Emptied

I don’t have enough love, 

Not for you, myself, or anyone else. 

I can’t trust, though it seems just 

That happiness is a trigger. 

My relationship with sex is broken, 

I can’t be touched without breaking. 

I look in the mirror, but 

My reflection doesn’t look like me. 

Most days I see a small girl crying. 

A small girl who can’t look at me, 

A small girl who’s screaming, but 

Only I can hear her.  

Happiness is a mirage. 

It serves only to slow my descent into madness. 

The harder I try, the faster it fades. 

Now I let it fade on its own, 

So it can stay just a little longer.  

Depression, Sex, and Relationships - 16 years old.

My first real relationship had dissolved and I was alone again.  

It was my sophomore year of high school. The school was small, containing only 300 students. I felt everyone's eyes on me except for Nate's. After everything I did, he couldn't look at me. Gossip spread through the narrow halls. Most of the students in our grade knew why we ended. They knew I was a cheater, and now, a cutter. The scars on my forearm were found by one of my teachers near the end of my freshman year. My father was called and was told to take me to the hospital from school. After speaking with the teacher who reported me, my father and I walked out of the school in silence. When we got outside, he looked at me in disappointment. How will this look to the rest of the family? He scolded me in Spanish. He was worried about how our extended family would look at us, how they would judge the competency of him and my mother's parenting. We went to the hospital and I was admitted for outpatient treatment. I was told by the professionals that if I was made to come back, I'd be admitted for inpatient treatment against my will. I wasn't rehabilitated. A few weeks later, I resumed cutting into my skin, but with more discretion. I began wearing fishnet arm warmers and long-sleeved sweaters at school, used red towels to wipe off the blood at home, and tried to keep my arm movements to a minimum to prevent accidental exposure to watchful eyes. I didn't want to go back to the hospital.  

Cutting helped for a while. When I couldn't stand the loudness of my thoughts, it provided me with a quick and accessible way of tuning them out. Even with my fear of returning to the hospital, the disappointment, guilt, and regret became too strong to ignore. I was prescribed Zoloft during my short-lived outpatient treatment. Due to my history of self-harming behavior, they were cautious in giving me a nonlethal amount. One day, I came home fully intent on ending my life. I waited until my mother went to bed. I emptied the bottle of Zoloft in my hand, wasting no time ingesting them, and went to bed. An hour later, my body became jittery and jolted me awake. My eyesight felt like I was wearing glasses with too strong a prescription. For the next 8 hours, in 5-minute intervals, I jolted in and out of sleep. The following morning, my body was still trembling. I managed to get dressed and leave for school without my mother noticing my still drug-induced state. It wasn't until lunch time that one of my friends realized that I wasn't myself and notified a teacher. The ambulance was called, I was taken to the hospital, and was made to stay overnight. Again, I was given outpatient treatment. Again, I wasn't rehabilitated.  

I grew more distant from my parents as they provided little to no emotional support. You don't want to look like you're crazy, do you? they said. After all, I was just a teen going through a breakup. They were sure that things would sort themselves out. They couldn't have known that this cycle would repeat itself for the next 9 years of my life. 

Everything was unbearable. I couldn't stand the loneliness. It was time again to search for a vessel to bury my insecurities. During a weekend, I had accompanied my best friend Samuel to a small Yu-Gi-Oh tournament. When we arrived, I heard a smooth, alluring voice coming from one of the players. Wearing a dark green jacket, black hair slicked back, and medium brown skin, I was taken with him. Throughout the tournament, I caught him glancing in my direction, smiling. He was attracted to me too. It was validating. He introduced himself as Noel and we exchanged numbers, despite me still being in a relationship that began two weeks earlier. I never ended a relationship without attaching to someone else. Any time spent alone was time spent drowning. This lead to most of my partners being strangers as I never spent more than a few days getting to know them. Regardless of the relationship's fragility, obtaining the title of girlfriend ensured that my new partner would at least stay a week. A week was better than nothing. Noel and I became official. I ended my other relationship an hour later.

By now, I've had 15 partners. I disclosed that to Noel, thinking that he had a right to know. For a moment, he looked at me in disgust, like I was used and damaged goods he didn't want to touch. It appeared that I was still worth something. 

Noel was 3 years older than me and a freshman in college. The difference in maturity was evident - he had a sophisticated vocabulary and a refined sense of character. I wasn't on his level and Noel used every opportunity to remind me of that. He didn't like that I wore sneakers instead of heels, always had chipped nail polish on my hands, and cursed too much. He also didn't like that I acted too "ghetto" and didn't wear dresses. With every bit of criticism, my self-esteem was forced deeper into the ground. Still, I convinced myself that I needed him. If I was able to fix these flaws, then I'd be worthy of his love - worthy of being loved at all. 

Noel broke it off with me 3 months later. Through the gut-wrenching pain, I asked him why he was leaving. He replied with a cold, emotionless face. "I only dated you because you were attractive." I couldn't hold the pain in anymore. Tears burst through my face, blurring my vision until I couldn't see anymore. The skipped school days spent lying in his bed, sharing our vulnerabilities and aspirations, and the exchanges of I love you's meant nothing to him. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to tear off my skin just to feel like anything else other than this small, pitiful, unworthy thing again. I was comparable to a hand-me-down. Used and forgotten. 

Depression, Sex, and Relationships - 15 years old.

Promiscuous - Having or involving many sexual partners.  

I was 14 when I started cutting myself and having nightmares that my father would rape me. I woke up in cold sweats, hyperventilating and sometimes crying to myself quietly so I wouldn't wake my parents. To this day, my father never touched me inappropriately, nor behaved in any sexual manner towards me. He loved and continues to love and support me as best he can. 

The first sexual touch on my body came from my late step-grandfather when I was 12 years old. I didn't know it then, but this would affect me in the coming years. It was late fall going into winter. My grandmother and step-grandfather lived on the first floor of my house and came up occasionally to visit. It was late in the evening, my mother was making dinner in the kitchen while I was in my room, sitting on a wooden chair, watching cartoons. My sister and I shared a room, she wasn't home yet. My father was still at work and wouldn't be home until 12 a.m. I wore a long, light blue night gown covered in a small flower pattern that reached several inches above my ankles. My step-grandfather walked into my room and stood behind me, having left the lights off. He was always a bit odd -- always sticking his tongue out at me when no one was looking. After a few minutes, my step-grandfather placed his heavy hands on my shoulders and began rubbing them. I began feeling uncomfortable, but froze, believing that he would stop on his own and leave my room. His hands slid over my shoulders, moving downwards underneath my night gown. His fingers grazed over my nipples. I crossed my arms over my chest to prevent him from doing it again. No words were exchanged and, in the silence, he stopped and left my room. I didn't scream. I didn't fight back. I didn't run to my mother.  

The 6 relationships I had after Eric, the boy who abused me in eighth grade, were swift. They cemented within a week's time and ended just as quickly. A few compliments were all it took for me to be claimed by these boys. I was still a virgin, but my body turned into a broken door that never fully closed, Touches to my breasts, thighs, and backside were compliments. I was attractive enough to want to be touched. Boys only want one thing, my father often said. Even after having dated a boy who asked on a daily basis, "when will you be ready to have sex?" I refused to believe what my father had told me. I wanted to feel desired and loved, for these boys to see me in a way that I didn't see myself. To listen to my father meant choosing to believe that sex was all I was good for, the only reason why anyone wanted to date me. Before tuning 15, I dated 7 boys within a single school year and I was happy it was finally over. 
  

My freshman year of high school was the beginning of thick eyeliner and the frequent use of chemical hair relaxers. I would meet my first love in my first period English class. His name was Nate and we were in the same homeroom. He was 5'7, round and overweight, medium brown hair, and wore thin-framed rectangular glasses. One day during our first week of school, we were paired together for a class exercise. Nate's voice was light, soft, and inviting. We were the same age, our birthdays one day apart from each other. We had many common interests - rock music, anime, and a love for video games. He was going to my next boyfriend.  

It felt different with Nate. I felt safe and respected. As insecure as I was, I didn't feel this dire need to impress him. He called me beautiful before calling my sexy, held my hand before gripping below my waist, and looked me in the eyes before staring at my chest. We became official and professed our love to each other within 3 weeks. Every morning, Nate would call, letting me know he was down the block so that he could walk me to school. I'd storm out my front door and see his signature zip-up white sweater with a skeletal design in the distance. Speeding off my porch, I'd make my way to him running down the block. This was our daily routine. I had something to look forward to. My urge to cut my forearms lessened and the nightmares stopped. For this small moment in time, Nate had saved me from myself.  

Nate and I lasted 10 months. The first 5 months were perfect. We called each other every day. He'd walk me to every class, waited for me after class, ate lunch with me, and walked me home. It didn't take much time for our relationship to become physical. With Nate, I learned what it meant to be touched with love and respect. I didn't feel disgusted with myself when he touched me. It wasn't difficult to look in the mirror nor did I cry myself to sleep. After weeks of encouragement, love, and patience, I felt ready. We had been dating for 3 months. Nate's mother had provided us with a bag of condoms because, having been a teen mother herself, she wanted to make sure we were safe and prepared. Towards the end of the week, after school, Nate and I went to his house. We walked towards his room and took off our backpacks. Nate excused himself for a moment to use the bathroom. When he returned, I was under the bed sheet covers, naked and nervous. Nate stood in the doorway, looking at me with the kindest eyes. He walked towards the bed and bent down to kiss me, reassuring me that I had no reason to be nervous. We were both virgins. I gave myself to the first person I fell in love with, the first person who made me feel like a person at all.  

I was at my mother's job when she asked me about my relationship with Nate. "You're not having sex with him, right?" I wasn't prepared for that question. I gave a small in reply and my mother started crying. One of the most beautiful moments in my life was making my mother cry with disappointment. My father wouldn't know about my impurity for another 2 years, but I knew what he thought of my relationship. It was a weekday, Nate and I were down the block, an hour before school started. We participated in PDA often because that's the only way I knew how to express love. I didn't expect to see my father driving around the corner, stopping the car, and making a beeline towards us. He yanked me off Nate's lap and proceeded to hit and scold me. The hits hurt, but what hurt more was now both my parents had shown me their disdain for what made me happy. Nate was told he was never welcomed in my home. I was told I wasn't allowed to be with him anymore.

Our relationship changed after that. I began cheating on him, despite Nate having done nothing wrong. The first time was with my best friend. I felt sick to my stomach after each time. I didn't want to and I didn't understand why I was doing it. I told Nate about what I had done. He was broken, but he forgave me. I grew to hate myself all over again. After I cheated with my best friend, it was with a random nameless 18 year old boy. I went to his house, having no regard for my safety. After we had sex, he wouldn't look in my direction. When I attempted to hold him, he shifted away from me like I was some vile creature. I thought I was. I laid there in his bed, staring up at the ceiling wondering why I was even there, why I cared that he wouldn't look at me or even stay next to me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I was told to leave, and so I did. Again, I told Nate what I had done. Again, he forgave me. For my 16th birthday, I opted for a cruise in lieu of a sweet 16 with my family. I cheated on Nate with another random nameless boy, a 19 year old.  He took me from behind near the ship's side railing in the middle of the night while the deck was free of other passengers. When he finished, he immediately left afterwards, never looking back. I couldn't take being forgiven anymore. The relationship ended, and with it, my desire for self-preservation.   

Depression, Sex, and Relationships - 14 years old.

Rape is defined as unlawful sexual intercourse or any other sexual penetration of the vagina, anus, or mouth of another person, by a sex organ, other body part, or foreign object, without the consent of the victim. 

  

I didn't know it was rape then. I didn't know it was rape until very recently. We were children. Did he know what he was doing to me? What was considered rape to him? My idea of rape was solely brutal. It would happen by a stranger from walking alone at night. There would be bruises and scars on the victim's face because a beating was inevitable. I never thought it would be my boyfriend. I never thought that it would happen as quiet and as calmly as it did. I never thought it would happen to me. 

I was half way through my eighth grade year and my body was beginning to grow into itself. I was able to wear real bras and my jeans now always seemed a bit too tight. This would be the year I would start dating without my parents knowing. My father would say to me that all I needed to do was introduce a boy I liked to him, that it was okay to like a boy just as long as I introduced him. But my father's tone would change the moment I would mention even having an interest in someone; silently threatening me that I'd be disowned if I became como esas perras -- like those sluts. In the t.v. shows he would watch, I learned one thing about my father -- a female wanting anything sexual outside of marriage was not a good one. I was not a good one. 

His name was Eric. We knew each other for less than seven days before we started dating. He was in the 7th grade, slightly overweight, five feet tall with oily black hair, braces, and pale skin. I had introduced him to my mother one day and she told me, after he left, he's gay to which I responded, "He can't be gay, he's dating me!" Eric and I spent our days walking through Lincoln Park and in his bedroom downstairs in the basement of his house. My parents worked late. I had time to spare. That day, Eric and I were lying down on his bed, which was pressed against the wall. His room was very blue or maybe I've painted it blue. We were young teenagers -- curious and horny -- so we were fondling each other. With our clothes still on, Eric was caressing my breasts as I rubbed over the front of his black jeans. After a few minutes, he stopped and proceeded to get up from the bed. I turned over and found him standing with his groin in front of my face. I was nervous. He began unzipping his pants, revealing his erection. The room was silent. I shook my head, gesturing a 'no'. Eric was now close, his erection touching my lips. Again, I shook my head gesturing a 'no'. He pinched my nose, forcing me to breathe through my mouth. The moment I opened to gasp for air, he thrusted himself in. I froze. My arms crossed over my chest, I needed to feel safe, like I'd be okay. Eric didn't finish, maybe subconsciously I purposely used some teeth to make him stop. It lasted a minute, maybe two, maybe an eternity. I left soon after that.  

The next day, I sat with my group of friends during lunch. I usually talked a lot. The repeated phrase 'I wasn't done talking yet' was a reminder that I interrupted almost every conversation with my eagerness to speak. I sat there in a daze. My closest friend of the group, Maria, asked me what was wrong. My face was fixated on the floor, I couldn't look her in the face. She asked again. She wasn't going to stop asking. I told her. In a short, monotone, small voice, I told her what happened yesterday. "WHAT?!", she yelled. I told her to lower her voice, I didn't want anyone else knowing. Lunch was over and, in a second, so was the school day. Eric's class exited on the same side of the school as mine did. Amidst the roar from the flurry of students, the only sound I could hear was a sharp, clear slap. I turned in the sound's direction and found that Maria had slapped Eric and was threatening him. He looked at me as if I slapped him. Even worse, he looked at me as if he didn't deserve it.  

"Why did you do that?!" I yelled at Maria. This was certain to end my relationship on terms that weren't my own. I didn't want him to leave me. I didn't want the boy who assaulted me to leave me, because then I would mean nothing again. I called and texted numerous times with no reply. When he finally answered, he said he wanted to see me. I went over his house the next day. I was scared, but my fear of losing him was greater than my safety. Eric turned on the computer located at the bottom of the short spiral staircase, a few feet from his room. He said he had something to tell me, but wanted to do it through a song. He played Curse of Curves by Cute Is What We Aim For. It was meant to insult me, he was upset from what happened.  

"I want someone provocative and talkative, but it's so hard when you're shallow as a shower, and, from what I've heard, with skin you'll win."  

That's what he was calling me; unappealing, unintelligible, and only good for what he forcefully used me for. I cried. I told him I could be better, that I could fix things, that I could fix me. With an emotionless face, he played Goodbye My Lover by James Blunt, apologizing insincerely, telling me it's over. For years to come, those two songs would trigger flashbacks of that day.  

I was 14. I was raped. I wanted to stay with the person who raped me because I didn't want to be alone. That was the hardest reality I ever had to face in my life. It would become the foundation I built my future relationships on. I didn't fight back or verbally said no. I didn't just leave or, at the very least, slap him myself. 

  

  

*Disclaimer: Names have been altered to maintain anonymity.