[Author’s note: This is really a Teen Dating Violence story. One in three teens will be in an abusive or unhealthy relationship. It is huge, but there is not enough awareness. You can learn more about these issues here.]I fell hard. I fell fast. I fell into him—in all ways.
I was 13 years old, and he was my first love. My first everything.I loved him. Just this fact played a tremendous role in why I stayed.Next time would be different, right? Yes, next time. The excuses were plentiful.He was tired. He was stressed. He was drunk. I said something to piss him off.Bobby had a way of twisting everything around. I was so confused that I questioned absolutely everything about myself. I didn’t know what was real or manufactured in Bobby’s head.I was annoying for asking him where he was last night, right? He would love me more if I just shut up.Yep. That’s it.Soon, Bobby’s questions turned into accusations, slaps, pushes, pinches, pulling of my hair and countless beatings.What stays embedded in my mind the most from this horrific time period was Bobby’s evil smile as he would spit on my face and even threaten to kill me.Bobby told me that nobody could have me, and that if I left him he would just “kill us both.”I was a “thing.” His thing.
He didn’t treat me as a human being with valid feelings and thoughts. Soon, I didn’t treat myself as a person either; I followed his lead.I forgave him. Every. Single. Time.After his two-week-long alcohol binges, Bobby would show up at my doorstep with those big, watery blue eyes, begging for another chance. He would swear that he would never hurt me again and that I was the best thing that ever happened to him.That was all it took for me to hop right back on the dangerous roller coaster ride of the relationship we shared.Our notorious fights typically began with the slightest mention of the opposite sex. We were both so insecure that one can of Budweiser would crack open up a thick, bloody wound inside of our souls. We would stomp on this un-healable gash, willingly pour salt in it and then clamp it open until the violent energy struck us both again.
Yes, I said “both.” I was an equally active participant in the violence. I cut him with my words, and he pounded me with his fist.
I was beaten in front of people at parties. People would eagerly watch the “Sarah and Bobby show” and then have the nerve to invite him to leave the party with them! I was never asked if I needed help.
I was the freak.
Obviously, I had done something to trigger Bobby’s anger. People would turn their heads and hearts away from me as if they were embarrassed to know me. After all, I was the crazy girl screaming bloody murder on the front lawn!
A spectacle. A disgrace.
Why would anyone think it was his fault?
The cycle of violence is really a manipulative b*tch.
I was the one making a loud scene, swearing for all I was worth and clawing at him as he kept hitting me. How dare I claw him, right?
Bobby was charming and sweet to others. I was viewed as a hysterical, out of control girl.
I was blamed, judged and misunderstood.
One night, Bobby’s best friend waited until he left after another round of blows. This friend brought me to his house and gently put ice on my purple bruises. This was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for me. My shins were busted open, and that cold ice felt so good.
Bobby’s best friend asked me, “Why do you let him do this to you?” It was the first time anyone acknowledged the physical abuse to my face.
I told him, “Because nobody else would want me. Look at me? I’m fucked up!”