My story

Trust Was Nothing To You

***trigger warning.
If you get easily triggered, or can't handle mentions of sexual abuse, rape, blood, suicidal tendencies, or self harm, this chapter IS NOT for you***

November and December of 2018, have by far, been some of the worst months in my life.

Everything continued as usual with Michael.
All the sexual situations, all the arguments over nothing, and him gradually becoming more aggressive with me.

And as every day passed by, my mental health was deteriorating.
Every day filled with self doubt, and having no trust for Michael. Wondering if he's really where he says he is.
But the worst, was the way I viewed myself.
Constantly comparing myself to the girl he cheated on me with.
Constantly cutting myself because I felt so ugly and worthless.
Starving myself or forcing myself to throw up so I can be skinny.
Crying for nights on end, or not sleeping.

I was an absolute mess, and he knew I was.
And he didn't bother actually trying to help.
Because as long as I remained broken, I would have to depend on him to keep me together.

Michael started becoming more aggressive with me, and honestly, I don't think he even noticed it.

During sex, I was left with bruises constantly, and my head would ache from how hard my hair was being pulled. My nipples would hurt from him biting them or pinching, my body just ached.
At times I felt like such a rag doll, because I would just lay there and let him do what he wanted.
I would give him the proper reaction when I knew he wanted one. I just did everything at this point, just to get it done and over with.

There were even times that we had sex and I wasn't happy. I didn't want it and it was the usual of me pretending and his doing anything to me.
There were even times, he noticed I was quiet or upset after sex, and I would tell him I wasn't feeling happy and I felt drained or tired.
He just said that I was maybe tired or something.
He didn't realize it was because I felt so useless, so gross.
He didn't realize that it's because I didn't want it.

He started this habit that I hated.
I already was starting to despise how roughly he treated me during sex, but now he dragged one thing from outside the bedroom, and into our daily lives.
Hair pulling.
When I was lay with him or sit with him, he would pull my hair. And no, not the quick little tug on a couple strands.
If I wasn't looking at him, or paying attention, or didn't kiss him back, he would grip a handful of hair from the back of my head, and force my head towards him.
And I wouldn't budge, because I knew if I even moved my head a little, his grip would tighten.
And how I know that? I learned the hard way.

One day him and I were in my kitchen, just chatting and flirting.
He was leaned against the sink and I leaned in for a hug. He put his hand down my pants without warning and began touching me.
I backed away a bit, well because I wasn't in the mood. But he pulled me closer to him and his other hand made its way up to my hair.
I whined and I remember him forcing me to look into his eyes.
Telling me to look at him whenever he touched me.
His fingers hurt, and his grip on my hair hurt.
I tried to bring my hand up to pull it out of my hair, but it was no use.
He pulled even harder and my neck strained painfully.
He only let go and let me be when we heard footsteps coming to the kitchen.

He did this again, but while we sat in the car with my family. He made sure we sat in the back where no one could see him. He touched me and kept pulling my hair.
I so badly wanted to cry.
How was he able to sit here, and treat me like this, while my family was right there?
And my family, they were oblivious to it all.

He played his part so well, and I kept my mouth shut too tightly.

December of that year, was almost the death of me.

It was a day at Michael's house, and it started out as it always does.
The routine sex and eat after, then watch a movie. Then if there was enough time, even more sex.

And that day, there was enough time for the second round.
I was bent over the side of his bed, just like he always wanted. And I remained still, just wanting it to be over.
What I wasn't expecting, was him to put himself in my behind.

I'll be honest and admit, we tried anal before.
Once was enough for me, I was content I tried it, but I didn't want it to become normal. It just wasn't for me.

At first I pulled forward, taking him out of me, well because I thought he rushed and maybe did it on accident.
But he pulled my hips back harshly and slipped himself back inside me, and asked me if I loved the feeling of him in my behind.
I again, attempted to crawl forward as I cried out kid because of how badly it hurt.
But he didn't get the hint, when I didn't answer him, or when I kept trying to get away.
He just forced his way into me, and used me.
I felt myself tearing, and it stung so badly.
I felt just a single tear roll down my cheek as he kept going.
I whined as my face was down in the blankets, and my mind was racing, how could I get him to stop?
Because obviously the word itself and my actions didn't work.
I stuttered through my distress, and told him that it felt too good, that I couldn't handle it. And that I wouldn't be able to control my sounds and self if we didn't stop.
It blew up his ego so big, that he stopped right away, and said that if it felt that good, next time we had sex, we should continue what was started.
I stayed quiet and just pulled my pants back on.

He took me home after all this, and every movement was so painful.
Walking, sitting, passing gas, standing, it all hurt.
When I got home, I went to the restroom right away and sat on the toilet.
I looked down to my underwear, only to see it stained in blood.
I reached my hand between my legs, and gently ran a finger of my behind, it stung so badly, and I looked down, only to see my fingers covered in blood.
I peed and dreaded to wipe myself.
I wiped until I was clean.
But the second I stood up, I felt my behind hurt again.
Another bloody piece of toilet paper was dropped into the toilet.
My tears began falling as I stood and looked myself in the mirror.

I didn't even recognize me anymore.

I didn't know who I was. Only a corpse of the old me.