I still remember his name. I had pushed him back into the blissful recesses of my memory, but now he's back. I was 14 and a half, a tenth grader. He was almost 21, a college student. I thought I must be very smart and mature for an older guy to like me. I thought I had it under control. I didn't.
So when my mother casually says at the bar, "Well, we never said anything about [University] guy." it all came flooding back. I was crying. She was apologizing. What to my parents was a perfect example of them not interfering with my life and letting me make my own decisions was, to me, the thing that broke me. The thing that fundamentally changed who I was and how I will interact with men and relationships forever.
It's been 11 years. I'm still not ok. It took me months to even realize how horrible it was. How I'd been used and abused by someone who should have known better. I needed interference. I needed someone to put their foot down and save me from myself. I never could have realized or admitted it then, but now it haunts me, and will forever.
"Maybe one day we should talk about this so you can put it behind you." I'd really like that, but I'm afraid it's too little too late.