Sexual Abuse Within a Relationship

“Black and white shot of woman lying face down on sofa cushion in Fayetteville” by Alex Boyd on Unsplash

I felt like my life was over.

It was about two years into my toxic relationship when it happened. It was a beautiful sunny day outside — not too hot and not too cold, which was rare for the Central Valley. There were no clouds and only an endless canvas of blue skies and a friendly, warm sun shining above his house. The brightness shined through the window into his room where we laid on his bed naked, my face looking up to his. He murmured, “I came inside.”

“What?” I said confusingly and with shock. Chills ran through my body and endless scenarious ran through my head: Everyone would gossip about me, call me a slut, call me dumb, call me reckless. My parents would kill me and I would bring shame to their name and reputation. I would forever be known as that smart girl who had so much going for her, but had her life ruined by getting pregnant.

I wrestled out from underneath him and went to clean myself up in the bathroom directly across from his room. Once I finished, I came back and put my clothes on. I sat on the edge of his bed and started to cry. I felt like my life was over. “I’m sorry, babe,” he said, sitting next to me and trying to hug me. I pushed him away. He continued to say, “I only did it because I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you already.” I didn’t look at him. I didn’t embrace him back. I just sat there like a mourning statue.

“How could you?” I asked, my eyes still looking at anything but him. “I hate you.” I wiped away more tears and continued to say, “I told you so many times to not do that — ever. I told you that I wanted to finish college before having kids. You told me that I could trust you if we stopped using condoms.”

“Babe, look at me,” he said, while trying to move my body to meet his. I fought back and stayed glued to my position. “Babe,” he continued, “you said that you probably couldn’t have any kids anyway because of your irregular periods.”

“So!” I screamed back, still not meeting his gaze. “That doesn’t mean that it can’t happen.”

“Babe, it’s ok,” he tried to convince me. “I mean, I sometimes came inside of you a little bit each time we had sex to see if you would really get pregnant. And you haven’t. See, it’s ok.”

Only then did I turn to him and looked at him with horror, disgust, and betrayal. “What?” I barely managed to get out of my mouth. My throat started to burn even more and my voice grew louder, “How could you do something like that to me!? Why? Why would you try to get me pregnant!? Is this some kind of sick joke to you? Does my life and wants mean nothing to you!? Do you have any respect for me?”

“Babe, please,” he begged. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. You’ll be fine. Babe…please…I love you so much…forgive me?”

“Take me home.” I said coldy and flatly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“But I think you should stay. You need to be with someone right now,” he tried to persuade me.

Not wanting to hear more, I got up and walked out of his room and out of the house.

It was a long and quiet one hour drive back to my house. When I got home it was still in the early afternoon, so I waited until he left and then went to the store to buy the morning-after pill and two different kinds of pregnancy tests, just to be sure. I got home and took a pregnancy test and with relief, the test came back negative. I grabbed the box labeled “Plan B” that had the one tiny pill inside and took out the instructions to read. After skimming it, I took the pill and sat on my bed, drenching myself in tears of relief, betrayal, and anguish.

Hmong womxn | Feminist | Surviving & Healing

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