We met in high school. Matt, he was my boy. He was the one for me, and I knew it. Nevermind the fact that I was the mere age of fourteen, and he was eighteen. We were made for each other. We kissed for the first time at a mall, on a bench, in front of dillards. He was funny. He was cute. He was caring. He was everything I had ever wanted in a guy.
We finally broke up in February, on my birthday, due to him, not me. I'm eighteen now, we went out for three years this year on February 8th, and I was still trying to convince myself that I loved him more than life itself.
I swore early on in life that I would never be one of those girls; those stupid chicks who swore "Oh! But I love him! And he said he was sorry; he didn't mean it. He was just frustrated." I swore that I would be different, and it would never happen to me anyway. I was too smart for that.
I was smart. I was a straight-A student, I took advanced, college-leveled courses every year with ease. I was skinny; I wasn't a model, but I wasn't ugly. I was quiet, I was shy. I was a normal girl. And it happened to me. It happened to me! I was a good girl.
And I had just come out of a severe bought of depression. My father often told me I was nothing, that I was stupid. I would do anything to prove him wrong. My mother worked long hours to support our family. I never saw her, and my father would either be yelling at us or threatening us (or throwing random things towards our general direction), or out playing poker with his 'buds'. Thankfully, now, he seeked help and he is a wonderful father now. I forgave him, mostly, although I can never forget what happened, I am glad it was over. At the age of fourteen, I had raised my three little siblings, being the oldest, for two years. My father was beginning to settle down, though not all the way there yet. But yet, that is a different story. It was a mere background to my life, and not what I had joined this community to say. During this depression, however, I feel compelled to add, I did cut. Often. On my thighs, mostly, so nobody would see. It was the only way to make sure I was still alive; to comfort me. I had nobody. How can a thirteen year old explain to her 'friends' that she had to run home and make dinner for the kids or else let them go hungry?
Anyway, I met Matt, and he pulled me very quickly and suddenly out of the dark world I once knew. My family was wary of him, due to the age difference, but he proved himself a nice man. He graduated that year, and took me to prom in may. Later, that november, we knew we were in love, and I lost my virginity to him willingly. He was an amazing guy. I knew he would always be mine.
However, he started working more. He no longer spent time with me, so there was a brief period of time where we broke up for a week and I dated another guy who was interested only in what what between my legs and protruding from my chest area. Matt and I quickly got back together, and started our relationship over.
Things got worse. Suddenly, I realized I had no friends anymore when it was too late. I still think, a bit, that he didn't do it on purpose. He didn't seperate me from my family and my friends on purpose. It's more bearable in my heart to think that it was just unconscious for him. That he never wanted it that way, and that he would have done it differently if he saw it. Of course, that may still be me defending him; the wound is still new and raw no matter how I've changed in a month.
When he began to call me names, I had no where to turn. He was all I had, and all I thought I wanted. He told me I was nothing, that I was a bitch, a slut, a whore. I believed him, and soon fell back into the dark, black world he had pulled me out of in the first place, but I stayed with him. I had no one else, and besides...I loved him, right? This was just a phase.
But this 'phase' only got worse. I remember the first time anything physical happened. He just grabbed my wrist - that was all. Hard enough for a bruise and pain, but I slapped him and he let go. He crunched his fists up, but didn't hit me. I thought it was going to be okay. It was just a phase. I loved him. He was all I had. He was everything in my world. I got more depressed, and began cutting again. I broke a shaving razor down to the metal and would drag it across my leg over and over, just to make the emotional pain go away.
He found out, as he would. We were sexually active; it seemed at times that we had a fuck or fight relationship. As time went on, I wrote the names he called me into my leg. It was all I needed to feel better for the time being. I still have those names scarred into me. I can't wear shorts due to that fact. I hope they heal. He would stop hurting me (emotionally and physically) when he saw them. I saw my cuts as healing my heart, and healing our relationship. He would stop if I did it myself. It was a screwed up way of thinking, but I was a screwed up girl at the time.
At one point, I remember the horrible things. He had punched my stomach hard enough to send me flying through a door before I could say anything about wondering if I was pregnant (I was almost two months late, but I later found out that I had never been pregnant in the first place, just stressed). I hit the wall behind it, and nearly passed out. Things got dizzy and I saw plenty of dots in my vision. He got mad at me, then, for breaking the door. He would corner me, tell me to move, and hit me when I couldn't. I still remember the feel of his hands around my throat, and the horror of it when my air was cut off. I remember his eyes, dark as ever and the murderous look on his face when he would do such. I remember those words, that still ring in my ear, that day I thought I would die. He had me pinned to the floor, the pressure on my neck so great that I couldn't even see much less breathe as he growled out "I'm going to KILL you, bitch!" because I had told him, teasingly, that he had gotten ready slowly like a girl.
At one point, I was convinced that I couldn't live without him or with him - I just couldn't live anymore. He came over on my birthday, and I had taken a large amount of tylenol PM. He went to leave and I cried on my doorstep, heartbroken in all the ways. He was all I had; I didn't even have my family anymore, and he was walking out of my life. I was delusional. I was stressed. I was tired of life. As I began to pass out, he grabbed my wrist, telling me not to, hard enough to leave a dark, good sized bruise. My mother found out quickly, and I ended up in the hospital.
I was in the emergency room for a week, but I never needed to have my stomach pumped or anything. I was, instead, put in a mental ward in the hospital for suicidal patients. I learned there, that Matt wasn't good for me. At all. And although I did love him, it was not a strong enough love to handle what he was doing to me. I do still think about it. It's only been a month, but my life has changed dramatically.
It took me all of this month to get out the word "abusive" to describe him. I never wanted to truly admit it before. I still have trouble with that word. That kind of stuff would never happen to me.
But it did. And I need to let this story out. I'm still an emotional mess, but more hopeful than I've ever been before, despite the desire to call him again. My heart says it loves him a bit, but the rest of me has began to leave him in the past. I'm hoping for encouragement, I guess. And the internet is the most anonymous, yet personal, place I can think of for my story and for the kind of support I'm hoping for.
I've always felt better around people. People have always been my weakness. And now, as you all are people, I'm hoping that people can be my strength as well while I buy time to push myself to be independant. I was fourteen when everything began; I never truly got to grow the way I wanted to. I'm still stuck at finding out who I am, like a fourteen year old would, as at that point in life, I became MattandShelle, instead of Shelle.
I'm still nervous about letting people see this, but I feel like it's needed, and I'm scared of being judged harshly, because I had become so attached to such a man. I'm always nervous after pouring my heart out. But this community's rules state that it doesn't judge on this basis, so I'm hoping that my heart will not simply be thrown out due to a mistake on my part.