Once upon a time, a young woman went to college, fell in love and had her heart broken. That woman was me.

We became friends freshman year and started dating sophomore year. I cherished him, hung onto his every word, and supported him. We always had our friends and families comment on how cute we were. I clung onto him for life support. I wasn't happy at school. I contemplated transferring, but he convinced me to stay so we could be together.

There was one thing that we couldn't agree on, and that was sex. I wasn't ready yet. It was something to be reserved for my soulmate, something to physically and spiritually bind us together. While I loved him with all my heart, I wasn't ready to have sex. "Not yet," I told him, time and time again.

He wouldn't stop pressuring me. Sometimes it was gentle teasing. Sometimes it was mean. Sometimes it scared me. He'd use violent words, the words you hear in a porn video. I would feel guilty and shameful and bad about myself. Was I a bad girlfriend? Was I a bad person? Was I being selfish?

I told myself that it was just because he wanted me, because he loved me. "You're lucky to even have a boyfriend," I told myself. "Most guys don't look at you twice. Who else would ever want you?"

Eventually, I came to my senses. Why couldn't he respect me and my wishes? One night, I finally told him enough was enough. We had this discussion a million times, he knew what the answer was, and I was tired of hearing him whine.

He left me that night. But not for long. Weeks later he texted me, telling me how much he missed me and loved me. We got back together. Two weeks later he was done with me. The school year ended and all summer he wouldn't stop texting and messaging me. At 1 a.m. a few nights he drunkenly messaged me, telling me I was the perfect woman and that he had made terrible mistakes.

Fueled by this and my unhappiness at school, I sunk down into a rabbit hole for about a year. It's embarrassing to realize how much the summer of 2015 and the fall of my senior year of college was spent crying alone in my room instead of living life to the fullest. I walked everywhere with headphones on, trying to blast out the pain with my favorite Taylor Swift songs. I couldn't sleep because all I could think was how lonely I was. I felt as though I had a huge sign on my forehead that said, "I AM SAD PLEASE HELP ME" but no one could see it. I couldn't have more than one drink before having a nervous breakdown and becoming a crying mess. I became introverted and isolated instead of my normal extroverted and happy self.

But eventually, the sun came up. It always does. Now it's over a year since the breakup and I'm finally out of school, living in Minneapolis and interning at a theater. I'm almost ready to date again. I'm slowly realizing what I need in a relationship, whether it's romantic or platonic.

I had to learn lessons of love the hard way. I had to learn that anyone who tried to get me to do something I didn't believe in didn't belong in my life. I learned that I can't plan my future around a man and what he wants and what is convenient for him. I saw myself as nothing more than a sex object for nearly two years, and I'm still recovering from that.

I'm still learning and I'm still growing. I'm out of the woods now and headed for a brighter, happier future.