Musings · Uncategorized


If you’ve seen facebook and/or twitter recently, you’re probably familiar with the Me Too Movement. If you haven’t, the Me Too movement is a movement that empowers women (and now hopefully men) to speak up about their own sexual assault and bring light to the increasing problem of it.

And today I would like to share my own #MeToo story.

I was 19 years old and in my first official relationship. Back then I was naive and very, very sheltered. I was always sure that I was going to wait until I got married before I had sex. It was how I was brought up, and I wanted to make sure that the man I was with was someone I loved and knew was the right one. I told my exboyfriend this and he was okay with it…or said he was. He “didn’t want to push me”.

But like I said, I was 19 and my boyfriend at the time was much, much more experienced. And, I’ll admit, I was curious.

It started a few months after we started dating. We were watching television and his hands were wrapped around me. As the show went on, his hand dipped lower, under the waistband of my pants. I pushed him away and he stopped…for a few minutes at least. And then he did it again. I tried to push him away again but he didn’t stop, instead convincing me that this was what I wanted.

He popped my cherry that night. Despite my pleads to stop and telling him I wasn’t ready, he continued to kiss me and do what he did. I bled that night, and my heart broke a little. Later on, I convinced myself that I was being ridiculous…I was 19 now and this is what you did in an “adult” type of relationship. So I brushed it off and told myself to calm down.

A couple of months later he gave me the speech, you know the one… “I love you so much and it sucks that we haven’t been together because that’s what people do when they’re in love. I want to share this with you and I hope you trusted me enough to share it with me too.”

Stupid, stupid me I listened to him. I “loved” him so much and I wanted to be the type of girlfriend he wanted/needed. I wanted to be “mature” and prove that I wasn’t being a child in this relationship.

So we had sex. In the humid bathroom, before his mother came home, we had sex and I lost my virginity. One minute I had it, the next I didn’t. And I felt…empty. Lost. Confused. I thought it was what I wanted to do, but now that it was done, I wasn’t so sure.

But once I went there, I couldn’t go back…

The next year it was the same thing: he convinced me to be with him even though I wasn’t sure it was what I wanted to do. I just felt like this was something I should’ve wanted to do so I did it. I thought my guilt was just because I was going against what I was brought up with. I thought I was just “coming into my own” and needed to be okay with that. I also thought I felt guilty because I was lying to my mother and not confiding in her even though I confided to her about everything.

He “proposed” to me with a little diamond ring and told me loved me and wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. It wasn’t a real engagement, obviously, but back then it did feel real. It felt like I finally found my future. I figured I could get over the guilt and be the type of girlfriend he wanted/needed.

Then, a little over a year after we started dating, my ex-boyfriend called me at about three in the morning and decided to break up with me. On the phone. And he told me that I was an “embarrassment”. He told me that, because of my medical condition, he was embarrassed of me and couldn’t date me anymore. And then, to top it off, he told me that no other guy would want to be with me.

I was twenty years old and this time, I was broken. I didn’t feel like I was, I just was. I was tossed away like yesterday’s garbage, despite being with him because I loved him. Everything he told me was a lie: he didn’t love me, he didn’t want me for the rest of his life. He wanted nothing to do with me.

That was ten years ago and, though I’m mostly over it, there are still some times that I get hit with what actually happened, with how I was treated, and I get sick all over again. I can’t trust, and I always think I’m not enough anymore. It’s a constant struggle.

In hindsight, I wish I had told someone about what was going on: confided in someone about how I was feeling and thinking. Maybe I could’ve saved myself a lot of heartache and maybe I wouldn’t have become so distrustful, so paranoid.

Maybe, my life would be completely different.

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