Content Warning: Sexual Assault
At the age of 13, I was a lively, chubby tomboy, thriving in sports and friendship while sporting an unkempt unibrow. I was awkward, but that awkwardness helped shape my kind and fun-loving spirit. Boys didn’t exactly flock to me, though; instead, they lined up to ask me to pass notes to my blonde best friend.
As I transitioned into high school, I slowly began to embrace my identity as a girl. I lost a bit of weight but remained flat-chested. Still, I felt the stirrings of wanting to be desired by boys. After a few cringe-worthy attempts at flirting, someone finally noticed me. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the best choice, but at 15, any attention felt significant.
Our relationship blossomed with long phone calls and sweet kisses, a whirlwind of new experiences. During late-night chats, he would hint at sex. I laughed nervously, unsure of where I stood but not wanting to lose his interest.
When New Year’s Eve arrived, his parents were out, and he invited friends over to his house. I ventured into his basement, where he offered me a bottle of Bacardi O. I had never tasted alcohol before, but the rebellious thrill was tempting. My boyfriend filled a Solo cup three-quarters full with Bacardi and a splash of orange soda. I took a sip, recoiling at the harsh burn. Why do adults drink this?
Despite my reservations, I found myself drinking more, eager to fit in and be accepted. I remember making silly jokes about orange soda, but soon the room began to spin. My boyfriend led me upstairs to his room, where I sat on the bed, feeling nauseous. I asked for water, but he just laughed and started kissing me.
Panic set in as I tried to roll off the bed, but he pinned me down, insisting, “This is what people who love each other do.” I told him I felt sick. Instead of helping, he covered my mouth and told me to relax. I pushed him away, but he grabbed my hair and forced me down. That’s the last thing I remember.
When I regained consciousness, he was on top of me. I lay still, tears streaming down my face, and eventually retched all over his floor. Alone in the basement, I was left with the shame of my situation—my makeup smudged, vomit in my hair, and the sounds of a party echoing above.
I was later found by my sister, who drove me home while NSYNC played in the background. I sat quietly, tears silently flowing, the weight of my experience already buried deep inside. For years, I convinced myself that since he was my boyfriend and I had chosen to drink, it couldn’t be classified as rape.
Fast forward to my thirties, I’ve come to terms with what happened. I’ve sought counseling, practiced yoga, and immersed myself in emotional intelligence resources. While I’m in a better place now, I share my story to encourage others to speak up about their own traumas.
Many women have experienced similar situations and may feel compelled to keep quiet. I want to tell them: don’t hide your story. It festers inside and can lead to self-destruction. Whether you write it down, share it with someone you trust, or express it in any way, releasing that burden is vital.
If you’re struggling with similar feelings, consider exploring resources like this guide on donor insemination or the unique approach provided by this DIY pumpkin pie play dough. Each step taken towards healing is significant, and you deserve to find peace.
In the end, remember: healing starts with acknowledging your past and letting it go.