Ten days after my fifteenth birthday, I let a boy ride the bus home with me—after my mother explicitly told me not to. It was a boy I liked. A boy who was two years older than me. A boy I was interested in. A boy I considered a boyfriend.
I thought I was ready for a physical relationship. (I wasn’t.) I thought, when he came home with me, we were going to experience something special. (We didn’t.) When he disappeared to the bathroom, and I was alone in my bedroom, something told me to run. Get out of my own house. Go.
But I stayed. When he entered the doorway, naked, with a removed look on his face, I knew what happened next was not going to be good.
In that bedroom, on that day, with this boy, I said no. I screamed no. I cried. I was held down. I bled. I went numb. He had a one-track mind, and I closed myself off, too afraid to do anything about it.
After that day? I continued to see him, even though I questioned myself: How could I ever spend even one second with someone who did such an unspeakable thing?
Because I wanted to pretend it never happened. I wanted to turn my saying no into some version of I brought this on myself. I felt, in some sick way, like he owned a part of me. I wanted—no, needed—to make it okay, to make him okay, so I wasn’t a victim.
I continued to see him at school, outside of school, at parties, until I just wanted to get away from it all. At the time, I was confused. I felt guilty. I accused him. I hated him. I needed him. This awful thing had happened to me, but I felt tied to him because he’d taken something from me I could never get back.
Finally, I confronted him. (More specifically, I punched him. That was when I found boxing.) I switched schools. I found my own forms of therapy. I started kickboxing, then boxing, then dabbled in a bit of jiujitsu. I learned how to protect myself, how to protect my body, my mind, and my heart.
More than anything, during those tenuous times, I found writing. Those horrible moments in a childhood bedroom led me to cutting, an eating disorder, angsty teen rebellion—but finally brought me to (and kept me on) the page.
Though this is something I have never spoken about publicly, I want to assure people that sexual assault can be confusing. There are two sides to every story, and it’s not always a stranger violating you, or taking you by surprise. It can be someone you know, someone you trust, even someone you love. Someone who can take something from you that they are not allowed to take.
This novel features characters dealing with serious subject matter, such as sexual assault, alcoholism, and suicide. If you’ve ever dealt with any of these issues, it’s important to confide in someone: a friend, a parent, a teacher, a trusted colleague—any of these people can help you find support.
If you don’t want to talk to someone you know, there are many services that provide free, confidential help to anyone struggling with sexual abuse or suicidal thoughts.
Here are a few well-known providers:
THE NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION LIFELINE
The lifeline provides free and confidential support for people in distress, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The toll-free number is 1-800-273-8255. The website is suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
THE NATIONAL SEXUAL ABUSE HOTLINE
This hotline provides support, information, advice, and referrals by trained support specialists. It is free and confidential and is available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The toll-free number is 1-800-656-HOPE. The website is rainn.org.
Remember: you are not alone.