Despite the pain they’re filled with, so many of these posts are beautifully written. I’ve always wanted to turn my hurts into something hauntingly lovely in its fucked-up-edness, Lolita style, but my story still feels ugly. Enough for now just to write it down.

For three years, beginning when I was fifteen, I was in a verbally, and occasionally physically, abusive relationship. We believed that we loved each other and that we would get married, and it never occurred to me that abuse happens even in high school, even in your first relationship, even when you are practically still children. When I was with him I felt dirty and empty and useless and scared, and I didn’t realize how wrong it was until years later. That’s not really the problem anymore, though; just how the problem arose.

The problem is that in fictional portrayals, the abused girl realizes her strength and immediately finds a man who respects her and loves her – when from what I’ve seen, bad relationships are followed by self-loathing, sexual recklessness, and shattered confidence. I know that I have not had it nearly as hard as many of the people posting to this site. I know. But too many times I’ve woken up the morning after and cried on my floor, brushed my teeth, scrubbed my skin, and brushed my teeth again. Too many times I’ve been too scared and confused to try to say no, or I’ve been ignored when I do. Too many times I’ve been screaming in my head and not known how to scream out loud.

My body is mine and I want it back. You can’t touch it unless I want you to, and if I don’t want you to, don’t try to convince me. I’m sick of not feeling like I can respect myself and I’m sick of not feeling like others should respect me.