I really thought I loved my first boyfriend. I was a sophomore in high school, and he was a popular junior. About a month into our relationship, my parents went out of town, leaving me unsupervised. Being the young, naïve, inexperienced child I was, I was honestly just excited to spend time alone with him for once. He had other ideas.
“We’re going to get to second base.” He declared.
“I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. We’ll see.” I teased back uneasily. We’d been dating for such a short amount of time; I didn’t want to say no outright. But, I told myself, I’ll be strong when the time comes. He was such a nice guy, and I was sure I could trust him.
But he pushed and he pushed, and when that day came, he pushed his way to where he wanted to be. His hands went under my shirt, and I said nothing. I was afraid of what telling him to stop would do to our relationship.
Then he put all his weight on me and slid his hand between my legs. I was so shocked that I couldn’t help but blurt my dissent:
“Please don’t do that. I don’t want to do that.”
“It’s okay. Doesn’t it feel good?” He continued.
“Please. I’m not ready for this. Please.”
He ignored me. I begged him, and he ignored me. Because he was literally causing me physical pain, I was afraid of what would happen if I continued to ask him to stop. He got what he wanted from our encounter, and then went home, and I tried to put what had happened out of my mind. He called me later to tell me he felt bad about persisting in asking me to do something I didn’t want to do. You didn’t even ask, I wanted to scream. Instead, I gave him what we he really wanted from me.
“It’s okay. I liked it.”
He hadn’t called to apologize, because an apology would have had something to do with how I was feeling. He called to assuage his own feelings, for absolution, and once I’d let him think he was forgiven, it wasn’t his problem anymore.
And it never came up again.
Not to him, my parents, my friends. Nevertheless, the memory of his total disregard for my lack of consent was always in the back of my mind, weighing me down with doubt and insecurity. I clung to our relationship for another year and a half because it made what had happened less scary. I told myself (and anyone who would listen) that I loved him, because it made the experience feel validated.
As I grew older, I threw myself into a passion: social justice advocacy. I researched, studied, and presented on rape culture and consent, all the while in complete denial that I was presenting myself as well. That’s just the thing; so many victims don’t or won’t realize that they are victims of sexual abuse. The definition of sexual consent isn’t taught in the United States, and for that reason, men who commit sexual, violent crimes do so because they feel entitled to the yes their victims are afraid to not give. However, sexual consent is not the absence of a no. Rather, it is the coercion-free presence of a yes.
While I was typing the definition into a presentation, that boyfriend kept popping into my thoughts. And just like that, the pieces clicked. I was one of the victims I advocated for. I was part of the statistics I cited. A non-reporter, who refused to leave an abusive relationship, a victim of rape culture. I remember every word of that day because it has haunted me silently. I was sexually abused by someone I thought I knew well.
I finally acknowledge that he took away my power that night, even if I refused to realize it back then. I was a fledgling bird, and he stole my wings and left me crippled before I knew I was capable of flight. Now that I have come to terms with my loss, I can begin the healing process I never knew I needed. This is my truth. This is my next step to recovery years overdue.
This is how I take my power back.
meet me at the pear tree 