Sometimes a breakthrough looks like a breakdown, part 3: The first wolf
Content notes for emotional abuse, threats, sexual coercion, and mention of physical abuse. Out of necessity, I've broken things down into smaller pieces than I was going to. The depression is somewhat improved from this time last week, but I'm still dragging ass -- And strangely enough, talking about past traumas doesn't make me feel any less tired! I lack the energy or emotional fortitude to speak about 3 different abusers today. It is necessary, though, that I speak of at least one. I hope someone, somewhere, sees the flags earlier and avoids going down this road -- or recognizes themselves and finds the resources to leave.
He had the most devilish grin -- My mom hated him. So, of course, I adored him. It was the early 2000's, and we lived in rural Indiana, so of course everyone our age was into nu-metal. He dressed sort of like he was in one of those bands. He was moody to match, and he had that certain early-oughts porcupine hair; surely you remember it. (None of the bleached orange-blonde tips, mercifully.) We both had our hair dyed black - of course, of course we did.
In a manner of speaking, I'd been dating since I was 14. To me, they were basically friends, who were male, and it was OK to hold hands, and cuddle or occasionally sneak a kiss when the teachers weren't looking. I did engage in the usual teenage performatively-sexy appearance rituals, but I didn't have any interest in anything except being seen as desirable. I didn't desire anyone in that way until (apparently) pretty late. For all I know, I would have been even later if I wasn't somewhat forced into it.
Kissing was fun. I learned that making out was also pretty fun, but he wouldn't listen when I griped about his wandering hands. At first, I was plenty assertive about stopping him -- putting his hands where I wanted them to be, around my waist or playing in my hair. But he would always try it again. After long enough, it becomes normal. He jokingly pins your hands down. You fight for a while. He pushes harder. It scares you, even if he's still laughing. The laugh has an edge in it now. You stop fighting. At least he's keeping outside of your bra, mostly. For now.
His talk was always a lot more explicit than his actions. He'd talk about doing very sexual things, and it did turn me on, but I didn't want to break my promises to the church or disappoint my Mom. I didn't want to be "one of those girls," or for anyone to think I was.
I successfully managed to never do everything he wanted to, but I still did a lot of things I didn't want to. There was so much conflict in my head -- I was still the church girl saving herself for marriage, but there were some compromises to be made because it was your fault if you couldn't keep your man. He wanted handjobs. I was awful at it. He wanted to go down on me for what seemed like hours, and he would go into a rage if I tried to stop him. Once he played with a knife while he played with me, running it over my arm, chest, tummy. I don't actually remember how I got out of that one. I think I may have dissociated at some point. And the shamefulness of it -- when you feel like you're transgressing against God Himself, and you're so terrified of the man in front of you -- but your body betrays you by feeling so much pleasure anyway.
He'd go back and forth between being super sweet, bringing me a flower or some candy, playing romantic music for me -- and raging -- I can't remember everything he'd get mad about. Usually, that I was somehow worthless or stupid, or I was cheating on him. I was a whore, I was lying to him -- I wasn't allowed to talk to other guys. My group of friends was very much a motley group of boys and girls, so I didn't stop hanging out with all of them -- I was just careful that he wasn't anywhere near when I did.
One day, we went to some fair or festival in town, I forget which one. He couldn't drive yet, and I could. His hand was somewhat hastily bandaged, and he was still boiling under his surface. He yelled at me while we were there, and I had enough and dropped him back at his house.
The reason his hand was bandaged: He'd run out of his Mom's house and punched out a garage window, because I wouldn't go down on him. I patched him up, didn't tell anyone, and I didn't say no after that.
This went on for almost nine months. I couldn't be convinced he was abusing me, because he never hit me. The end, though, was every bit as explosive and dramatic as everything else had been. It was senior awards day at school. One of my -- male -- friends from marching band was awarded a big, fat scholarship. All of us were excited and hugging. He walked in at exactly the wrong time. He yelled at me, called me a whore, and stormed off. I burst into tears right in front of all my friends, and they wouldn't let me chase after him, to try and de-escalate him like I always had. He punched a hole in the wall of the school, and was escorted off the grounds by police.
And that's the first time someone I was dating wound up in a 72-hour psychiatric hold.
For some reason, the broken window didn't break his hold on me. Probably because nobody else saw that incident -- but there was no hiding this one. My friends all heavily discouraged ever even seeing him again, now that they could undeniably see how bad he was. My parents forbid it. But we went to the same, very small, high school. He was released before my graduation, and I saw him in the halls a few more times. Even having been through all that, and even after I'd told him to fuck off when he tried to call me on the phone while he was still locked up... He still got one last kiss. He said he wanted another chance. I actually told him I was sorry I couldn't give him that. (He went on to date the girl who -- of course! -- he was cheating on me with. I heard a rumor that he beat her during their relationship.)
Even years later, even with David who would never dream of violating me or pushing me to do anything in bed when I don't want to... I have still said yes, at least once, when I didn't actually mean it. Inside my head, I still hear if you really loved me, you'd do it. With the exception of actual intercourse, every first sexual encounter in my life was because I was afraid of what might happen if I didn't. Every time, a piece of you dies. Until you're a ghost in your own bed.
The National Domestic Violence Hotline - Is This Abuse?
RAINN: National Resources For Sexual Abuse Survivors and their Loved Ones
Resources By State
He had the most devilish grin -- My mom hated him. So, of course, I adored him. It was the early 2000's, and we lived in rural Indiana, so of course everyone our age was into nu-metal. He dressed sort of like he was in one of those bands. He was moody to match, and he had that certain early-oughts porcupine hair; surely you remember it. (None of the bleached orange-blonde tips, mercifully.) We both had our hair dyed black - of course, of course we did.
In a manner of speaking, I'd been dating since I was 14. To me, they were basically friends, who were male, and it was OK to hold hands, and cuddle or occasionally sneak a kiss when the teachers weren't looking. I did engage in the usual teenage performatively-sexy appearance rituals, but I didn't have any interest in anything except being seen as desirable. I didn't desire anyone in that way until (apparently) pretty late. For all I know, I would have been even later if I wasn't somewhat forced into it.
Kissing was fun. I learned that making out was also pretty fun, but he wouldn't listen when I griped about his wandering hands. At first, I was plenty assertive about stopping him -- putting his hands where I wanted them to be, around my waist or playing in my hair. But he would always try it again. After long enough, it becomes normal. He jokingly pins your hands down. You fight for a while. He pushes harder. It scares you, even if he's still laughing. The laugh has an edge in it now. You stop fighting. At least he's keeping outside of your bra, mostly. For now.
His talk was always a lot more explicit than his actions. He'd talk about doing very sexual things, and it did turn me on, but I didn't want to break my promises to the church or disappoint my Mom. I didn't want to be "one of those girls," or for anyone to think I was.
I successfully managed to never do everything he wanted to, but I still did a lot of things I didn't want to. There was so much conflict in my head -- I was still the church girl saving herself for marriage, but there were some compromises to be made because it was your fault if you couldn't keep your man. He wanted handjobs. I was awful at it. He wanted to go down on me for what seemed like hours, and he would go into a rage if I tried to stop him. Once he played with a knife while he played with me, running it over my arm, chest, tummy. I don't actually remember how I got out of that one. I think I may have dissociated at some point. And the shamefulness of it -- when you feel like you're transgressing against God Himself, and you're so terrified of the man in front of you -- but your body betrays you by feeling so much pleasure anyway.
He'd go back and forth between being super sweet, bringing me a flower or some candy, playing romantic music for me -- and raging -- I can't remember everything he'd get mad about. Usually, that I was somehow worthless or stupid, or I was cheating on him. I was a whore, I was lying to him -- I wasn't allowed to talk to other guys. My group of friends was very much a motley group of boys and girls, so I didn't stop hanging out with all of them -- I was just careful that he wasn't anywhere near when I did.
One day, we went to some fair or festival in town, I forget which one. He couldn't drive yet, and I could. His hand was somewhat hastily bandaged, and he was still boiling under his surface. He yelled at me while we were there, and I had enough and dropped him back at his house.
The reason his hand was bandaged: He'd run out of his Mom's house and punched out a garage window, because I wouldn't go down on him. I patched him up, didn't tell anyone, and I didn't say no after that.
This went on for almost nine months. I couldn't be convinced he was abusing me, because he never hit me. The end, though, was every bit as explosive and dramatic as everything else had been. It was senior awards day at school. One of my -- male -- friends from marching band was awarded a big, fat scholarship. All of us were excited and hugging. He walked in at exactly the wrong time. He yelled at me, called me a whore, and stormed off. I burst into tears right in front of all my friends, and they wouldn't let me chase after him, to try and de-escalate him like I always had. He punched a hole in the wall of the school, and was escorted off the grounds by police.
And that's the first time someone I was dating wound up in a 72-hour psychiatric hold.
For some reason, the broken window didn't break his hold on me. Probably because nobody else saw that incident -- but there was no hiding this one. My friends all heavily discouraged ever even seeing him again, now that they could undeniably see how bad he was. My parents forbid it. But we went to the same, very small, high school. He was released before my graduation, and I saw him in the halls a few more times. Even having been through all that, and even after I'd told him to fuck off when he tried to call me on the phone while he was still locked up... He still got one last kiss. He said he wanted another chance. I actually told him I was sorry I couldn't give him that. (He went on to date the girl who -- of course! -- he was cheating on me with. I heard a rumor that he beat her during their relationship.)
Even years later, even with David who would never dream of violating me or pushing me to do anything in bed when I don't want to... I have still said yes, at least once, when I didn't actually mean it. Inside my head, I still hear if you really loved me, you'd do it. With the exception of actual intercourse, every first sexual encounter in my life was because I was afraid of what might happen if I didn't. Every time, a piece of you dies. Until you're a ghost in your own bed.
The National Domestic Violence Hotline - Is This Abuse?
RAINN: National Resources For Sexual Abuse Survivors and their Loved Ones
Resources By State
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