First Love

I fell in love when I was 17, my first year of college, drunk off the freedom my new environment gave me. I had never dated before, never had anyone tell me they liked me.

But his first glance, his first touch. All of it was enough for me. Everything about him seemed to scream that I should stay away. But I was young. He paid attention to me, made me feel like I was the person that he had been waiting for. Every interaction with him was special, because I was special.

I lost my virginity to him, of course, on Valentine’s Day, in the backseat of his Honda. At the time, it seemed romantic and ethereal. Now, it just seems pathetic. He didn’t go slow and seemed to disregard my inexperience. I kept having sex with him that night even though it hurt because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. I felt like a woman, like an adult who had taken control of her body. But for the next four years, he was the one in control.

I thought that’s what love was supposed to be like. That he just cared about me so much that it hurt. He made out with other girls in front of me, as though he took pleasure in seeing my pain. He pushed me against a wall once. I wrote it off as a drunken mistake. I remember his friend walked by, concerned for me. “Are you alright?” she asked. “Everything’s fine,” I whispered. When did I become a liar?

He called me stupid. Stupid for loving him. For letting him treat me this way. Then he would show up at my dorm, threatening to not leave until I came out to see him. He would tell me that no one understood our relationship because they were jealous of how in love we were. It made sense. This was love.

Even when I realized how toxic we were together, I still couldn’t let go. People broke off friendships with me because they couldn’t stand to see me with him. His friends pitied me because he would treat me like trash in front of them. The boiling point hit when I went to his house to hang out with his roommate. He walked in, saw me, and immediately started screaming at me to get out. I ran out, terrified when he followed me. He threw a trash can at their fence, which narrowly missed me. I was horrified and embarrassed at what had happened. It felt like my fault. I should have known he wasn’t in a good mood. I should have known better.

I spent that night in my bed sobbing, wondering why anyone would ever want to make someone feel this way. Even now, two years after I last saw him, the raw pain is still there. How do you reconcile this pain? Those feelings of inadequacy? He has a new girlfriend now. They’re in love. From what I hear, he doesn’t treat her the way he treated me. So was it me? Did I push him to do those horrible things? To say those awful words? It’s enough to make someone go crazy.

I have tried to forgive, tried to move on. He was my first love. And I hate that. I hate that I will never get those years back. That I gave myself to him, mind, body, and soul. You never forget your first love, even if that love was damaged.

I’m still trying to heal, but it takes time. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay. I don’t know if time will ever be enough to fix me, but I have to hope it will be.