My abusers

My first abuser was also my first boyfriend and the first male I had ever had sex with. He was two years my senior and attended the high school that neighboured the Catholic elementary I attended. It was my last year before high school and I was already a misguided youth. I hit an overwhelming depression (and most likely PTSD from previous years of bullying) when I had turned twelve and it pretty much stayed with me ever since. This was my second elementary school, I had switched schools to escape from a bully who only followed me to continue to make my life a living hell until she graduated a year before me. So, just to put this into perspective, I was already dealing with a whole childhood full of adult problems that I shouldn’t have had to face for many years to come.

Enter “Patty”, a 16 year old high school student. We met on our lunch periods at the local diner. He was one of the few other “goth” boys I had seen, or even heard of for that matter. Naturally, we gravitated towards each other. It was hard being young and different, but here was another oddball. I immediately wanted his attention but initially wasn’t attracted to him at all; he had pointy, yellowed and plaque-caked teeth. They looked like a rat’s teeth. His complexion was fair but pock-marked and swollen, like he had been beaten with the puberty stick a few too many times. He was tall and thin, very thin. His eyes were ice blue completely devoid of all emotion, to the point where it was uncomfortable to stare into them for too long. He just had a very unsettling aura around him. I was young and naive, he was all I had known a man could be. I didn’t realize that he wasn’t normal, that he was disturbed. I just accepted him as he was, believing he would do the same for me.

I don’t remember how or why we started dating. I remember he had to woo me for a little bit, butter me up. Luckily for him and unfortunately for me, he was (and is) a master manipulator [Forgive me if I get stingy on the details but I spent a lot of time blocking these memories out. There are big chunks of my past that I don’t remember. I’m writing this to help me remember. This is part of my process.] One day he presented me with a Cradle of Filth album, wrapped in tin foil. After we broke up, I pieced together that he had

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