She would force me to have sex with her and, on occasion, she’d bring in another adult — always men — to join. When these men got involved, I became far less cooperative. I already felt uncomfortable around strange men, especially the ones she knew, who were rough-looking middle-aged men — the kind I was taught to stay away from. The first time this happened, I remember thinking to myself, This is my worst nightmare. I cried for days after and even contemplated suicide. I had reached a breaking point; I knew something was terribly wrong with this situation.

My reluctance to participate in the abuse made her angry and she’d use that anger to hurt me in any way she could. I can still see the marks she left on my body today. Handprints from when she choked me; scratches, cuts, and bruises from when I resisted; and self-inflicted wounds from when I wanted to make myself as unattractive as possible. But at the time, no amount of self-mutilation would stop such a power-hungry pedophile.

I felt utterly alone. I knew telling someone was the only way to stop the abuse, but she had told me that she’d never talk to me again if "our secret" got out. I was young, confused, and thought I should do what she, an adult, told me to do.

So, I came to the dark conclusion that the only way to end the abuse was to end my life. I was 14, and I thought it was better to die than to upset this person who said she loved me. I began searching for the right car to throw myself in front of or the right bridge for my final jump. These suicidal thoughts kept on for years after the abuse.

The 11 months of sexual, physical, and verbal abuse finally came to an end when I tried to tell a family member. I didn’t have the vocabulary at the time to explain what had happened to me and I was terrified that I’d get into trouble. So, I sugarcoated the story and said that she and I had been in a "relationship." I wanted to be as discreet as possible, so I never mentioned the sexual abuse and only said that we had held hands.

It was only a matter of time before a large tribe of family members, both immediate and extended, knew the story — or thought they did. Most were quick to point fingers and place the blame on me. I was called emotionally unstable, a liar, an overly dramatic child desperate for attention. I was again told to keep quiet by the adults in my life, so I did.

Once word got out about our relationship, I never heard from her again. I went from being a happy, energetic child to a victim, a timid and fearful mute who didn’t want to speak to anyone. I thought that when I spoke, people could hear the shame and guilt I felt inside. I became self-destructive and started falling down the dark hole of addiction. My abuser got away with her crime free and clear, while I was reprimanded and shamed. So, I joined the adults in my life and blamed myself.

Prescription painkillers and self-mutilation became my sources of relief. No one talked to me about what happened; I was left in the dark, heartbroken and abandoned with so many unanswered questions. I didn’t completely understand that I was sexually abused and it took me years of mourning the loss of my "first love" before I realized that what I had experienced was, in fact, abuse. All I wanted was to feel that love again. I felt more alone than ever. I would cut myself to feel control over my pain and take pills to numb the emptiness.