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“Why are you ignoring me?” He thrusts his hand inside my shorts, twisting the skin on my thigh until I wince in discomfort. “Why are you REALLY ignoring me?”
“Just leave me alone,” I whisper, my heart racing as I realize that no one is aware of what’s unfolding.
“You know I don’t like it when you talk to your friends.”
This was my high school boyfriend, my first love, and he was undeniably abusive. We began dating as freshmen. He was good-looking, charming, and funny. When he asked me out, I felt like the luckiest girl alive. Initially, everything was perfect, but gradually, his manipulative and controlling tendencies began to take over my life, leaving me feeling trapped.
At just 15 years old, I struggle to understand how a boy so young could resort to such behavior. I was insecure, craving attention, filled with shame, and deeply in love. He exploited my vulnerabilities, transforming me into someone I barely recognized.
It began with the painful skin twisting. I soon found myself unable to wear shorts or short sleeves because of the bruises. If he disapproved of my actions, he’d stand by my locker, twisting or pinching my skin for various reasons—talking too much to friends, refusing to let him cheat off my tests, or even just speaking to another guy in the hallway.
Once, while chatting with a male friend between classes, he approached and shouted, “SLUT!” before slapping me hard across the face. Several classmates and even a teacher witnessed this. I hoped that since an adult was present, things might change. But the teacher simply walked away.
Alongside the physical abuse, emotional manipulation ran rampant. Because I was overweight, he would belittle me, insisting I was lucky to be with someone as attractive as he was. He’d tell me that I would never find anyone else who loved me, reinforcing the belief that I was too ugly and fat to attract any other guy. His strategy was to lower my self-esteem to the point where leaving him became unthinkable.
I would break up with him frequently—at least once a month—but he would cry and plead with me to reconsider. “No, you can’t do this,” he’d insist. Each time I returned to school, he would be waiting at my locker, ready to continue the cycle of emotional torment and physical abuse. This pattern persisted for three agonizing years. I can’t recall a single moment of joy from my high school experience; it was truly the worst time of my life.
By senior year, I knew I had to leave home for college. If I stayed nearby, I risked marrying him, having his children, and being trapped—or worse. I secretly applied to a university two hours away, while he believed we would attend a local school together. I didn’t share my plans with anyone until I was accepted and enrollment was closed. I saw this as my escape, and it worked. Today, I’m grateful to be alive and happily married for 16 years, thanks to that decision.
We officially split when I started college. I was determined to move on, but he showed up at my dorm, begging for another chance and trying to manipulate me into coming home. His tactics escalated when I began dating others; in a panic, he reached out to mutual friends, spreading false rumors about me.
When I returned home for Halloween weekend, we arranged to meet. The night is a blur, but I remember fearing for my life. “Marry me. We can make it work. I’ve changed. I love you,” he pleaded.
“No,” I replied, and he retaliated by throwing me to the ground and kicking me in the head and chest. My shirt tore, and I felt blood on my arm. “Get in my car,” he demanded. He had lent me money for college, and he forced me to withdraw cash from an ATM.
As we sped toward the bank, I stared out the window, terrified he might kill me and dispose of my body. With no cell phone to call for help, I believed my best chance at survival was to remain silent. After withdrawing the money, he took me home, and we never saw each other again. I returned to my mother’s house, collapsed onto my bed, and sobbed.
Reflecting on my teenage self, I often wonder why I didn’t confide in someone. I had a supportive network of family and friends, yet the shame I felt was overwhelming. As a bright, straight-A student, I thought, how could I let anyone know what was happening?
This trauma lingers into my adulthood. The scars from that abusive relationship have not fully healed; I still battle body image issues, shame, and anxiety. His cruel words echo in my mind: “You are ugly. No one will ever love you like I do.”
Looking at my teenage sons, I question if I would recognize any signs of them abusing their girlfriends. Did my boyfriend’s parents know about his behavior? All I can do is maintain open communication with my kids, asking the tough questions and addressing anything that seems amiss.
I wish my teacher had intervened. I wish I had spoken up. Most importantly, I hope his long-term girlfriend of 21 years is safe and well.
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Summary:
The author reflects on her experience in an abusive high school relationship characterized by physical and emotional manipulation. As she navigates the trauma from those years, she emphasizes the importance of communication with her children and the need for awareness regarding abusive behavior.
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