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.