Laying in the grass, watching the clouds drift by, I hold his hand for the first time. Nervous. Excited. We’re on our first date and I’m hoping he will be my first real boyfriend. Friendly and charming, he seems like everything I’ve been waiting for. We walked around my neighborhood, talking and laughing together, and now we’ve found our way to my front yard. The weather reflects the giddy, happy mood I’m in. My family spies on us from the window. The smile I always wear is brighter than ever. He’ll ask me to be his girlfriend soon, and I’ll undoubtedly say yes.
 
“I don’t like that boy,” Dad states simply over dinner after Eric has left. They had been introduced, but Eric hadn’t shaken Dad’s hand. I think it is a silly thing that it means so much to Dad, but it means everything. “It’s rude,” he explained, “he won’t treat you right.” I tell him that Eric had been nervous, that he is actually very sweet to me. “He even held open doors for me,” I point out, refusing to let him ruin my happiness.

Two months later the first day of my senior year of high school is here. I am happy. I have the best friends anyone could ever ask for, a dysfunctional but wonderful family, and the perfect boyfriend. Yes, my parents are slightly upset by the number of times he has kept me out past curfew— something that has never happened before— but he likes me and he makes me laugh. He holds my hand in the parking lot and I sit with him at lunch.

Things seem fine between him and I. It’s normal to argue, right? He always brings me home late. My parents hate it, but it just means he wants to spend time with me, right? Why does he keep talking about these things? It makes me uncomfortable. I’m not ready for that. “He’s controlling, Kaila,” my friends complain, “he doesn’t care about you. He never lets you see us.” I tell them that they are wrong. “He just loves me and wants to spend time with me,” I explain. He does love me, I tell myself. Everything is the way it should be. I love him, too.

After school one day in October, we’re sitting in his room. He’s playing his video game, I’m doing my homework. We’re deciding what to eat for dinner. We settle on Chinese, as always. I call in the order and we pick it up together. He tells me that I didn’t order the right thing. I apologize and we share it together anyway. He plays more video games as I sit and watch, looking at the clock. He takes me home an hour after curfew, telling me I have to call him before bed. I tell him I’m tired and want to go to bed before he’ll even be home. He doesn’t care, I’ll have to call him. I do as I’m told. He yells at his video games while on the phone and I fall asleep to the sound of him cursing at his teammates. Is this what love is?

I tell my friends that I love him. I smile more than ever. They ask about our relationship. I tell them that it’s perfect. They won’t see through it if I keep smiling. If I convince them, maybe I’ll convince myself. I try harder to convince my parents, but it’s like they know everything I refuse to even let myself see. They hate him and every second that I spend with him. I love him, though; he makes me happy.

“Please,” he continues, “it’s my birthday.” He’s been hinting and I’ve been playfully saying no and changing subjects for weeks. “You know my values and everything,” I’m telling him. “It can just be once, I won’t ask for it again,” he bargains. “I don’t want to.” But we’re in his room and sitting on his bed. We’ve been talking for hours— since he detoured to his house when I thought we were going to the zoo. I’m starting to feel like I have no choice. I tell him I want to just go home. He won’t let me. He’s between me and the door and he’s getting angry. I start to cry and he tells me there’s no reason. “Why are you crying?” he asks, trying to hug me, “you know I only want to because I love you.” Now I’m doubting this so-called love entirely, and I’m still just shaking my head no.

I remember feeling empty. I don’t remember what happened. I’ve learned throughout my life that I forget things that hurt to remember the most, remembering only the things that happen around them. I remember telling him no. I remember laying there, naked and entirely empty. He’s in the bathroom. I’m empty. I feel hate. I hate him. I hate myself and I don’t know why. I didn’t choose this. This isn’t fair. I know that there has to be something for me to do. He can’t do this to me. Scared. Hurt. I can’t do anything. I can’t move. I’m scared.

He comes back to the bed and I refuse to look at him. I can’t. He whispers, “I have bad news.” As he tells me nonchalantly that the condom broke, I break into tears, too hurt and scared to respond in any other way. Fear and pain holds me still. I hear him telling me that it’s three hours past my curfew and he should be getting me home. Tears are the only response I have. I stay there until I see daylight in the window, then I dress and gather my things quietly as he sleeps, leaving his house without a word.

I go home and go straight to my room, straight to bed, and straight to sleep with tears still wet on my face.

I wake up to a text from him. He called one of my best friends after I left. He told her we’d had sex and that I regretted it, so I probably wouldn’t tell anyone about it. He told her that I’d been distraught and that if she asked me about it, I’d probably tell her that I had said no. He says that she believed him. He says that everyone would since it is now my word against theirs. He says it would be no use trying to tell anyone what happened. I never want to get out of this bed.

The phone rings. I answer. It’s Becca. I haven’t even said hello and she’s going on about how I shouldn’t be ashamed, sex is normal at our age even though she thought my Christian values meant more to me than a physical relationship. My secret is safe with her, and was it good? No. I hang up.

I go through the motions of the next couple of days as well as I can. No one asks how I am. No one notices that I feel empty. That fake smile I’ve plastered on is working. I can’t tell them. I can’t tell any of them— not my friends, not my family. No one will understand the empty; everyone will judge.

He’s in my driveway and I’m telling him I don’t care what happens, I need him to leave. He’s reminding me of the fear that has been tearing me apart like I’ve forgotten what consequence might await. “Even if that happens,” I cry, “I wouldn’t want you in my baby’s life.” He is trying to hug me. “I love you,” he says. “Leave me alone.” I’m crashing into the wall of my garage, too stunned to feel anything but the pulsing spots on my arms where his hands struck me down. I feel the bruises forming as my definition of fear redefines itself. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me. You know I’d never hurt you,” he pleads, “I love you, please, I just want to stay with you.” The words spit out of his mouth as if from an angry troll; the words are apologetic, but the tone is commanding. He’s hugging me as I stand limp, afraid to move.

It is now my sophomore year of college. It is Monday, September twentieth and last week I celebrated a year without Eric in my life. I have a new boyfriend, one that treats me well and respects me. My life is wonderful and I’ve finally returned the sincerity to my smile. Most people don’t know the difference, though. I told my best friends that it hadn’t been my choice, that it had happened only once, and that, yes, he was a bit controlling, but he had never hurt me. Only one part of this was true— it was not my choice. I’ve told no one else anything, thinking it won’t matter if he’s out of my life, and he is out of my life— finally.

Tonight’s club meeting is about trust and reflection. We’re in small groups and we’re telling our group members things that we’ve never told anyone before. I hear little, embarrassing things from most of my group. A friend worries that she’s been taken advantage of in the past. I can’t say anything. For some reason, all I can do is hope that they don’t notice the two tears that slip down my cheeks. I want to forget my past. Why do I keep being reminded?

It is November first. It has been exactly two years since I first felt that horrid emptiness. I’m in the car with my boyfriend. He’s going back to Saginaw soon and I don’t want him to leave. For a reason that I won’t tell him, I don’t want to be alone right now. We’re stopping at a friend’s apartment so that he can pick something up. He goes inside, and I sit in the car and can’t stop the tears from falling.

These are the first real tears I’ve cried about it all. He comes back to the car. I refuse to tell him what is wrong when he asks. He drives me back to my dorm room. As soon as I get myself through the doorway, I’m on the floor just sitting and breaking.

I’m overwhelmed and I don’t know how to make it stop. I’m thinking of it all. I’m remembering everything. I don’t want to. Make these tears stop. Don’t let the empty come back. I hate him. I hate me. I’m scared. “You’re not alone,” Douglas says to me as he tries to hold me still, “I don’t know why you’re upset, but I’m here for you.” I tell him everything. For the first time in two years, someone besides myself and that horrible creature knows everything. I feel relief.
I’ve only told a few incredibly trusted and close people since then. I talk when I’m feeling that overwhelmed, scared, broken, hurt, empty, alone feeling that likes to creep back to me at unpredictable times. I don’t ever want to be that alone again, as alone as I was when I hid the empty from myself while everyone around me saw none of the hurt that I was truly feeling. Now I’m working on opening up. I’m working on standing up for myself and not burying the past away. I want to not ignore the past, but grow stronger from it. No one can do that to me. I am strong. I am happy. I can do anything. I will move on. I am free.