I wish I could say my ex was the only one who ever put their hands around my neck. But that wouldn’t be true.
I was 14 years old,
…and I think his name was Carlos.
He’d been held back a few years, so he was quite a bit older (and bigger) than little freshman me. He’d see me in passing, and without fail, he’d come to me. He enjoyed describing, in vivid prolonged detail, all the things he wanted to do to me.
I did not want him to do those things to me.
And I told him that. Over, and over, and over again. But he did not take my no’s as an answer. Only as a sign to escalate.
Then…
one day I ran into him on the outskirts of the school cafeteria. I don’t remember what he said when he walked up to me. I just remember him putting his hand on the front of my neck and applying upward pressure.
I remember how it made me not be able to breathe.
And this was not an empty cafeteria. There was a whole group of my own classmates gathered around us, watching.
…but only watching.
I remember looking into each one of their eyes and wondering, “why is no one telling him to stop? Why are they just watching?”—as my head got lighter, and lighter.
Do you understand how scary that is?
And do you understand how healing it is when someone finally steps between you and what intends to harm you and says, “no. You don’t get to hurt her.”
“This ends with me.”