stand with women in support. I hate that itâs believed men canât be victims of assault. I hate that this is so difficult for people to understand and instead of asking questions they point fingers and argue that whatever they say is right.
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