I Was 16. He Was 21: I Thought It Was Love, but I Was Being Groomed

I was 16. He was 21.

He was grown enough to know better.

He was the brother of a friend, and looking back now, I know I was being groomed. But at 16? I didn’t know that. I thought it was cool that this older boy was looking at me. He wanted to talk to me. He wanted me.

In my mind, that meant I was on his level.

I thought I was grown.

I thought I knew what I was doing.

I thought everything was good.

The whole time, I was being coerced.

Little by little, things in my life started changing. My grades started failing. I started sneaking him in and out of the house. This man practically lived in my house for six months before anybody in my family figured out what was going on.

And no, I didn’t come from what people like to call a “broken home.” I had two parents. I had siblings. I had people around me.

But I was always the quiet one.

The meek one.

The child nobody had to worry about.

So nobody looked at me twice.

Meanwhile, I was living a whole other life right under everybody’s nose.

There was cheating.

There was manipulation.

There was physical abuse.

There was emotional abuse.

And at 16, I really believed I was ready for all of this.

I wasn’t.

Nobody really talks about the things young girls go through when they think they’re grown. I was a know-it-all. I thought I knew better than my parents. I thought they just didn’t understand. I thought they were trying to keep me from something I wanted.

Now I understand they were trying to protect me.

And for a long time, I carried this thought around with me:

I’m the one who let the monster in.

I still battle with that sometimes.

But hindsight is 20/20, and when I look back now, I don’t think he would’ve just left me alone. He was too persistent. He kept pushing. Kept pursuing. Kept finding a way in.

And I was 16.

The first time he hit me, he busted my lip.

I remember that.

But I also remember what happened five minutes later.

He was putting ice on the same lip he had just busted.

Telling me he was sorry.

Telling me he loved me.

Telling me he would never do it again.

And I believed him.

That’s the part people don’t always understand.

The same person hurting you can turn around and comfort you for the hurt they caused. And when you’re young, when you think this person loves you, when you’ve already been manipulated so deeply, that can mess with your head.

But I’m going to tell every woman and every young girl reading this:

If he hits you once, don’t stick around waiting to see if he’ll hit you again.

Because he hit me again.

It may have been months later, but it happened again.

And by then, I was so deep in it that I didn’t know how to dig my way out.

Plus, I was keeping everything a secret.

Because I was embarrassed.

That’s another thing abuse will do to you. Somebody else can be hurting you, but somehow you’re the one walking around ashamed.

Eventually, I got pregnant.

I had our daughter prematurely because of all the stress and pressure I was under.

By that time, he had another girlfriend.

And you know what?

I didn’t even care.

I was glad he was out of my face.

I thought maybe that meant things would finally get better.

They didn’t.

They got worse.

She was pregnant too, and from what I experienced, he was still manipulating the situation. Somehow, she and I ended up fighting.

Both of us pregnant.

Stupid.

And I wasn’t fighting over that man. I didn’t want him. I was defending myself.

Eventually, I got a protective order against both of them.

You would think that would have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

He called nonstop.

Because I was carrying his child, there was always another reason to contact me. Another opening. Another way to try to control me.

Even with documentation.

Even with a temporary protective order.

Even after everything that had happened.

And that experience changed the way I look at the judicial system, because I learned how easily a survivor can do what she’s told to do document it, report it, get the order and still feel like somehow she’s the one being questioned, blamed, or expected to manage the person hurting her.

So when I tell this story now, I’m not telling it because I’m proud of every decision I made.

I’m telling it because somewhere there is a 16-year-old girl who thinks she’s grown because an older man is giving her attention.

Baby girl, I thought I was grown too.

I thought I was special.

I thought I was on his level.

I thought I knew better than everybody trying to protect me.

I didn’t.

I was 16.

He was 21.

And he was grown enough to know better.

So, ladies, young girls hear me, and hear me clearly.

Don’t let “I’m sorry” make you ignore what somebody did to you.

Don’t let gifts make you forget.

Don’t let flowers make you forget.

Don’t let “I love you” make you forget.

And don’t wait for the next time to be worse before you believe the first time was bad enough.

Because sometimes there is a next time.

And a next time.

And another next time.

Until one day, somebody doesn’t get another chance to leave.

I survived mine.

And now I’m telling it.