When I was 14, I was in my first relationship. Let's call him John* (obviously a fake name). He was 3 years older than me. I was in middle school, in 6th grade, and he was in 8th. I had always been bullied super badly, ever since I started first grade, so meeting John, and him actually being interested in me was a huge thing. And because I was so naive and desperate to be liked, it made me too vulnerable.

We were together for almost 4 years. We ended the summer before I started my freshman year of high school.
In those 4 years, I put up with a lot of shit. John got me into smoking, I started lying to my parents because he would tell me "if you love me, you'll go with me to x", and so we would go out places we weren't allowed. If I didn't he would guilt trip me, and make it out like I didn't want to go sneak out and smoke pot just because I didn't love him, when I did.

I was 14/15 when I lost my virginity. It wasn't like how I had planned. I didn't even want to go with him, but of course I did. "If you don't have sex with me then you don't love me!”
So for a year every weekend, we would have sex. Even if it meant getting held down in my own bed begging him to get off of me. Even if it meant getting drugged.

One day he got angry at me. He came out to my (very religious) family about what we had been doing. And, of course, I was the one at fault. I was the worthless whore. I was going to hell. I was the disgusting bitch. I was the nasty slut. I was the shame of the family. I was running my family's life because /I/ had been abused and assaulted. Because I was raped. Because I was in an abusive relationship.

That was the first time I had tried to kill myself. If my brother hadn't stepped in, I wouldn't even be here.

Since that night I've learned to be more careful of who I trust. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.