Stephanie Kuehnert
It started when he made you give Acacia that poor, pink, stuffed duck that he’d burned and stabbed and defaced with permanent marker with words like Skunkhead, which was supposed to insult Acacia because she’d bleached half of her black hair blond. “She’s copying you,” he said, referring to the blond streak you’d had in your hair for three months. You said you didn’t see it that way, but he insisted, “She’s jealous of you—of us being together. She’s been spreading rumors about us.”
You doubted this and you were right to. He cut you off from Acacia first for the simple reason that she was the biggest threat. If the two of you had stayed close, she would’ve noticed what he was doing to you. He said that she was out to get you. You believed him, because he was the first boy to tell you that he loved you.
He even said it before you did. You’d only been together for two weeks. It was earth-shattering. This gorgeous guy—a talented musician who looked like a dark-haired, hazel-eyed Kurt Cobain and smelled like sandalwood incense, cigarettes, and warm sheets—loved you, a girl who had just been used by two other gorgeous guys.
Of course if he really had been like Kurt Cobain, he would’ve joined you in trying to kick the convertible filled with loud, obnoxious jocks. They were screaming catcalls at you, but instead of supporting you, he threw you over his shoulder and lifted your skirt, flashing your underwear to the busy street. When you started to cry, he got pissed and said you couldn’t take a joke. He also said your skirt was too short and those fishnet tights made you look like a slut. After a few more arguments like this, including one where he shredded your favorite shirt, you adopted a baggy, multilayered uniform.
You were all he had (he said), so when you did something to upset him, he told you he wanted to die. You did whatever you could to avoid this, including having sex with him when you didn’t want to. He was your first, and the sex was beautiful…until that day he wanted to hook up in your friend Robin’s garage. You knew she’d be mad, and she was the only friend you had left, so you said no and he gave you the silent treatment all day. Robin convinced him to talk to you and he said that if you didn’t want to have sex with him anymore, it meant you didn’t love him. So you did it. You never said no again, because you knew no one would ever love you like he did. He told you so.
After six months, he broke up with you anyway. You took a scalding shower and listened to Hole’s cover of “He Hit Me (and It Felt like a Kiss)” a thousand times. Now it’s dawning on you that even though he never physically hit you, he found other ways to smash you into a thousand pieces. You feel powerless, and blame yourself, and take it out on your own body with razor blades and alcohol. It will take you six months to call it “emotional abuse,” and then a year to call it what it really was: “sexual abuse.” It will take ten full years before you’re ready to put it all behind you and love yourself again.
But you will, I promise.
Stephanie Kuehnert got her start writing bad poetry in junior high. Then she discovered punk rock and started producing DIY feminist zines in high school. She got her MFA in creative writing from Columbia College Chicago. Her first two young adult novels are I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone (2008) and Ballads of Suburbia (2009). She writes about her teenage experiences for Rookie magazine at RookieMag.com. Visit her at StephanieKuehnert.com.