Editor’s Note: The views expressed here are those of the author’s and don’t necessarily represent or reflect the views of MangoBaaz.
This is a letter to you. My first boyfriend. The guy that was older than me, who thought he knew more than me. The guy that was my friend. The one that I talked to for hours on the phone. You knew my secrets. My stories. You knew everything. You thought you charmed me. Saved me. Had me. But you didn’t.
You built this trust between us, only to break it.
You told me I should never let anyone hurt me. You told me that you were never going to hurt me. You told me you’d take care of me, be there for me, love me. But do you really think you kept those promises?
“No” doesn’t mean convince me. No means no. Did you realize I was just a kid?
You seem to overlook all those times you did exactly what you said no one should do to me. “No” doesn’t mean convince me. No means no. Did you realize I was just a kid? That my body wasn’t ready for all that you did to it? I was just a thing for you. A thing you used to relieve your sick, disgusting, repulsive, deafeningly hormonal sexual frustration. Was there nothing better to do than to continuously exploit a girl who was barely a teenager?
When I think of you all I can think of are your hands invading me.
Hands in my hair, hands on my neck, on my chest, around my waist. Lower.
For months it didn’t hit me. I stored it away in a little box at the back of my mind. If I pretended it didn’t happen, maybe it would just go away. But it didn’t. I kept trying to label it. Maybe a gentler word would make it seem less daunting.
Every time I tried to tell you, you brushed it away. You told me it was nothing. “Everyone experiences something uncomfortable. It’s totally normal.” When I told you I didn’t want you to do this to me, you said you “physically” could not understand why. I still don’t know what there was to understand.
You kept dismissing me until I didn’t even want to speak. I stayed quiet for so long. I can’t stay quiet any longer.
But this isn’t a letter to tell you I hate you. This isn’t a letter to tell you how disgusting I think you are. This isn’t to tell you how you made me feel like an object. Like a material thing made just for your pleasure.
Instead, this is a letter to thank you.
Thank you for that terrible experience where I felt so incredibly helpless. I couldn’t stop shaking. All I could do was cry. But you know what? Thank you. It made me stronger. It made me realize how real these things are. They’re all around me. They’re tangible.
You’ve given me this story to tell. I can now help all those girls and boys who’ve been through what I have. You’ve given me a new voice. So for that I thank you.
Don’t flatter yourself though; I still think you’re a piece of shit.
If you have had any traumatic experience, please talk about it. Staying quiet makes it worse for you. There are people who will listen and are professionally trained to help you navigate your feelings. It will be okay. It “does” get better.
Cover Image via: inserbia.info