“The smell of cucumber melon body lotion, the taste of Mountain Dew and Juicy Fruit gum, and the words ‘teen dating abuse’ always pull me back in time. I was 14, a freshman in high school—sheltered, naïve, and targeted.
My mind tries to block out the first time I met D. It’s hazy, like he was always just there, lurking in the shadows of my life. I try to remember life before him. My body and mind were untouched by fear, untouched by abuse. The moment his hand first touched mine, everything changed. That single touch marked the beginning of a chapter that would shape me forever.
People often ask me when my anxiety began. I tell them, simply, “High school.” They nod, imagining the usual stress: studying for exams, hoping your crush calls at night, waiting for college letters. But they never imagine this: cars creeping slowly by your house, a voice whispering threats, “If I can’t have you… nobody will.” They don’t see the constant, anxious effort to appease someone, never knowing if holding their hand means safety—or a shove into a row of lockers.
Nobody sees high school that way. But those of us who survive teen dating abuse do. D and I weren’t married, we didn’t have children, we didn’t even live under the same roof—but I was trapped, completely.
I was his world, and he was mine. Nobody else existed. Phone calls from my family or friends were unwelcome distractions. Every free moment—passing periods, breaks, lunch, after school—had to be spent with him. He ‘loved’ me so much, he said.
If I stayed after school for tutoring, he would wait outside, greeting me with a shove, a slap, or unwanted sexual touches. He always apologized afterward, blaming his “emotions” for hurting me. I loved him, so I quit tutoring. My education mattered far less than keeping him happy. That made him thrilled. Gosh, we were perfect together.
He wanted me to himself, so I couldn’t wear anything that might attract other boys’ attention. My favorite denim mini skirt once sparked his fury. He refused to speak to me all day, calling me a whore, a slut, a hooker, a cheater. I didn’t understand then that this wasn’t love—it was control. I only thought how lucky I was. Who wouldn’t want a boy who cared that much?
He forced me to do sexual things whenever he wanted, wherever we were. I thought it was amazing that he wanted me so badly. I kept cucumber melon body lotion in my purse—my favorite—and he loved it. But soon, he would push my head down forcefully. I thought it was because he was so attracted to me. I wanted to be perfect for him: straightening my naturally curly hair daily, keeping my appearance exactly how he liked it. If I didn’t, he refused to hold my hand in the hallway. I wanted that hand to be held so badly, so I complied.
Then one day, my fragile snow globe shattered. I went to the hall to see D during a rehearsal break. It wasn’t enough. He was angry. Our argument grew loud. He told me to get away, I begged him to stop being mad.
“Stupid b—h!” he shouted, shoving me to the ground. I hit the concrete hall floor hard. My dance coach immediately called my parents and the police.
The weeks that followed were surreal. Restraining orders, court dates, school counselors escorting me so I wouldn’t pass D in the hallway—and yet, secret love notes still found their way into our hands, passed by friends who didn’t understand the danger. Nobody could seem to keep us apart.
Cars drove by my house slowly. Unknown numbers called, only breathing on the other end. Once I even told D I was home when I wasn’t—he knew. I was being watched, followed, tormented. I wanted it all to stop. Yet I wanted D. I was spiraling, losing control. Detentions, suspensions, screaming fights with my parents—they tried to keep me safe. I hated them for it.
One day, in a car with my mom, I grabbed the steering wheel while she was driving and ran us into a ditch. She immediately took me to the Juvenile Detention Center, pleading with police and doctors to hold me for 24 hours, to evaluate my mental state. I ran away once, too—only to sit on a hill near my neighborhood, hiding, watching loved ones panic and search for me. I had hit rock bottom.
That summer, we arranged a secret meeting in the woods behind the town carnival. We slid down hills, walked farther from the screams, laughs, and funnel cake air, thinking we were safe. I had my phone in hand and suddenly realized I had dialed 911. I hadn’t meant to, hadn’t realized I was afraid. But I was terrified of the boy I loved. That was my turning point. I finally admitted it to myself: I was scared of him, and I needed help.
This experience taught me how powerful the brain is. It can block trauma, make the worst blurry enough to survive, even to love and live again. But the remnants remain. The aftershocks linger.
Abuse in a dating relationship isn’t always about hitting or slapping. Most abusive relationships start subtle, often disguised as love. I urge everyone to recognize the warning signs, act on them, and offer support. Sometimes, that support can save a life.”
