He Knew Exactly What He Was Doing To Me, And I Still Carry It Today


I tell my secrets here because, to me, they are not secrets. They are heavy burdens I’ve been bearing for far too long.

There is one final piece of the puzzle, one final secret. The secret around which I have based my entire identity. All my fears come from this. All my roadblocks. All my failed relationships.

My friends know this secret. They find out relatively quickly, because I’m an open person who really wants to heal. And yet, I can’t talk about it in detail here. Having it written, in public, is too painful. But I can talk about its effects.

I have compassion for narcissists. My parents are narcissists, and I am too. It is this compassion that has led me to justify the abuse I suffered. It’s caused me to think long and hard about sexuality and growth and milestones in development.

Is it compassion, though, or is it just an inability to face that a 36 year old man manipulated a 14 year old girl? A smart, leggy, talented, 14 year old girl… a fireball of sexual energy.

Ah see, even now I blame myself. It was my unbridled passion for life, my search for love, my love of short shorts and makeup and my promiscuity and the fact that I loved sex and it felt great to be touched and I was fourteen.

I was fourteen. I was four FUCKING teen.

Every day, I unravel, I unpack those memories. Because the abuse would have been enough, but it was the response, the being gaslighted, the being kicked out my house a week earlier than intended so I could live with my father, a mentally, emotionally, and financially unstable person. At fourteen.

At 33, I dress myself in gender neutral clothing from head to foot. I keep my hair short or long and femininely androgynous. I keep extra weight on my body. I don’t wear makeup. I keep my legs crossed tight. I cringe if someone holds me.

I speak low and confidently. I am not vulnerable. I date narcissists because I understand them. And because I don’t understand healthy people.

And still I blame myself. Because he told me he didn’t remember. I have panic attacks to this day because even though my therapist told me it isn’t possible, I think people can just black out and sexually abuse people.

And yet, later he told me he saw me ‘going the wrong way’ and just wanted to help me get on the right track.

And I believe him. Because I confuse love and fear and sexual desire and it’s far too painful to recognize the final piece.

He DIDN’T love me. Abuse is NOT love. He was not confused, or vulnerable, or even horny. He saw my innocence and… nope. I can’t do it. I have to make excuses for him. I have to justify it. Because if I don’t, then that means…

Splitting. This was the first time I ever truly split. More like splintering.

But here’s the problem. If I don’t identify this behavior and person as monstrous, there’s still a part of me that will identify it as love. But if I identify him as a monster, am I not implicating myself? What if I black out and abuse someone?


I was fourteen. He was thirty six. He intentionally tore me apart for his own gain. It was not because my legs were too long or I was looking for love or I was a fireball or I wore too much makeup or I was promiscuous…scratch that — loved sex. I was not Lolita. There is no such thing as Lolita. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS LOLITA. I was not powerful. I was a girl, a lower-middle class, white trash girl. I was… a girl.

And that’s the final piece. I was not Lolita. There is no such thing as a Lolita.