Teenage Dirtbag.

Nothing too noteworthy in regards to where things went wrong in my childhood.  But my teens… Well, like many, they were wroght with struggling to find my place.

I was the first girl in my class to develop. One of the first to get my period.  These things, I was bullied for. Because somehow, I had control over my body.  My bra strap was seen one day and was whispered about through the class the whole day. I was ashamed of my body.  I was a bit chubby in those days and the way I dressed just made that stand out. And I was made fun of for it. I remember once, something I am still deeply ashamed of to this day, I was getting made fun of and I was hurting so bad that I lashed out at the next chubbiest kid and I pantsed him on the playground. Bare assed in the snow.  I don’t remember apologizing to this boy.  I wish I could now. I’ve never forgotten the shame I felt after.  That was the day I vowed I never wanted to make someone feel the way the bullies made me feel. That was the day I consciously chose to be nothing like them.

I was all of 11 years old during all of this.  But one magical thing happened that year. I discovered music.  I can’t play or sing.  But I feel it in the depths of my soul.  Music can say things I don’t have the words for.  Music can drown out an emotional reaction when you need it. It can heal you. It can help you. It is always there for you. Specifically, I discovered the Smashing Pumpkins Siamese Dream album and subsequently, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness followed. I got very into the alternative music scene. My style followed. Heavy make up, platinum hair a la Gwen Stefani, XXL wide leg baggy jeans and a tank top. More sparkles than are necessary and some converse shoes.  I was the odd girl at school. I rebelled against the norm, mainly because as I said earlier, I wanted to be nothing like the bullies in that included how I looked. It meant that the more they bullied me for looking that way, the weirder I got because who were they to tell me who I got to be?

But somewhere and all that mess I realized I did get hurt. I did get damaged. No matter how strong I thought I was being, I wasn’t. People have told me they thought I had such confidence, that I was unapologetically myself. And maybe to a point there’s truth to that.  But I didn’t always feel that way.  I faked it, hard.  I never felt pretty.  Or like I fit in.  Still, I feel like I was born to the right parents, but in the wrong time.

All of these doubts I had in myself led me to places I didn’t want to be.  Oddly, not into drinking or drugs or stealing. Those come, but not in my teens. No, I lead myself into liking all kinds of people who were no good for me.

My first couple romances were what they should be. They were new, exciting and very sweet.  I experienced my first love and my first fractured heart. Yes, I say fractured. Because my whole reason for writing this all down is that I just experienced my first real and total heartbreak. And that felt nothing like this. But anyways…

The first older guy I dated was only 2 years older. But at the tender age of 15, that’s a pretty significant difference.  He was a singer in a band. My teen heart swooned.  We hung out only a few times.  It felt exciting that an older boy liked me.  Then one afternoon, he invited me to his house. I had a BBQ with my family and some family friends later that day (I was one of those kids that really enjoyed spending time with my family and going to things like that so I always went to them) but he lived close to where it was, so I opted to hang out before hand. Things were normal at first.  Talking about music, favourite things, had his arm around me, some kissing.  But then the kissing became aggressive. He was pushing me to lay down on the couch. I told him I didn’t want to. He pushed anyways. In the end, the only choice he gave me was: red condom or green? To which I gave no answer at all.  I closed my eyes and pretended to be anywhere else. I didn’t fight. I just laid there.  It hurt.

When it was over, I got dressed and he said “maybe we can do that again sometime” to which I gingerly shook my head yes, because giving any other answer was too frightening.

I left his house and began the walk to the BBQ. Tears streamed silently down my face, I walked with my mouth agape the whole way.  I dried my tears and composed myself the best I could.  When my mother asked me if I was okay, I said yes, I was just tired and getting my period.

My body was in pain, something felt wrong. I went to the washroom to find I was bleeding heavily.  I cleaned myself up, prayed it would stop and went about pretending to be okay.  I never got checked. Speaking with some close trusted friends after, it was definitely more bleeding than just a broken hymen would produce. I am lucky whatever happened healed.

I never told anyone flat out I was raped. My father would be in prison for murder had I said something.  I pray my cowardice didn’t cost some other girl her innocence.

It is at this point in my reminiscing that I realize that’s the first time I broke. That is when I started to believe that I was nothing more than a body to offer. Or a body to be taken.  I didn’t even realize it then but that completely stole my self worth and that completely shaped who I was sexually especially as an adult.

That is the first thing that I can come up with that broke me, that caused the first crack. If only I could go back and handle that properly and handle that right and maybe I wouldn’t live with the guilt of it today.