I don’t have a romantic story about the first time I had sex.
I have a story that will make you cry and rethink everything I’ve ever done that earned your disapproval.
I have a story that has the potential to put someone in prison for the rest of their life; and that fact hangs over my head as if he were about to be crucified for what he’s done and voices whisper all around me:
“You are the one who nailed him there.”
Not that he doesn’t deserve every bit of what he may get, but it still haunts me.
I am one out of five females that has been sexually assaulted or abused.
I am one of 310 of every 1000 rapes that occur that has reported what happened to me.
I am also one of eight of the 310 that had my report go to trial, and sadly I am one of five of those eight that the man who took the most from me will see more than 6 months jail time.
But I am also more than a statistic...
I’m the girl who went from the bottom 10 percent to second in her class.
I’m the girl who got weird looks in the hallway because I was wearing long sleeve shirts and pants in summer.
I’m the girl who covered every inch of her body and still got called a slut after she willingly gave her virginity to somebody she hardly knew.
I’m the girl who was so scared to tell her mom she was raped because I thought she would blame me.
I’m the girl who hit rock bottom and for what felt like eons just looked up at the sky with no plans to try and reach for it again, but when I did...
... Oh, but when I did, I shot through the sky and landed past the moon.
I’m a girl who wants back what was taken from her but I can’t have it and now I have to live with knowing I gave it away so many times after that, forever wishing I was different.
Forever wishing I had screamed or kept walking back to bed or pushed him or hit him or done something to defend myself.
But I didn’t.
My first time haunts me at night with the scent of mint toothpaste and musky aftershave and the feeling of his dry cracked hands and tongue all over me and it makes me physically sick.
I’m still haunted by how much I hated myself after that night, and how I didn’t eat for two years following that.
I didn’t really see myself in the mirror until I had told someone about what had happened to me, and then the shame began.
Shame for being violated.
Shame for being weak.
Shame for being impure.
Shame for being desirable.
It wasn’t until the end of a 4 mile run when I screamed at the top of my lungs, “you cannot control me anymore.”
And now, after several long years, I finally know what it's like to be free from the weight you put on my shoulders.
And how satisfying is it to know that one day I will be the proud owner of a body that you have never seen, or smelt, or thought of, but more importantly, a body you have never touched...
... And you will no longer be my first.