Grateful for the Pain

Sometimes being protected is the very thing that gets us hurt.

I grew up in a rather strict and devoutly religious home. We still acted like normal people, watching movies and spraying whipped cream into our mouths, but a few key things were different. I didn't have a curfew because I had to have permission to leave the house in the first place, and breaking a rule felt like breaking a law. My parents gave me or my two older sisters "the talk," because they thought that something that wouldn't happen had no reason to be talked about. All you needed to know was "no," and the rest would come at marriage.

Each of us has said, "#MeToo."

I don't blame my parents. They thought they were keeping us safe, but it's hard to be wary of something if you don't know what it is.

My story was a gradual one in the making. I started dating before I was supposed to, sneaking the relationship. I constantly felt paranoid and guilty. When you're in this mindset, it's hard to tell when you're genuinely not happy with someone.

I told myself I was only uncomfortable with his hands-on affection because I wasn't supposed to let it happen. I blamed guilt when I didn't like what he told me he wanted to do. We never had sex, and I told myself that so long as I was a virgin, it was fine.

So why did I hate it so much?

We had an on-again off-again relationship. By age 15, I told myself I was done with him. Six months later, after I turned 16, he contacted me saying he just wanted to talk. My parents were going to be gone that night, so I agreed. I snuck out, got into his parked car, and we talked. And then we didn't talk. Again, I was uncomfortable, but I told myself that sinking feeling in my gut was just because of guilt.

It wasn't until it hurt that I begged him to stop. I'll spare the gory details.

He only touched me with his hands, but I left bleeding and in pain. I told him about the blood, and he said he must have popped my cherry.

He was proud.

I did everything I could to hide that it had ever happened. Until "#metoo," I had only ever told three people, one of which is now my husband.

It took me years to recognize the abusive behaviors. It took me years to realize just how many situations could have qualified as "#metoo" moments. It took me years to find mental and emotional balance after the night I always knew was rape, ashamed and alone.

It also took me years to be grateful for it.

That night scarred me in more ways than one, the trauma molding me in horrible ways. It also made me realize so many wonderful, beautiful things that I never would have noticed otherwise.

I realized that other than my attacker (and maybe a creepy substitute teacher), every man and boy that has ever been in my life has been gentle, respectful, kind and good. They are the kind of people that would stop another man if they noticed anything suspicious. For that, I am grateful.

I realized that if so many men in my life were good, then most men must be good. The world seemed a little brighter.

I realized that some of these men had been sexually assaulted by women.

I realized that I could be devoted to my religion, and teach my children about its standards, without making the reality outside of those standards taboo or making them feel ashamed for doing something or wanting to do something outside of those standards.

I realized through the love and acceptance of my now-husband that no bad thing, no matter how awful, can prevent or taint anything good. I felt victorious.

I realized that if I hadn't been hurt, I never would have become the confident, kick-ass woman I am today; something my timid little self never could have imagined.

Most importantly, I realized as I sat with my husband and my baby, joyously talking about how awesome some stupid TV show was, that I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for the changes and choices I had made because of what happened.

So thank you, dear horrible ordeal, for giving me something to conquer.