Me too: telling my story

For healing and for letting go

Trigger warning: the following post contains details of sexual assault.

I wish it never happened but it did. It was in the summer of 2011. I was 19 years old, and he was one year younger.

I went to his house to break up with him. This was at least my third attempt in the span of a year. Every time I broke up with him in the first year or two, he never accepted it. He would give reasons for me to stay, or he would ask me to think about it before fully deciding (even though I knew deep down I would be better off without him). I felt so disempowered every time, and that would continue to be a problem for me in this relationship.

We were lying on his bed with our hands behind our heads, fully clothed, on top of the covers, looking at the ceiling, not speaking- quiet. I felt nervous and sad because I knew I wanted to break up.

On the ceiling near his door, there was a massive hole that caved in toward the floor, looking like it was about to drop to the ground. It’s an image I wish I could shake but it’s still there, etched in my brain.

He started taking off his pants, and I said “no.” He took them off, and I looked him straight in the eyes, and said more firmly, “NO.”

Without saying a word, he moved his body close to me, moved his pelvis close to my face. And I froze. My heart sank deep into my stomach. I couldn’t breathe. I knew in that moment that “no” wasn’t going to…