14

Before I turn 14 I truly believed in love, and the sacred passage that is losing your virginity. 

I think from a young age I was overtly "mature" for my age; adults used to say I was like an old soul and kids my age used to believe I was some sort of rebel who smoked and stole. I don't at all think that that makes me unique or unlike other 14 year old British girls. If anything it just made me fit into a stereotype. Which I hated because I always believed myself to be above those stupid categories we were all boxed into. It was weird because I understood the maturity from both perspectives- at 12 I was studying a level literature, in the top sets in school, and was the first to give a blowjob and be fingered in my year. It sounds so juvenile, because it was. But at the time it was everything to me, I wanted to be better than my siblings, cousins and peers academically, domestically, and just generally. 

So what did I do? Landed myself an older boyfriend, who smoked weed, took pills and sniffed lines recreationally and ended up being the one to take my virginity. I tried to show him that I wasn't a silly little girl who didn't know shit about shit, I never let him have hard drugs near me, petrified of what I had already seen them do to my family. And he was okay with that, respectful even- told his friends, who told theirs, and not once did I see a single pill or flake of anything white near me.

When he wanted to have sex, I told him not until I was ready. Three months into dating we did it on my living room floor with my Collie locked in the kitchen.Not at all the way I imagined it. 

He wasn't a massive twat about it, he was respectful enough- got off when it hurt, rolled me a cigarette, sat with me until I was ready again, asked if I was alright. And then went into school the Monday after and told his friends. But I wasn't like 'those girls' so I laughed at their jokes, quipped back at them, and then went home and cried. Like a mature young lady. 5 years later, I'm still not exactly over it all. We dated for a while, it wasn't a terrible relationship, just my first one and it was full of arguing, and toxicity and distrust. On the 23rd of July, 8 months into our relationship, after weeks of us arguing he grew a little deaf to my protests and raped me. I couldn't believe that the first boyfriend I had ever had would do that to me, so I pretended like it didn't happen. Only when I confided to my most treasured girlfriend what had happened, did she slap me out of that rose tinted daze he had me in. True to my nature, I broke up with him the next day, while we were having dinner with my family. His plate just sat there mostly untouched, but I had never felt so full in my life. In that breakup, I won his friends. It turnt out he had told them the very day it happened. On his way home from my house. I won't pretend that it was a violent and abusive act in the physical sense, no bruises , no marks. It just happened while I was underneath him trying anything to get him out my house. (Only now am I seeing the irony that he took my virginity on my living room floor, and 8 months later my will to live). 

I remember being asked why hadn't I just broke up with him the minute it happened. I don't think those immature kids realised the way he had a hold on me. His walk changed mine, his smile altered the one I wore. His smell, his clothes, his hair, every fibre of his being was, IS, so deeply engrained in my entire being that I'm still not entirely sure of who I am today. No one had felt like that before, so how would they ever understand it. They were just stupid 14 year year olds with nothing better to do than be nosey in other peoples business. I wish that I could say that nasty business was nipped in the bud, tucked away in a small box somewhere never to be dealt with again, but this was bigger than my usual shit. I began to realise very quickly that this was not going to be something that I could just ignore. I lost and gained friends, therapy, police visits, parental confrontations, threats, fights, tears, blood, hate, anger, depression. It felt like everything was just falling down around me. That nothing was going to ever get better. I remember being so angry one day, this was in the height of my Pagan phase, that I put a hex on him. I doubted it, of course, I just thought it was a new religion for democrats. Until he was detained in a foreign country for three months. I couldn't have been happier. I would come back from school and shake that shit up for 10 straight minutes every day. I just wanted him to be as hurt as I was. I got my lick back, I fucked his best friend of 10 years. He sent him a picture of us in bed together. Slightly less mature of me, now I'm looking back but it worked.

His brother died 5 months after I slept with his friend. At this point I was shaking that silly little spell every morning and night. I don't believe that his brothers death was because of me, not at all. I am not God, nor am I that delusional. But it felt good for him to loose a part of himself. I lost my life, trust in men, love for life, hope for the future, want for romance, desire for happiness, and all he lost was his brother. It fails in comparison to what I lost, but if he felt even an ounce of what I do, it was fine for me.