artificial insemination syringe
Content Warning: Assault
I shouldn’t have attended that party. I had a fresh tattoo to show off, and my mom believed I was spending the night at my best friend’s place — a classic recipe for a fun evening in the mind of a 16-year-old. Plus, how could I resist the opportunity to demonstrate to the guy who had broken my heart that I was perfectly fine now? The party was at his family home, although it was technically hosted by his younger brother, who was closer to my age.
This was the same house where I first met Alex, back when I was 14 and hanging out with friends, including his brother, Ethan. Just back from the Army, Alex was a buzzcut blonde with striking blue eyes and a tendency to go shirtless. From the moment those captivating eyes turned towards me, I was intrigued. The age difference of 14 and 21 didn’t raise any alarms; instead, it felt like validation that I was special and worth the attention of an older guy.
When we started dating, I introduced him to my mom, telling her he was 18. Even that age gap raised her eyebrows, so there was no way I could have revealed his real age. Being 21, he was always the one supplying alcohol for the parties, and he drank excessively. Having lost his license due to a DWI and without a job, he often spent his days drowning his sorrows in alcohol. I never knew which version of Alex I would encounter when I visited his house after school. Most days, he was the emotional, sobbing type, and I found myself wanting to comfort him, believing I could save him from his self-loathing.
But some days, he was cruel, dismissing me as a child who knew nothing about the world. I would cry, and that somehow seemed to improve his mood. It was my choice to have sex with him; I wanted to prove I was mature and ready. So, under a blanket in his bedroom, a 14-year-old girl lost her virginity to a 21-year-old man. I felt special, but I now realize that young teens aren’t equipped to make sound decisions.
We were together for over a year, and as his emotional struggles worsened alongside his drinking, he began threatening suicide. He even threw things at me out of anger, once shattering a glass bottle on the garage wall beside me. Despite the chaos, I believed I loved him and that it was my duty to rescue him. I often left school to check on him, driven by an intense need to help.
Everything shattered the day I discovered he was cheating — with someone younger than me. After confronting him at her house, our relationship ended in a heated argument. I was heartbroken, but being a teenager, I quickly moved on, finding other boys to chase.
By the time I was 16 and headed to that party, I had put Alex behind me. His drinking had kept me sober, but now, with him out of the picture, I indulged. I don’t recall what I drank that night, but it was enough to knock me out at the kitchen table. I was carried to a bedroom, vaguely remembering being tucked into bed.
Then came the terrifying moment: I felt someone else on the mattress, creeping up from the foot of the bed, fingers fumbling at my jeans, pulling them down. A hand pressed over my mouth as I protested. My knees were forcibly pried apart, and I heard a whisper in my ear, “It’s me.” It was Alex. I tried to protest, but my words came out as garbled sounds. It didn’t matter what I wanted.
The morning after, I left the house, crying as I walked home, feeling nothing but shame and guilt. I told myself it was my fault — I shouldn’t have been drinking or at that party. I thought I deserved what happened.
I confided in just one friend, fearing judgment. She suggested going to the police, but I dismissed the idea, convinced they wouldn’t take me seriously. That was the last I spoke of it, but I carried the burden of that night with me for years, through my marriage and into my parenting, echoing in my lessons about consent.
As I grew older, I began to realize how deeply wrong my relationship with Alex had been. The age difference wasn’t a sign of my maturity but rather his predatory behavior. Despite this understanding, I continued to blame myself for the assault — for being inebriated, for being an easy target.
Then, movements like #metoo and #believeher emerged, and as I heard stories similar to mine, cracks began to form in my self-blame. Maybe it was actually assault. Maybe it wasn’t my fault.
It wasn’t until I turned 40 that anger finally surfaced. I woke up one night, and a wave of realization hit me. The shame I had carried for so long began to dissolve, replaced by the fury of someone wronged. It took 25 years, but I finally reclaimed my power.
To Alex, who still roams free: you are a predator who exploited a vulnerable girl. You manipulated me and twisted my understanding of love. You took something that belonged to me, and for far too long, I allowed you to shape my self-worth. You may have held power over me once, but not anymore. I have a life to live, and you no longer have a place in it.
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In summary, it took me 25 years to stop blaming myself for the assault I endured at the hands of someone I once trusted. Through my journey of reflection and understanding, I began to reclaim my narrative, realizing that it was not my fault. The movements advocating for survivors have helped illuminate the truth, allowing me to finally let go of the shame and anger that had weighed me down for far too long.
Keyphrase: Overcoming Self-Blame After Assault
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