Leaving “Loser” Behind 

I had my gay awakening when I was 12 years old. A lightskinned curly-headed Dominican boy walked into the crowded cafeteria, walked over, and gave me a dap up. 

I was what my 6th grade classmates called a “loser.” I was bullied for being too big and for having horrible social skills and atrocious taste. I liked pop music, not drill music or rap. I wore Chuck Taylors, which were so 10 years ago. I stayed to myself in middle school, hoping the bullies wouldn’t notice me: It was me and One Direction against the world.

So when this cool guy as handsome as a Disney prince walked over with his curls bouncing, it felt like a dream. Is this really happening to me?

For the next month, Mathew and I ate lunch together every day. I felt seen for the first time: He laughed at my corny jokes and made me feel like I finally had my own person. 

To make things even better, my mom liked him too. I told her Mathew was my boyfriend, and she kept my secret from my dad and my siblings. (They still don’t know I’m gay.)

In June, when school was almost over, Mathew told me, “I like you, I like you a lot.” I laughed with joy.

But we didn’t spend much time together during summer break. Mathew changed. He started smoking marijuana, blasting drill music, and stirring up trouble with kids who had guns. I was inside still playing with my WWE action figures, hosting pay per views in my head.

When we got back to school, Mathew looked older and was wearing more expensive sneakers. I first saw him in a crowded hallway and shouted, “Heyy!” 

To my shock he made a disgusted face and shoved me. “What are you doing?” he said in an aggressive tone. Then he whispered in my ear, “Not in front of the boys.” 

Behind him was a group of teens that looked just like Mathew. Skinny with Balenciagas and perfect skin and hair. I felt ugly, fat, and poor. In my first period class, instead of long division I calculated how to get Mathew’s attention. 

The next day I stopped at the gray van that parked near my school and bought a jar of weed for $35. I had never smoked or wanted to smoke anything because I have severe asthma and anxiety. But this might get Mathew back. 

I went straight to his locker. “Wanna smoke after school?” I asked, unzipping my bookbag to reveal the little jar. He smiled from ear to ear. 

Percocets and Bruises 

After school that day we met up in a stairwell in a project building near our school. Mathew rolled and lit it up. I was so distracted by his adorable face I almost forgot I had to smoke. 

He passed the blunt and I reluctantly pulled. I coughed a lot, but it soon felt good. I saw why Mathew smoked. He pulled out a little bottle of Hennessy. “C’mon, try it.” 

I shook my head no. “C’mon, stop being pussy,” he said, nudging my arm. I closed my eyes tight and took a sip. It was bitter and nasty, kind of metallic tasting. 

“That’s my baby,” Mathew smiled and kissed my forehead. That shot was worth it. My boyfriend had kissed me for the first time in months. 

Throughout 7th grade, I skipped school to smoke and drink vodka with Mathew, occasionally joined by his annoying and condescending friends. I also started taking Percocets. I lost weight, and my grades fell. I couldn’t memorize even easy vocabulary for English class. 

My mom asked “Is everything OK, sweetie? Talk to me the way you used to when you were younger.” Her words pierced me, but I just shrugged and stared down at my blue Toy Story sheets. 

Meanwhile, Mathew went deeper into a criminal lifestyle. He went from wannabe gangster to having actual enemies looking for him. We couldn’t go to certain places without watching over our shoulders.

One day in 7th grade, Mathew handed me a brownie and failed to tell me it contained 500mg of THC. I ate the whole thing, and woke up in the hospital. 

There were bruises near my private area and my left knee. Mathew and my mom were hovering over me, concern written on their faces. I had so many questions. How’d I get here? What happened? Where did the bruises come from? 

The doctor sent Mathew and my mom out of the room, then began asking me questions. “Do you smoke? We won’t tell your mom but we need to know.” 

I was confused because I hadn’t smoked that day. “No?” The doctor shook his head and walked out. I went back home with Mathew and my mom. 

Mathew and I went into my room, and I asked him what happened. He said, “You couldn’t handle the edible. You know how fucking embarrassing that is bro, how the fuck you faint over a weed brownie, gang.” 

Getting sober was like discovering a new brain I didn’t know I had. 

A tear slid down my cheek, and I begged him, “I’m sorry baby, please don’t be mad, I didn’t know.” 

He ran his fingers through his curls. “You wanna make it up to me?” he said with a devious grin. “Give me some ass.” 

My heart dropped. Sex wasn’t even a possibility for me at the time. I hated my body so much I never even wanted to take off my sweater. 

But Mathew wanted my virginity, and I gave him what he wanted. I felt dirty, but we kept doing it after that. Now our relationship was based on not only weed and alcohol but also sex, which he demanded whenever he was mad, stressed, or bored. 

We told each other, “I love you” at night, and at school, we acted as if we didn’t have intercourse. At lunch in the cafeteria, he moved from table to table, never staying with me. He was busy with his group of boys getting into trouble, while I sat alone drawing cartoon characters.

Telling Myself It Was Love 

We kept on like this through 7th, 8th and into 9th grade. We grew in height but not in maturity. I went from one to two Percocets at a time, and I would hallucinate. That was scary, but the Percocets also made me feel numb, like I couldn’t be hurt. 

Matthew came to my house three nights a week but mostly ignored me at school except when we were getting high outside. Somehow we both passed our classes. Mathew was still gang banging and I was still defending his rights and wrongs. 

One day I was walking home from school alone when two tall boys wearing ski masks approached me. 

“You Mathew friend, right?”  

I nodded my head yes. That’s when I felt a hard strike across my face. As I grabbed my left eye, they pushed me to the ground. Then they threw a water bottle at me and walked away laughing.  

I slowly got back up to my feet and walked home trembling. I was filled with joy when I saw Mathew lying in my bed in his red and black flannel pajamas. My mom had let him in; they still had a great relationship. 

When I told Mathew what happened to me, I was expecting a hug and some warmth. Instead he smacked me across my face and pulled my hair. “Are you retarded?” he shouted. He threw me down on the bed crying. And then he beat me and sexually assaulted me. I stayed quiet so my family didn’t hear.

I stayed with him three more years, off and on, telling myself it was love. At times he was sweet and loving, and other times he hit, berated, or ignored me. My mom continued to think he was a good guy. I kept drinking and by senior year, I was getting high every day. I didn’t pass my classes and had to repeat 12th grade. 

That’s when I realized it was time to get my act together. Everybody was moving on, graduating and making something of their life. As much as I loved Mathew, I had to start loving me. 

Sober 

I didn’t break it off with him, but I finally agreed to go to rehab, which my mom had been suggesting for months. She found an outpatient program for youth that I went to for two or three hours a day that summer. We’d do group therapy, make art, and do other group activities. At first, I felt ashamed and embarrassed to be in rehab, and I’d just shrug and stay silent in groups. 

But over time, being in a nonjudgmental environment and hearing other people’s stories helped me open up. When I finally talked, I joked about it: “I’m here because I have a crazy boyfriend and I’d do anything for him.” When I got more serious, I said that Mathew had gotten me into drugs and alcohol and I told them how he’d abused and assaulted me. 

Some of the other kids said, “Gurl, run” and I said, “Don’t disrespect my boyfriend.” I still loved him.

Around that time I found Sabrina Carpenter’s music. She and Chappel Roan and good old One Direction took my mind off weed and liquor and helped me start this new journey. Their music helps me feel confident and beautiful. 

Rehab ended, and my mom was worried enough that she made me wear a tracker. It felt like I went from jail to house arrest. It was hard staying sober for the first month, but since then I haven’t really wanted to use drugs or alcohol. When I do, I’ll pull one of my younger siblings into my room and talk with them about celebrities or TV shows or any dumb thing to take my mind off wanting to get high. Or else put on music and dance in my room. 

This past September, I transferred to a new school to recover credits. It’s embarrassing repeating 12th grade, but it also was a fresh start. Sober, everything wasn’t a blur. It got easier to think and to process things. I wasn’t paranoid anymore. It was like discovering a new brain I didn’t know I had. 

As the fog lifted, I started to reflect more on things Mathew did to me, and those things made me angry. But I still loved him. Things between us were a little smoother. We talked less but when we did we had better conversation, about music or TV shows instead of drugs and alcohol. As I got more focused on myself and less on pleasing him, I took longer to answer his texts. 

I was slowly finding peace. After a month of rehab I began collecting vinyls and took writing up as a hobby. 

Then I discovered that Mathew was seeing a girl we’d gone to school with. I cried, and he said, “Oh, well.”

The whole six years flooded back. He had cheated on me before, but back then I could get high to not feel it. Now, I faced the fact that he abused and traumatized me for more than 2,190 days. 

I yelled “Get out!” and he did. 

And that was it. Mathew still contacts me every day trying to get me back. I don’t open his messages. I blocked him on social media. 

I just completed a year sober. No alcohol. No marijuana. No Percocets. Just me writing and finding myself, taking long walks and listening to my pop music. 

I’m proud of my progress this year. I get to my classes on time, and I will graduate from high school this summer. I’m writing, and I have a job I like, supervising K-5th grade kids in an after-school program. Slowly I’m figuring out who I am, what I want, and how close I want to get to anyone else. 

My mom recently told me that my best revenge against Mathew would be to become a more loving person. But honestly, the word “love” makes me cringe. I said it to Mathew so many times that the word itself gives me PTSD. I am grateful to my mom for her support, but I don’t say “I love you” to my family. If a guy flirts with me, I just think, “Ewww.” The little kids I work with get so happy when they see me; they’re the only people I let love me. 

For now, I’m finding my strength and resilience on my own.