Content warning: This story contains mentions of an abusive relationship and a graphic description of rape.

We had decided on a compromise. I wouldn’t talk to or hang out with any guys without his permission. And if he was gracious enough to give me that permission, I would tell him who I was with and where we were. What I got in return was him not texting my friends to ‘let them know you have a boyfriend.’

So, sitting on the small park bench in my hometown, I cried. I cried because I didn’t understand what I did wrong, why someone who loved me could treat me this way, why he never trusted me. What more did I have to do to show him he could trust me?

I felt alone and trapped and guilty.

It was winter when we first started dating. Everything was perfect. He would take me on walks in the snow and kiss my head as he put his jacket around me. He would walk me home after school and bring me coffee. He knew just how to calm me down when I started feeling overwhelmed with school or home.

I fell for him completely, right away. Being the oldest sibling in a big family and quite introverted, attention was always something I felt I lacked and I wanted to get it any way I could. So this tall, brown-haired boy who wanted nothing more than to give me all of his attention was a dream come true. I was the center of his world right from the start and I had never experienced someone thinking so highly of me.

“Of course all relationships have their flaws,” I would think to myself. “There are so many good things about our relationship, they outweigh the bad.” But I knew it wasn’t true. I didn’t want to have to deal with the fact that the person I was in love with wasn’t who I thought they were.

From the outside, we looked like two kids in love. But behind the scenes, the relationship was built on distrust, manipulation and control.

Being in an unhealthy relationship was something I had feared more than almost anything. I would constantly reassure myself that I was strong enough to know what I deserved and never let someone treat me badly. I grew up independent and strong-minded in every way, but the way this boy slowly began to mess with my mind, making me feel worthless, was something I never expected or could have prepared for.

He started telling me what I couldn’t wear and who I couldn’t hang out with, but phrased it as a concern — “I trust you, I just don’t trust the guys” — or guilt-trip me — “Why do you want to hang out with guys so bad if you know it makes me uncomfortable?” I constantly doubted myself and my decisions. I knew it wasn’t right for him to decide who I hung out with, to cut me off from my friends and dictate what I wore, but the way he said things made it sound like I was being irrational. The art of twisting situations to make me sound crazy was one he knew well.

He got the passwords to my Snapchat and Instagram so that he could keep tabs on me 24/7, or how he put it, “If you’re not talking to any other guys, why do you care if I have it?” He looked through all my messages, as well as blocked my guy friends without telling me. It made me feel like maybe I wasn’t actually trustworthy, maybe I should make more of an effort to show him he could trust me. I felt worthless.

I turned a blind eye to the red flags and forgave him.

I became extremely lonely. I found myself giving in during every argument because when we fought, I didn’t have anyone. He was my only friend. It was an endless circle of constant guilt, and I began to hate myself.

I had always liked to think that if I was ever in a bad relationship I would stick up for myself right away, but that’s not really how it works. It’s the little things that you brush off because your boyfriend being “protective” is cute or “the good just outweighs the bad.” Until it doesn’t.

Situations like mine generally happen so slow, you don’t realize it’s even happening. It can get to a point you never expected, a moment that’s unjustifiable, no matter how much you try to excuse it.

For me, that moment was when he raped me because he thought I had cheated on him.

I remember everything that happened that day, despite how hard my mind has worked to suppress the flashbacks. Every weekend he was at my house, and that day was no different. It was just him, my mom and I.

But as soon as my mom walked out the front door, locking it behind her, he took my hand and lead me downstairs. We were all alone. I wasn’t in the mood for anything, but that wasn’t a valid excuse. Winding up on his lap, I had to gather my courage. “Hey, I’m not really in the mood right now, I’m sorry,” I said.

I had expected the immediate change in his demeanor. His face showed pure shock, like he’d never heard the word ‘no’ before. So I should have known the accusations were coming. As I climbed off his lap, he began to bombard me with questions as to why I stopped, because me not being into it wasn’t enough.

We were sitting on my couch, his left leg pressed against my right. Repeatedly, he asked if I had cheated on him, if I was ‘loose’ from the sex he thought I was having with other guys. He thought that was why I stopped him.

Finally he went silent and still for a long time, neither of us knowing what to do. But then he did. His hand came off his lap and onto my own as he began to unbuckle my belt. Confused and upset, I tried to take his hand off, again explaining that I didn’t want anything like that.

It didn’t work. The words that came out of my mouth seemed inaudible to him, because he continued. A “no” full of hurt and betrayal had no effect on him. The “stop” said with anger and urgency proved to have the same results. After what seemed like hours of his hand inside me and my pants down my thighs, he finally stopped.

As soon as I had put my belt back on and he saw the panic and fear on my face, he began to cry, wailing about how awful of a boyfriend he was and how I deserved better – that I should just break up with him.

This didn’t feel like anything new. This routine had been so conditioned into my brain. He did something wrong, guilt-tripped me and I apologized. So this time was no different. Nothing happened, and no one knew. I hated myself for being so easily manipulated.

Every time I think about him, I remember how weak he made me feel, how guilty. How a year after ending the relationship, I still feel that way.

Remnants of what he showed me I was worth still cling to me: they show up as panic attacks and nightmares, as tears I don’t realize are flowing when I think about him.

Breaking up with him after the rape was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was a Wednesday after school and he called me, furious. While he screamed, I responded in neutral, lighthearted phrases to disguise the embarrassing conversation from anyone within earshot. I moved from my dining room to my mom’s small parked car, silent. He repeatedly yelled at me for following a guy in my class on Instagram, and for not responding to his text within a few minutes. For the most part, I didn’t speak. I had bursts of anger where I yelled at him, but I went back to my silence quickly after.

But this time I knew I didn’t do anything wrong. He reminded me of the compromise we had made, that I wouldn’t talk to any guys without his permission. In an emotionless voice, I told him that I thought we should break up.

He lashed out in tears and, screaming at me, asked me why. I told him it was because of the rape, but I didn’t call it that. I didn’t even think of it as rape. As he denied everything, I made it clear that I had made up my mind.

He told me that he loved me and asked me to “say it one last time.” I did. Then it was over. I walked back into my house and I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel anything. I was just numb. I wish I had felt relief or freedom or even anger, but I didn’t. I told my mom what had happened in the same monotone voice I had just used to end the relationship minutes before.

Breaking up with him made me finally realize that I couldn’t love myself and stay with him at the same time. I realized overprotective boyfriends aren’t cute, they’re controlling. Making me feel bad for what I wore wasn’t “trying to keep me safe,” it made me feel like my body wasn’t my own.

Being treated so badly, after I had promised myself that I would never allow that to happen, broke me. I felt like I had let myself down, like I wasn’t strong enough. I never understood why rape victims blamed themselves, until it happened to me. I just thought, “If I had stood up for myself early on, this wouldn’t have happened, it wouldn’t have gotten to this point.” But that’s how toxic relationships work. They mess with your head and make you think you did something wrong, no matter how ridiculous it is.

Soon after breaking up with him, my mental health became significantly worse. Just thinking about him gave me seemingly unexplainable panic attacks. I didn’t understand. I thought I was just being dramatic, because in my mind it had happened so long ago and I was in such a good place now. Why was I crying about it now, when I hadn’t cried in the moment? Why was I having panic attacks over the thought of seeing him again, when I was further from him now than I had ever been?

A few months later, I started going to therapy. In many ways, that was the best thing that ever happened to me, because that was when I realized what had happened. In a session with my therapist I had dedicated to talking about my ex-boyfriend, I told my therapist what happened.

“You know that’s rape right?” she said. I started crying, but I was smiling.

My best friend, the one person I’ve told about him besides my therapist, has given me the love I couldn’t give myself. She has shown me just how worthy I am of everything he told me I wasn’t. Through her, I have learned to forgive myself and to accept and appreciate the growth I’ve had to go through. Everything that has happened made me who I am today, and continues to shape me.

Every day I think about what happened, I think about him, but every day it gets a little bit better. Every day I get a little stronger, smarter and more self-forgiving.