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.