Personal Narrative
-Anonymous

No matter what happened he always apologized. He was always sorry for the things he'd done and I was always quick to forgive him. I mean, a black eye hurt a lot less than a broken heart. It only went on for two years, but I know that what I experienced in those two years will stay with me forever.

We started dating in middle school. He was the one I would text late at night and hang out with on weekends. He said he loved me, that I was his everything and he would never let anything happen to me. He was my first boyfriend, and I believed every word he said.

Once eighth grade had ended and summer vacation rolled around, we started spending more time together. One day we were in the park, sitting in the grass and talking, when he pulled me close and began to touch me. I began to push him away, be he said, "This is what boyfriends and girlfriends do. Don't you love me?" So I let him.

Later on that summer we were hanging out near his house. He had his arm around my waist, and we sat with our feet in the lake behind his neighborhood. He started to kiss me and tried to take off my shirt. When I protested, he drew a pocket knife from his shorts pocket and held it up to my face. He told me that if I didn't do what he wanted, he'd cut me. I didn't believe him. After all, he said he'd never do anything to hurt me. You didn't hurt the person you loved. So when he tried again I began to push him off, and he dug the blade into my arm. I didn't know then that this would happen many more times in the future. When I pulled away, he said, "You're being stubborn. Let me do these things, they'll feel good." I didn't want to do them but at the same time I wanted to make him happy. So I let him.

By the end of the summer he owned me. I wore what he wanted me to. I ate less and less to make him happy. I didn't see many of my friends because it made him jealous. And we always did what he wanted to do, even if it wasn't comfortable with it. He called me names and said things that made me  uncomfortable. He pressured me into doing things. I didn't want to, telling me I didn't love him if I didn't.  And I still let him.

By the time we reached high school, I had learned to go along with everything he said. Although we went to different schools, he still controlled me through texts, and I had given up resisting him. If I did, he would "teach me manners," which was him beating me until I obeyed him. One day I was talking to my friend, who noticed I had bruises around my neck and around my wrist in the shape of fingerprints. She told me to tell a guidance counselor, and then begged me to call the police. I refused, saying I was fine and that is was nothing. Looking back I wish I had listened; it was the smartest advice anyone could have given me.

I was home alone one day when he surprised me with a visit. I let him in, and he told me he was moving the following week. I was shocked, wondering why he hadn't told me earlier. But I didn't know if I should be miserable or thrilled. He told me he would miss me, and wanted to make one last great memory. He led me upstairs to my bedroom. I was nervous , and tried to distract him and small talk. He locked the door and sat next to me on my bed. "You know, I love you," he said. "And I will always love you." But I don't think you love me." When I told him I did, he laughed, and said I would do the things he wanted if I actually had feelings for him. I didn't know what to say, and just sat there. He started to kiss me, and before I could push him away he climbed on top of me and tried to take off my clothes. I told him "no" over and over and tried to push him off. I kicked and hit, until he became frustrated and got up off of me.  He yelled that I was a horrible girlfriend, and demanded I have sex with him. When I refused, he hit me in the face, and when I staggered back he pinned me against the wall. He held my arm behind me and slammed me into the wall. There was a crack, and I tried to keep the tears from falling as he pushed me onto the ground. He said he would be back, and stormed down the stairs and out the door. That was when I blacked out.

After that day, I had to fake and tell people that I had gotten my black eye and broken collar bone from an accident in sports. My friend, meanwhile, threatened to call the police and said I had to tell someone. I still refused, but I knew she was right.

Even after he was gone I thought about him every day. Everything reminded me of him, and I saw the marks he had left on me whenever I looked in the mirror. One day I found a bunch of pictures that had been taken in eighth grade, right before I started dating him. They showed a younger version of me, one who had a huge, sincere smile. I compared the pictures to what I saw in the mirror. The girl in the pictures didn't have a black eye and her arm wasn't in a sling. She didn't have bruises along her ribs or around her wrists and neck. She had no cuts from knife along her arms and legs. She was just a happy person goofing around with her friends. I suddenly wanted that back, the feeling of being my own person. I wanted to wear a smile that was genuine, not fabricated.

The next day at school, I went to the guidance counselor's office. I was shaking, but I knew he would be true to his word and come back. I told her about him, and she promised to help me. I suddenly couldn't figure out why I hadn't told someone right away. She helped me file a restraining order against him, and he hasn't been allowed to come near me since.