I wasn’t innocent at 19, but I also wasn’t seasoned. I was good at playing the game and being smart. I liked baiting and then having them actually be impressed by what I had to say. My mother always taught me if you could bring a man across the room with just a look, you had power. I met him at the house where I hung out. He played music with the guy I dated there, I say date, but honestly, it lasted for about a second. Anyway, this Mister, he wasn’t anyone I was immediately attracted to. He wasn’t very tall, he didn’t dress cool, and I couldn’t read him well. We ended up talking from time to time and I noticed he had a sharpness about him, cute freckles and funny lines. He eventually asked if I wanted to hang out sometime and I said sure.

I liked him, I just didn’t know how much I liked him. We had just started to get to know each other with a few make out sessions. He had announced his band was going on a mini tour for a week and we agreed to see each other when he returned. My roommate and I were settling into our new apartment, busy with our zine, and drinking copious amounts of coffee at the Village. We also loved to sit out on the tiny balcony outside her bedroom and crank Adolescents, Descendants and Crass on the record player, basking in the sun.

Boys in bands are frankly, attractive, especially when you don’t know any better. Boys in bands you love, well, they are unattainably attractive. At that time there was one particular guy whose cardigan I wished to prance around naked in and unfortunately, Trent Reznor was unavailable. We’ll call him Case for reference. He was Cobain hot and I was not prepared to discover on a particular balcony basking day that he was my downstairs neighbor.

Hey!
Hey.
What are you guys doin’?
Listening to records. I didn’t know you guys lived here."
Yeah, we just moved in.
Cool. Feel free to come up anytime.

It’s so easy to play it cool when your stomach is doing flip flops at a hundred miles an hour. “…come up sometime?” What was I thinking. Like he seriously would come up and I was in no way cool in that delivery. He apparently didn’t think he was playing it that cool either because he decided to bait me with notes under my door which were essentially delivered to my bedroom. Who needed a living room when three of you were living in a one bedroom for $350 a month.

The few notes he left were cryptic but I’m a sucker for words on paper. The mixed tape I received next was the clincher and he ended up coming up, you know to discuss the tunes he chose. I liked him in all his strangeness and hotness. We hung out as people did in 1992 —without cell phones. We listened to music while he and I sat on my twin bed. He had put my roommate’s purple feather boa around his neck and had on these large sunglasses. I was listening to him talk, but I was thinking about his lips on mine. Apparently tickle fighting is conducive to make out sessions, long make out sessions. And then he was gone. I shut the door behind him and passed out asleep smiling, but wanting more. I got more. One afternoon I ended up in his apartment and we ended up in bed. Delightful. Afternoon delightful.

I wasn’t in a committed relationship. There were no boundaries set. Mister arrived a week later and he called me to hang out. He came over and as conversation flowed, and I was happy to see him, he suggested we go to lunch. As we descended the stairs, Case walked out of his apartment.

Hey man!
Oh Hey. What are you up to?
Just got back from that tour and grabbing some lunch.
Huh, cool, you wanna come see this new amp I got?

“Fuck.” Yep, I had no idea they knew each other. It was a blur to me, all I heard was "guitar, amp, girlfriend.” Wait, girlfriend? I wasn’t anyone’s girlfriend! I couldn’t wait to get out of there as I cooly skimmed through some zine in the corner. I said bye, but I could see the confusion in those big brown eyes. I myself was confused with the whole “my girlfriend” reference. Mister luckily had to be somewhere and lunch was cut short and we didn’t really get into the whole girlfriend label thing. I ran back to the apartment and decided to explain things downstairs. He opened the door and the look on his face was not any kind of inviting. After explaining, he basically said he couldn’t do anything like that with me again, that it was obvious his friend had feelings for me and if he had known he would have never engaged in such activities. There you have it, decision made, and humiliation followed. I kept my mouth shut and engaged into a very committed relationship with Mister.

After living in my first apartment for a year, my roommates decided that we needed a bigger place. We weren’t hanging out as much and our boyfriends were pretty consuming. We found another place on the same row and it didn’t take long for it to become a haven for a variety of passersby, some whom, I didn’t want in my face while I was brushing my teeth some mornings. I dealt with it by spending many a night with Mister and his roommates. I also decided that I would be going back to school in the Fall to pursue my fashion career. I felt stable. A boyfriend. A job. An apartment. It all felt like the right time to go back to school since all the people I was meeting were either at VCU or still in high school. Straight edge kids hanging out at band houses was pretty commonplace back then.

It started unexpectedly. A year of our relationship had passed. There was meeting of the parents, exchanges of “I love you”, and this very meat and rice gal converting to vegetarianism to comply with his hardcore veganism. My roommate had come to visit me at his apartment. It was the only place she knew I’d be since I hated ours. I was just waiting for the ‘moving into together’ conversation with Mister. I remember she had called her boyfriend and you know when your friend or boyfriend says something you’re embarrassed by and you try and cover it up with the whole ‘Oh, they didn’t mean that..’ spiel? “Fuck that whore!” I don’t know how one covers that exclamation up. I genuinely don’t care what people think, but I do care what my friends think and he was a good friend. I also have never been associated with such descriptors in my life and so it was a little shocking to my ears. When I asked her about what he meant by that, she confronted me.

Did you fuck Case?
Yeah, a while ago.
Holy shit, why didn’t you tell me?
Well, because it happened and then due to circumstances it was done. It was before any of this happened. It was in the beginning not during!
Shit, man dudes are dicks, don’t worry about it.

So, I didn’t. And as all things Richmond, it didn’t take long for it to reach him. I was confronted with pierced lips and balled fists. I told him we hadn’t even started dating then and that it was way at the beginning. We talked about it and I was afraid he would break up with me because of it, but then everything seemed ok. There was definitely a change in how people were interacting with me when I went to shows. I’d get mean looks or jokes about me sleeping with entire households or bands. While that was happening, there they were on stage, each weekend, each song with another lecture pontificating about the wrongness of eating meat, believing in the bible, hurting women or tainting your body with alcohol or drugs. Bands who had some positive messages and others with long rants over short songs. There was always a hint of hypocrisy in it, even though I understood the power of having a platform like that. I was however, not some dumb kid blindly following people with a microphone. It all started to get kind of preachy to me.

Promiscuous, a fancy word for slut. Case had told my roommate, “She’s a nice girl, but a bit promiscuous.” For someone who lost their virginity 3 years prior to that statement, I was abhorred by the accusation. In my mind, I didn’t do anything wrong and I felt as though my reputation was being tarnished in some way.

Did you like it when he fucked you?
What?
I said, did you like it when he fucked you?
What are you talking about?
When you fucked him, did you say the things you say to me, what did he do to you?
No, and that was a long time ago. I thought you were ok with this? It wasn’t like we were in a relationship at the time.
I went on tour and you decided to fuck him while I was gone. How many other dudes have you fucked while I was away. What’s it like to be such a whore?

I was horrified. We had just had sex and he had pressed himself up tight against me with his arm over my chest and whispered these things in my ear. He’s not going to talk to me like that! He asked me where I was going, as though he was asking me not to forget to pick up smokes on the way back. “I’m sorry, did I upset you, I don’t know why I said that, Come back to bed, I didn’t mean it.” It was as though for a brief moment I was in bed with the Joker. I was very angry and told him I had some things to take care of and that I’d see him later. It was bizarre behavior, especially in such an intimate setting.

It started slowly. First were the words, then came the fights and then he would psychologically and mentally abuse me. It would make me so angry that I would retreat to my apartment where he would eventually follow, apologize, and bring me back to his place. Each passing week was held in suspense. Each argument followed with a sincere apology and ‘never again’ follow up. I had assumed too much. When you are codependent, it’s very difficult to not want to please someone, you want to avoid conflict so the constant is still present. There were times I just grew numb to the situation. Things would be said passive aggressively and I would ignore them because the next day, we would have a really wonderful time together.

The things that would happen next would send me to a place of fear, anger, and self-loathing. I don’t care what other people do in their sexual lives, that’s not for me to judge or condone. I will say, I personally do not feel comfortable dating someone who is also having sex with someone else. That is just not for me. So when he started taunting me with his newfound bi-sexuality, I began to reach my limit. Our friend from the band house would come over, who was bi and straight edge. They started a zine together and were meeting regularly during the week to discuss content. He would close the door to the bedroom and then the two of them would walk out, hours later, one smiling and the other zipping his pants and smirking at me. Both of them teasing me to tears. I would confront him and he would say I was crazy, that I was overreacting. I would get the same reaction when an unfamiliar girl would be seen leaving the apartment.

He was constantly fucking with me after finding out about Case. A snide remark here, a push there and then a sudden admittance that he was sexually abused by his babysitter. He said he would get counseling at school and I believed him. He was taking frequent trips to see his parents in NOVA and I encouraged him, since I thought it helped calm him down. I wanted to believe this was some sort of phase, that he had to work some shit out because, Ladies, how many times have we convinced ourselves we can fix them? Too many I guarantee. The fighting became more frequent and his roommates did not slack in making me feel like I was causing a tumultuous household by making sarcastic remarks of overstayed welcomes. The remedy — work more, go to class, get a new apartment with newfound friends, and clean his place while I was there to show my contributions to his roommates since I couldn’t actually live there.

The holidays were rolling around and his parents would come down for a visit before and all was merry, merry. It seemed strange to me that these guys who were outspoken atheists celebrated such holidays. I was ready for the new year and felt our relationship had gotten slightly better in some ways, but I still didn’t feel right.

Christmas day had come around and as we cuddled and snuggled in bed after being intimate, he said, very sweetly, “So, I fucked Janice during Thanksgiving.” I pushed him away immediately. Janice was an activist and scenester from the DC area who held nothing back in her flirtations with him and conveniently started making frequent visits to Richmond. They had met briefly during a benefit house show. She was not very attractive, overweight, and a bit obnoxious. “What did you just say?” I said, as I pushed away from him. He grabbed my arm and twisted it, bringing me back down to the mattress. “Where are you going?” I told him to stop that he was hurting me and with pierced lips, he whispered, “Now we’re even.” Almost two years later and he was still harboring feelings of discontent over my encounter with Case. How could this still be a thing.

I had had enough. I wanted to leave. I wanted to crawl out my skin, but I didn’t want to anger him further. I knew what happened when I angered him. The last time it happened he chased me into the bedroom where his head fit perfect in between the doorway as I slammed it, knocking him unconscious. Who was I anymore, I didn’t know, but had grown comfortable in my role. This wasn’t a relationship I could just walk out of, I would have to maneuver my way out of it. The thing about an abusive relationship is the understanding of power and in this one, we both had it. I just didn’t know how to utilize it without being completely and proverbially stoned by the crowd.

I began to think I was the one who was wrong. The people I trusted began to treat me as though I had done something wrong and that it was me who instigated the arguments. I just began to believe that this was all punishment for the things I had done and because I could defend myself physically, I justified it. What I wasn’t defending myself against was the mental torture. I wasn’t a weak person by nature, but I did have a complicated background that allowed it all to be accepted. I knew I had to do something, but felt helpless and turned against. So, I stayed because I believed that if I had said anything or tried to leave, he would do real harm to me.

For the next few months, I would be pushed, verbally belittled, and shunned. He would make me sit outside while sick in winter to eat my soup because it wasn’t Vegan. He would squeeze me face and tell me to not think of leaving him. He would push my face down in a pillow. He would taunt me with other women and men. He was just cruel. I loathed him. The sight of him pissed me off and the empty preachings of his onstage persona disgusted me — hypocritical and righteous. I began to plot my escape.

The only way I could get out of this was to communicate with someone he knew. I decided to write a letter to one of his roommates/bandmates/best friends. One who knew him better than I did. Every line was a recount and an admission that I was in trouble. I hid it in a journal to wait for the right time to give it to him. I picked up shifts wherever I could so I would avoid him and became distant in my affections. Studying was the only thing that would allow me to be somewhere else. He never liked not knowing where I was or who I was with.

It was the week of midterms and I was also working in the evenings at a local theater. When I arrived home one late night, tired and nervous about my exam the next day, I opened the bedroom door to find him on the floor. On the floor amidst my journals, opened and exposed in all their confessional glory, and the letter, opened, revealing all I had planned. Years of personal truths, all there for him to see. I was deflated in complete horror. He looked up at me, fire in his eyes, and said, “Welcome home.”

You think he’s going to see this? You think he is going to believe you? You think anyone is going to believe this about me? I can’t believe you think I do these things to you!

He tore the letter up in front of me and I began to cry and to yell loudly, telling him what a violation he had committed and that he needed to leave. He refused and kept apologizing. So here’s the thing, I never ever thought I couldn’t defend myself. Sure, I was fearful, not ever being incapable of giving him as much as he gave me. His usual threats became empty to me, just another blah blah session of how he commanded me. If he pushed me, I pushed him back. If he grabbed me, I’d pull away. So, I eventually gave in and told him I needed to sleep because my exam was the next morning. My roommate met me in the adjoining bathroom and told me she would call the cops, but I said, “No, he’s just upset and I just want to go to bed and deal with this after my exam.” To be honest, I was completely dead inside. I felt hopeless and deserving in some way.

I slowly entered the room, hoping he had fallen asleep, and laid down on my bed with him beside me. He began stroking my hair and telling me how much he loved me. Just like a switch, I had gotten Jeckyll again. I felt my insides turning in disgust, the mere sound of his voice causing me repulsion. “Please, I need to sleep, can we just go to bed and forget this?” He kept nudging closer and closer to me and began the ritual stroking and grinding of a desperate school boy. “Seriously, I just want to sleep,” I pleaded. “You can sleep after. I love you,” he confirmed. I didn’t fight. He climbed on top of me and I laid there, dead to the world as he thrusted inside me over and over again, telling me how much he loved me. Tears streamed down my face and I looked away disgusted by the sight of him. Each “I hate you” pounding inside my head with each thrust he gave me. Then it was over. I turned over, not wanting to look at him. He turned me back to him.

I don’t understand what is wrong with you! Do you not love me anymore? Are you not attracted to me anymore? Why are you crying?! I said I was sorry! Please!

I felt the anger all inside me, it swirled hotly and heavily. I looked at him and spat in his face, as he had done to me once, and then came my rage.

I hate you. I want you to leave, now! I’ve been working all day, I have a midterm and I come home to you reading my journals and going through my personal things and treating me like shit. I also did NOT want to have sex just now as I said I was tired! I don’t want to be with you anymore and I want you to leave now!”

And then it happened. I saw it in his eyes. I felt the blow above my brow. “Oh my God, what have I done,” he cried out immediately. Standing there in his boxers, trembling with tears streaming down his face, “What’s wrong with me!!?” As I stood there in shock and pain, he put his clothes on and ran out the front door. My roommate immediately entered the room and said she was calling the police. “No, it’s over,” I said blankly, while staring at the wall. I just wanted it to be over.

My classmate arrived that morning to find me looking through the cracked door. I had told her I was really sick and couldn’t come to midterms, to please inform our professor. She knew something was wrong and she refused to leave. When I opened the door slowly, she knew something horrific had happened. She saw my face was red and swollen. She told me to pack a bag and that she would be back after the exam. I escaped for a week to her apartment to stay with her and her roommates. She kept me safe until I felt it was ok to go home. He didn’t know where I was or how to contact me. My roommate said he had been skulking around the apartment, but I didn’t care.

I arrived home and it felt strange. I completely severed all ties with all things — the scene, school, some friends. I sat in my bedroom to begin a new journal. I had my window opened, as it was a nice day out and I liked the breeze coming in and it smelled like Spring coming.

Please talk to me.

I heard the plea outside my window. I looked down to see him with eyes that told me he was so very sorry for all that he had done and begged to talk to me. I told him I was done, that he was a really messed up person and that I didn’t want to see him. He shuffled his way out the alley with head down, and I breathed in and exhaled in relief. I was also sad. Sad to lose someone I loved and wanted him to be better. Sad that I allowed those things to happen to me. He had to figure out how to fix him and I didn’t hesitate to just move on. It didn’t take long for certain people to tell me the word on the street was that I left him because I fucked someone else. Yes, it was I who cheated on him and since he had the love of the crowd, it was me who be damned. I dealt with that by starting a new life. It is the way I have always dealt with the horrors of my experiences. I analyze them, I learn from it, and I very calmly go on my way.

A good while later, I received a phone call from his former bandmate and friend who I had written the intercepted letter to. He very carefully and awkwardly asked me if anything had ever happened between me and my ex. I confirmed and asked why. “Because he’s been charged with assault,” he replied. It was Janice who was pressing charges. They apparently had been seeing each other and maybe living together. He threw her up against a wall. I couldn’t help, but think how lucky that was all she got…or was it? Cruel thought perhaps, but I considered her part of his game when we were together. She made no mistakes that she wanted him, but she didn’t deserve his wrath either.

I learned a lot of things in that experience. There are times when I’ve been with a man who feels the need to make me feel dumb or I felt the need to please constantly to make up for any imperfections. I dealt with it and I moved on and I don’t hesitate to mention to people that I was in an abusive relationship for practically 2 years of my life. It is a part of my history and he was one of my Misters, I loved him and he broke me down. I have friends from that time who are still friends with him, knowing what he did to me. I have friends who completely banished him from their lives. I had male friends who defended me diligently and threatened to do physical harm to him. I also had girlfriends who called me a “cheating cunt” while others embraced me and protected me. The reactions were across the board, from anger to sadness to plain ignorance. There were people during that time who were aware of his actions, but they never said anything. They played along because who needs complications in their life. I’ve forgiven those friends who betrayed me at that time and to be honest, I don’t reflect upon it much, if at all. I will not, however forget what he did to me and how he made me feel, but he is a reminder that no man will ever control my life or harm me that way again. I do believe that people change. I also believe that someone can become a better person and feel remorse. Maybe he has in his life. Maybe he acknowledge his sickness and mended it. Perhaps. Do I care? Not really. The truth is the scar remains, but in the end my core has healed.

For author's note