when life has you by the thong
[trigger warning]
There are many things we go through in life we don’t talk about. Deeply personal, soul crushing moments that change the trajectory of our lives; or other experiences so beautiful that we keep them sacred in our memory palace. The idea of hoarding memories — positive, negative, or otherwise feels selfish to me.
I scared myself this past year by not wanting to actively participate in life. I imagined myself as a grouchy, lonely, old lady with a big ol’ hairy mole on my face and a butt big enough to sit a cup on it, yelling at people disturbing my bitter solitude with their jovial laughter and loud noises. Disappearing from life and holding my stories hostage didn’t seem fair. Maybe I will come to regret sharing my experiences, especially some I will look back and find embarrassing or whatever because someone will try to psychoanalyze me but as the ancient millennial proverb states, “fuck it, we ball.”
I was 15 when I met my first boyfriend, a guy 2 years older than me. He was a popular and well loved stoner at our school. I met him through one of his best friends, a guy on the basketball team who rang on my doorbell for fundraising. I still remember the date I met the friend, it was November 29, 2005. I feel like I remember the date so clearly because it started a series of events that would sculpt my youth.
The start of this relationship was sweet, I would talk to him at the end of the school day while I waited for my mom to pick me up. I would jump on AOL instant messenger as soon as I could to chat with this boy who would make me laugh super hard. Eventually, he asked me out on our first date, Baskin Robins ice cream one Friday after school. It was spring, flowers were blooming and so was this relationship that would consume my young life.
I grew up feeling I couldn’t trust my parents. I kept everything a secret from them. I almost never invited my friends over, when I would hang out with someone, it was always one of the three friends they knew. I took the ‘parents don’t understand’ thing to heart, well, because it was true. I was first generation American, my parents grew up in a different country. They mostly spoke Spanish, very minimal English, they definitely didn't understand. It was also easy to keep things hidden from them as they worked at night, our time together was limited to weekends and about three hours in the afternoon during weekdays. I had the evenings to myself to do as I pleased as long as my grades were good and didn’t pick on my younger sister too much, I was fine.
I started sneaking out sometime in the late spring. My parents were in their room exhausted, sawing logs like lumber jacks, there was no way they would hear me over each other’s snores. My boyfriend would come pick me up in his Camero, it was truly the loudest car ever, he would put it in neutral and coast down the hill that led to my house. Sometimes we would get high and drive around the quiet suburb streets, other times we went back to his house and hung out in his converted garage. His parents never heard us, they sometimes seemed not to care. He was a boy and the baby of his family. His older siblings were like 15-18 years older than him. He had the freedom to do as he pleased
It was June 6, 2006, maybe I remember it because the date was 06/06/06. We did the usual thing, he would text me on my pink Motorola Razr to come out, I would wait for him outside as he rolled down the hill like some sort of modern day Aladdin. We went back to his house, quietly tip-toed into his garage where Sports Center was playing on the TV loudly. We cuddled and kissed on a makeshift bed he made out of blankets and couch cushions. Things escalated faster than I could control, he was on top of me relentlessly focused on one thing. I begged him to stop, my face was wet with tears but my quiet pleas fell on deaf ears. He didn’t say a word, didn’t seem to notice I was clearly not okay. He finished, rolled over, and knocked out. Kobe scored another goal or whatever, the sports guys were talking about how magnificent his sports abilities were while I laid there and cried. It was getting late, the next day was the last day of school. I tried to wake him up to take me back home but he was OUT. I put my clothes back on, gathered my belongings, tip toed out of his house and walked home.
I’ve taken this walk countless times before, 10-15 minutes through familiar neighborhoods where some friends and classmates lived. It was dead silent, quieter than normal, not one car passed, not one bird cooed the whole time. It felt as if life was also sad about what had happened to me. There I was walking completely alone, having experienced the worst event of my life, quietly sobbing the whole way home.
I stayed with this horrible guy for years because I blamed myself for what happened that night. I found out years later about some other horrible things he did behind my back including telling mutual friends and classmates to not talk to me, which of course they agreed to because he was the popular guy at school. The on-and-off cycle repeated itself until I was about 18, he didn’t care about me, he would break up and come back whenever it was convenient for him. I was tired of being on an emotional rollercoaster, at the mercy of his whims.
I crossed paths with him again sometime in 2017. I was 26 living on my own in North Park, San Diego, he sent me a message on some social media wanting to meet up for a drink and reminisce over old times. I agreed to see him but not because I missed him or cared about what was going on in his life. This was my opportunity to confront him about that night and how the events that transpired fucked with me for years after.
I saw him twice, the first time we caught up and talked about the fun we had. The second time, we had drinks, I recounted all the countless times he ruined relationships, school dances, football games, and parties for me. Then I asked him if he remembers our first time. Of course, he didn’t, that night in some bar I told him everything that happened in complete detail. He sat there, cried, and apologized for what he had done. I wanted him to know he was an awful person who treated me terribly the whole time we were together. How his actions colored a majority of my time in high school. He said he was an immature baby, he didn’t know what he was doing, blah blah blah. I didn’t care what his excuses were and I didn’t care anything about him. I wanted him to know what date rape was and that he did that to me.
He still tried to keep tabs on me after that. He will run into my friends in the town we grew up in and ask how I’m doing. Luckily my friends know not to tell him anything about me. Every now and again I see he watches my Instagram stories, he will send me some dumb random message. The next time he tries to tap in, I will block him since I can’t karate chop him in the throat.
