My Story

I’m June. I’m 16 years old. My story isn’t long, but I’ve got a lot to talk about.

                I grew up well, loving family, usually had at least one good friend, I was always shy but no one disliked me. I came into high school as many shy girls do, a little insecure, hoping for things to change, wishing for a boyfriend. First few weeks went by and I felt same as always, a little out of place, maybe more lonely than usual because my only friend and I were drifting apart.

                Then I met my future boyfriend/rapist. We were attracted to each other when we met, doing the usual flirting and texting and one day he asked me to be his girlfriend, I said yes. I’m not sure about all the details; he said our first kiss was sweet, I remember being startled because on the first day his tongue was in my mouth. We didn’t agree on many details, so you will probably only be getting my side of things. I will try to share only what I know for sure.

                I’m not a conservative girl, I like the idea of making out and flirting and teasing and having fun. But I have my limits just like anyone else, and he had little care for limits. Within the first week he’d have me on the ground around the school after hours with his tongue in my mouth and his hands on me. I would have liked to slow down, but didn’t know how to say it. So I put aside my confused feelings and tried to just accept it.

                I didn’t intend for the relationship to last long, a few months at most. I thought that I would leave as soon as I wasn’t happy, but I became unhappy early on without stepping away. I tried to focus on the idea that ‘opposites attract’ rather than how our personalities clashed. A few months in my friends gave me the news that he’d been sexting another girl. I tried to leave, but I underestimated how clever he could be to convince me to stay. After a one day breakup I was back together with the guy I didn’t really like.

                I’ve blocked out most of my memories of this time, I know a lot of it was spent at a playground hiding from my friend to make out. I remember being afraid. He was pushy, and I was nervous. I struggled with cutting at the time so I had a knife, I didn’t carry it with me until I started feeling like it might be of use against him if he tried anything. I remember one of the earlier times I realized I did not have control was when he laid me on the concrete in front of my friend and her boyfriend and got on top of me kissing. I was trying to talk to my friend at the time, and struggled against him, but I tried not to show that I couldn’t get him off. It’s more shameful to be raped than to rape, after all. Not that that’s what I was thinking at the time. I remember, and I shudder saying this, I remember my friend saying to him “I don’t think she likes that.” And I didn’t, it was the first time I realized I didn’t. I wanted him off. There was nothing I could do. I hated it. But I blocked it all out as best as I could. I still feel like blocking it out now.

                I wanted to wait to have sex; I was just 14 at the time and thought that I’d feel better about it if I was older. For him and our fast-paced relationship I set my limit to after I turned 15. Two months before that he was pushing me as usual, his parents had left town and we could sneak to his house alone, why would we pass up the chance? I’m not sure I consider the first time rape, I’m not sure if I want to. It was confusing more than anything. We tried not to pass my limit, but it reached the point where whether or not the line had been crossed was in question. I didn’t like the idea of it being in question, so I gave up.

                It wasn’t always bad, but it was usually confusing. I regretted it, as my big sister had promised me I would. I ended up regretting every time I agreed to it, though I didn’t always admit it. There was some time when it was okay, which only adds to my confusion. But one day it was not okay, and everything was downhill from there.

                If there hasn’t been a trigger warning yet, it probably isn’t a bad idea to throw one in here. We were in my room, my parents where home, my door was open so they’d be okay with leaving us in my room alone. At first it was okay, but then I was afraid of my parents coming to check on us. I got nervous and tried pushing him off, he wouldn’t budge of course. I told him to stop, and he asked me to let him finish. I was staring at the door, starting to panic that they were going to walk in any second. He told me that he wanted to finish so he could stop being horny and we could just hang out. (And I’m shuddering again. I’ve gotten in the habit of flinching when I think of it.) I nodded, that’s consent right? Again, the most of this is confusion. I was left to stare at the wall of my room; a wall that is still hard for me to look at now without feeling the way my eyes felt, the sadness and fear and denial. I got too afraid to let him finish as he asked and I started murmuring for him to stop, I said it over and over, a little louder every time, until I realized he heard me. But he didn’t stop. I started to cry and I whispered to myself “stop”, but I wasn’t asking him to stop anymore, I was asking the world to make it stop. I wanted it to end. But it kept going. When it finally came to an end I was left crying, he tried to comfort me; he promised it’d never happen again. I wish 15 year old me had known not to trust his promises.

                After that it slowly became more and more common for me to tune out for it. I’d stop feeling, stop thinking; I’d sit and stare and be his body to use. Sometimes I’d cry after. Sometimes he’d comfort me. Sometimes he’d get mad at me for blaming him. Sometimes I would just carry on with life feeling like an empty shell.

                Eventually I had enough, I don’t know why I couldn’t leave, but he wouldn’t let me if I tried. So I settled for a deal that we would stop “having sex” for whatever set amount of time it was. But that deal was made many times after the first time it was made, re-made every time he broke his promise that we’d stop. I say his promise because I wasn’t in control of when we did. I can imagine some might think I had the power to stop him, they’d be wrong. I like to flirt and tease, (asking for it, by some peoples standards) but when it came to crossing the line, I’d just freeze. After he realized that he seemed to be making me unhappy with breaking his promises over and over again, he requested that I “help him”. So, I stopped wearing my tight shirts that showed cleavage, I stopped wearing jeans with big holes on the thighs, I stopped wearing skirts, and I stopped wearing yoga pants. I erased all of my style identity I enjoyed and began wearing things that made me want to cry when I’d pull them out of my closet.  I started wearing sweatshirts or his jackets and shirts that didn’t show my figure or skin with jeans. But nothing stopped. I began to hate myself then, if I hadn’t already.

                There was a lot wrong with that relationship, I didn’t begin to cover it all yet, but that’s the big stuff. I did get out of it, within just over one and a half years even. I didn’t have the power to leave until I was out of country for a month and felt safe, but I did leave and that’s what counts.

                I almost forgot to mention that he came over to my house in the middle of the night to return some things that I’d given him. And to talk. I didn’t like the talking. He tried to sit on my bed at which time I stepped onto my bed and kicked him off, literally. I’ll admit, he said some things blaming me for what happened and just making me mad in general, which caused me to punch him.  A few details I left out: I was only wearing short shorts, a bra, and some fingerless gloves (I’d recently gotten back into using my punching bag and they were comforting to my knuckles after a bad hit); also I was on Skype with my friend, I don’t think I would have been able to stand up if I wasn’t.  I did end up shouting at him to get out of my room; I’m amazed my parents heard none of it. I now lock my door and even hang a heel (a very high heel I call my ‘stripper heel’) from the shelf above my door in such a way that if the door opens it will fall and make a loud noise.

                I’m becoming able to talk about it now, and I can share my story anonymously. I finally admitted to my friends what happened, and I’ve been getting support. Talking about it has helped me a lot, much of this had been stuffed down so I didn’t have to admit it happened. I’ve started to face the reality of it and recover from it, but I know there’s a lot more left to face that I can’t imagine yet, and a long road to recovery. I thank anyone who took the time to read my story. Now that I’m able to admit what happened and talk about it I want to help others with this issue. I was interested in SlutWalk long before I began admitting what happened, and it was a key step in making me see what was happening clearer.  I am relying on the hopeful belief that I can do the same for others, to share the idea that rape is not just the stranger with the knife in a dark ally, and that this is not okay. There is a lot I have to talk about, a lot that putting research into modern feminism has showed me; that I hope anyone who sees could share too. It’s just a dream for now, but I trust that one day if I could help just one person see just one thing, that will be enough for me.


You'll find I express myself a few different ways in this blog, and hopefully it will eventually show my personality some more. I'm a bit of a creative thinker, I write poems and draw my feelings. I also plan on sharing some of my stories of what happened as I remember and articles on related topics as I find them.