You’re a slut. You’re a whore. You’re being a tease. You deserve to be punished.

These words echo in my thoughts in my worst times and my best times. These four phrases did more damage to my 17-year-old self than any physical wounds could have ever done. They stuck with me through college. They were there whenever I went on dates, whenever I would talk to boys at a party, and especially when I would sleep with said boys; terrified if I didn’t they would hurt me just as you did.

It took me an entire year to remember what happened - to remember what was supposed to be a day of watching TV and making out while your parents were gone, turned into my worst nightmare. When I wouldn’t have sex with you, you forced your fingers inside of me. You told me I needed to be punished for not fulfilling your desires. You watched me as I cried and told you it hurt with a smirk on your face. You were happy I was suffering. You wanted me to feel pain. You wanted me to feel worthless.

Part of me is glad I didn’t remember what happened right away. At least I was able to finish out my senior year of high school without that memory. Part of me wished I still didn’t remember so I wouldn’t see your face every time I had a nightmare. I wouldn’t see your face every time a stranger accidentally brushed up against me. I wouldn’t see your face while sleeping with my boyfriend. I wouldn’t see your face at all.

But raping me wasn’t enough for you was it? You had to continue your abusive behavior by verbally and emotionally attacking me. I was never good enough for you. Yet, you wanted no one else to have me. You texted me constantly telling me I deserved to die. You knew how fragile I was but you didn’t care. You wanted your way and would stop for nothing. Months later, when I finally asked you why you wanted me to die, your answer is one I will never forget. “My parents made me choose you or hockey. I couldn’t give up hockey but I couldn’t let anyone else have you. If you were dead no one else would be able to”.

How is someone’s life that worthless? How could I have been “the love of your life” if you raped me and then wanted me dead? How did you feel when I listened to you and attempted to commit suicide? Did my face haunt your dreams the way it did mine?

I am so thankful my parents banned me from contact with you. We only talked twice after my suicide attempt. Once for you to tell me that I wouldn’t get better without your help. Because you had helped me so much before…

The last time we talked was the most painful. You admitted to raping me. You put it in words, sent me a text stating you knew what you did and that you were sorry. Sorry for what? For raping me? For convincing me I was better off dead? Or sorry that I remembered?

The worst part of it all was that I tried to go to the police. I had to sit in a room all by myself, putting the worst day of my life on paper, sitting there waiting for someone to come in and help me, talk to me, let me know what was going on. But no, I sat there alone for an hour. I finally walked out because no one came to talk to me. I asked the officer about retrieving the texts from my phone history and was completely shot down. I was given a “case number” that meant nothing. Eventually, they stopped returning my calls.

What is even sadder is even if I did remember, I would have been too ashamed to report you right away regardless. I would have been too scared. How do you prove being raped anally? Is it still rape if it isn't vaginally? Is it still rape since you were my boyfriend? Is it still rape if we were fooling around before? Is it still rape if I was only in my underwear?

These questions haunted me and for the longest time, I thought this meant you had won. You had taken my whole life from me. I wasn’t able to stay in college, I wasn’t able to be in a healthy relationship, I wasn’t able to have healthy friendships, I wasn’t able to live my life. My diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder caused by you made me feel broken. You left me with an addiction to emotional pain. When I wasn’t receiving enough of that from the toxic people I had surrounded myself with, I resorted to physical pain.

But guess what? You didn’t win. I stopped my pity party, told myself I needed to get my life together before the torture of what happened really did kill me, and got myself help. I am a warrior. I am a fighter. I will never again let someone do to me what you did. I will fight for all of the other women out there who were too afraid to use their voice. I will be that last haunting image in your head. I will not be quiet about what happened any longer. So if you somehow end up seeing this, just know you did not win.