Your first time is supposed to be special. In books, you read about romantic gestures leading up to it, the anticipation teenagers get while waiting for that special moment. It was something that I experienced, too. I was nervous, I was scared, but I wanted it to be special. I imagined the candles, the rose petals, the dates, I imagined it all. I waited, and I waited, waiting for the right person to find me and sweep me off my feet. Instead, the wrong person came and masked himself as the right one.
I met a guy. I liked him; I really did. He was forward, and I wasnât at all. His vocabulary didnât include the word ânoââ he made it obvious to me that he didnât like the word, and he most definitely wasnât going to listen to it. At first, this wasnât such a big deal. He wouldnât want to stop hanging out, wouldnât want me to be with other people, which was fine, at first. I found it sweet — a little endearing, maybe. Â
I wonât go into the details for my own sake, but he didnât take no for an answer when I just wanted a sleepover. He stole something from me that Iâll never get back. He took a piece of me in October of my senior year. He stole my first time and my childhood with it. I’ll never be the same girl that I was back then.
At first, I told people it was fine. That I wanted it. That I mustâve shown I wanted it. That had to have been what it was, right? There was no way someone I liked would hurt me like that, right? This is the type of mindset that survivors go through that makes outsiders bash their stories and say they must be lying once they realize what really happened to them.
None of my guy friends believed me when I started to realize what had happened. They said my story didnât make sense. They knew him, and he wouldnât have done that. Not the man they knew. They had the same foolish belief that I did â that he was trustworthy, that he was safe, that I didnât need to worry.
I lost half my friends and my dignity that October. He admitted what he did to me in front of people, yet they still barely believed me since I was dismissive of it at first. They hung out with him, still. I still had to see him. Everywhere I went. He was always around the corner, waiting to say âhelloâ, trying to look like the good guy. I became afraid of my town, where I had spent my whole life. I became afraid of myself â I couldnât trust my thoughts if I was foolish enough to let that man into my life and to believe that everything was okay.Â
It took a long time for me to heal. I tried to trust other men, but I felt broken, like a shell of myself. It wasnât until I came to college and left my small town that I felt truly healed, like it didnât have to follow me around everywhere. I had a new slate here, a new story to write.
Iâm not asserting the idea that itâs impossible to heal on your own â you donât have to move towns and find a new support system to heal, but this is what I needed. I was never close enough with my parents to lean on them, and Iâd never put that on my siblings to catch me. My hometown best friends did absolutely everything and more for me, but I couldnât be in that town and not see his face around every single corner. Coming to the Bronx was the best decision I ever made, and I couldnât see myself standing here today if it wasnât for that move.Â
Most people here donât know that Iâve gone through this, but that doesn’t mean that they havenât helped. Every person thatâs uplifted me, thatâs given me a shoulder to cry on, thatâs called me their friend, has helped me more than anyone can imagine.
This month, I tell my story to motivate others to share theirs. I think if more people knew about my story, they might understand my crash outs and my breakdowns a little bit more. But, mostly, I wish I shared my story more so other people felt they could lean on me as a resource to connect with about this topic. I am always here for everyone, and at HerCampus Manhattan, we truly want everyone to feel welcome to express themselves and their stories.