A Bruise in the Shape of a Ring
My first—and only—high school boyfriend and I dated for a year and a half. At first, I thought he was perfect. It felt like a movie: I was the quiet, unnoticed girl, and he was the popular football player, strong enough to lift me effortlessly. For someone repeatedly told she was too fat to matter, this felt magical. He was funny, outgoing, and pushed me out of my comfort zone, encouraging me to try new things. He even claimed to have defended my honor when his teammates joked about my appearance. To my fifteen-year-old self, he seemed like a Disney prince amidst the typical high school crowd.
But soon he began pressuring me beyond hand-holding and first kisses. At the time, I didn't know I had autism, which likely contributed to my confusion and naivety around dating. Although he repeatedly assured me that physical boundaries were entirely up to me, he quickly betrayed this trust. The first assault happened early; he forced his hand into my pants, ignoring my protests, my struggle, and my tears. Afterward, overwhelmed by violation, confusion, and rage, I didn't speak to him for a week. He begged for forgiveness, promising change. I believed him, but the abuse didn't stop.
For a year, the assaults continued. When visiting my home, he'd lock me in my closet until I performed sexual acts, force me to watch explicit material, and pressure me into experiences I never wanted. His size—nearly a foot taller and significantly heavier—made resistance futile. He became obsessively controlling, demanding constant updates on my whereabouts. I reshaped myself into someone small, weak, sweet, and superficial—precisely what he wanted. When I innocently mentioned a dream involving his friend, he reacted violently, grabbing my wrist so hard it bruised and dragging me to the school counselor’s office, tearfully accusing me of ruining our relationship. He threatened suicide if I ever left, effectively trapping me. He even proposed using a ring my mother bought; overwhelmed, I responded vaguely, "Maybe."
Everything unraveled when I caught him sexting a mutual friend. He claimed it was because I refused to give him my virginity, that he was desperate and he was sorry. But that betrayal finally broke his control over me. After a tumultuous night of screaming and tears, my parents intervened, and it was over. Despite his threats, he didn’t harm himself.
Yet, even after breaking up, he wouldn’t leave my life completely. For years, he continued to intrude, convincing my parents to invite him and his new girlfriend over, coercing me into unwanted car rides, and constantly promising he'd changed. It wasn't until college, during a mandatory lecture on abuse, that I recognized myself in the experiences described. Finally, I had the words: abuse, assault, manipulation. My first love had been twisted into trauma.
I blocked him from every possible channel, moved 2,000 miles away, stopped listening to country music, and found therapists who helped me reclaim myself. Slowly, I forgave my younger self for being so vulnerable and hopeful. Eventually, real love found me—this time genuinely respectful and healing. When my new partner assured me that everything would always be on my terms, he meant it. His actions consistently proved that love means listening, supporting, and growing together in peace.
And I knew I was finally free.