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. 

  

Depression, Sex, and Relationships - 13 years old.

According to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, the average onset of persistent depression is 31 years old. It also states that major depressive disorder is the leading cause of disability between ages 15-44. I suppose I got an early start. 

2005 was the last year I could remember being happy. I was 12 years old and spent most of my days playing outside with my two best friends, Samuel and Julian, whom I've known since I was 6 years old. We had our own little world. We mainly sat on Samuel's porch in front of his apartment building, next door my house. Between our places was a small area of bright green grass that's now been made into a parking lot. There was more than enough space for the three of us to act like complete idiots. One of them asked, "do girls fart?" with the utmost seriousness and genuine curiosity. That moment perfectly captured the nature of our friendship. Though I'm no longer friends with Julian, Samuel and I have remained close to this day. 

This was my favorite year. I didn't care about how I looked nor if anyone liked me. I was oblivious to insecurity. I was only 12. My only entertainment was playing freeze tag, dodge ball with pebbles because we didn't have a ball, and riding our scooters up and down the block. I was the fastest kid on my street -- able to outrun the other children, even if they were on a bike or a scooter. I held that reputation for a while. This was the last time I felt like I was the best at anything. 

One day, I developed a crush on one of the boys up the block, William. I was, however, nowhere to be found on his radar. He had his sights set on someone else. It appeared that every boy on the block had their eyes set on one girl in particular. Her name was Leslie. She was a year older than I was, and had a figure more developed than mine -- semi-hour glass shape, cute tomboy couture, light skinned, and medium length wavy black hair. Insecurity reared its ugly head and suddenly I felt...less than. It wasn't just about this one boy who didn't like me back. It was about how it felt impossible to escape the unceasing way she was inserted into every conversation. My childhood group of friends were all guys, and it seemed that not a day would go by where I didn't hear about how pretty Leslie was.   

In the years leading up to this point, the only compliment I ever received was how pretty my eyes were. It was nice at first, but then I slowly realized that's all anyone really noticed about me. I was now 13 years old and found myself wanting to be sexually appealing. I wanted to be told I was pretty, to have the male attention that Leslie was getting. Was my hair too nappy? Were my breasts too small? Brushes broke off as my mother tried to do my hair. I barely filled out the training bras my parents had bought. My clothes were unflattering and I didn't know how to do makeup yet. Why did no one call me pretty and why did I feel so unattractive all of a sudden? I even gave Leslie a nickname -- Black Widow. I envied her for her ability to draw boys in and drop them when she pleased. I couldn't bring myself to befriend her because the envy grew too close to hatred. In reality, Leslie was nice and easy to talk to. It would've been nice to have a female friend. In my head, though, she was just competition in a game we never decided to play. Over time, my jealousy and insecurity would soon transform into mixtures of desperation and self-loathing. Within one year, everything would change. At 14, touches to my breasts became as casual as having a conversation.   



*Disclaimer: Names have been altered to maintain anonymity. 

Depression and Online Dating

If you happen to have a knack for personalizing every single fucking thing, then this might resonate with you. 

I've been online dating for roughly 8 years or so and very little has changed from then to now. One of the most abundant messages I've received were along the lines of "hey" or "how u doin", you know, the usual bullshit. But then, sometimes I'd get much more direct messages. The messages that called me a "bitch" for not responding back or a "cunt" for turning down the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to critique a sender's dick pic. Granted, dating is hard for a lot of us, but it's especially hard when you're dealing with chronic depression.  

Now, you're probably thinking "Are you really in a position to date?". Well, people with chronic depression, other mood disorders, or personality disorders are probably going to have bouts of depression at one point or another in their lifetime, whether single or not. With that being said, I don't feel that it's fair to deem these individuals unworthy of a relationship. But, because this is the general consensus, it leaves people feeling like maybe they aren't worth being loved or even treated respectfully simply because they are currently dealing with a mental illness (or multiple illnesses). This brings us to the term personalization.  

Personalization basically means you blame yourself for things that are out of your control. It also means believing that whatever is being said/done to you is a reflection of your character. So because online dating is filled with creeps and dumb-asses galore, personalization may be a frequent occurrence. Who am I kidding? It WILL be a frequent occurrence. Being insulted, disrespected, or even just ignored enough times can have you feeling that maybe you deserve this. That maybe you really are whatever label these strangers keep giving you. The thing about chronic depression is that, even if you know you have amazing qualities, it feels almost impossible to remember any of them in these moments. 

Personalizing in general can make life seem like it's filled with nothing but dread and, in the dating world, it carries into future romantic relationships we attempt to build with others. I'm finally at a point in my life where I'm able to maneuver a lot more smoothly through dating sites, simply by reminding myself that I can't control how others choose to act towards me. If I ever feel that it's becoming overwhelming, then I stay off for a while until I'm ready to start back up again. I've also been doing a lot of positive self-talk. Whenever I'm sexually harassed or disrespected in any capacity online, I simply tell myself a single mantra; "How people choose to treat you is not a reflection of your character." It's a bit long, but for me, it has a 90% success rate of me not losing my shit. Overall, it's made my online dating experience better than it's ever been, despite the dumb-asses. 

Time - a poem

As I was scrolling through my OneDrive, I came across a couple of lyrics that I had written for a song I was trying to write, but ultimately abandoned it. Upon reading it months later, a friend of mine inspired me to revisit my lost passion for poetry. 

Drowning in emotions, like I'm in an ocean, I cannot breathe. 
Unparalleled devotion to constant self-erosion, what lies beneath, 
The days of doubt, weeks of sadness, Months of anger, and years of lifelessness, 
I’ve gathered that I’ve been here before, many times before. 
With anxiety as high as the sky and self-esteem lower than the floor. 
There were days when I didn’t think I'd make it, 
There were days, weeks, months, and years when I didn’t think I’d make it. 
Clocks make no sense to me as I have no real grasp on the concept of time. 
One hour is a day, one day is a week, and one week is a month, 
Allowing myself to give in to infatuation has always been a climb, Atop a mountain that’s never been quite real, though always real enough to touch me. 
Yes, a mountain that’s never been quite real, never real enough to love me.