It happens once a month

The first time always hurts.

This is one of the first statements about sex that I came across while growing up in Dallas, Texas. Sadly, it predicted my experience perfectly. My first time was an assault. I was sixteen. My abuser was my swim coach’s nephew, a man twice my age.

My teenage years were far from the glittery homecoming high school experience. My grandmother passed away on Christmas of 2015, which was about a year before my assault. After her death, my family, which was already struggling to hold itself together, disintegrated before my eyes, causing me to fall into a suicidal depression. 

Because of the fraught relationships at home, I tried to insert myself into my swim coach’s family, someone I felt close to and trusted. That was when I met his nephew. We bonded over our troubled pasts. Early on, he shared with me that his father had committed suicide when he was fourteen. It was through revealed secrets like these that I began to see how our family portraits stood in front of each other as mirroring patchworks of dysfunction. The familiarity caused me to feel like I had found a place to belong. 

During the final exam week of my junior year, my coach’s nephew picked me up from school during my lunch period, took me to an empty parking lot, and assaulted me. I still remember the January air cutting through my hollow body as I stepped out of the passenger side of his car after he drove me back and walked through the school’s double-door entry to take my last test. To calm myself down, I pictured the wooden wind chime in front of my grandmother's cottage. As a child, I would look at it and wince when a strong gust of wind would go by and toss the pieces around, causing them to clink against each other so that we could have music. 

Once again, I felt like my world had crumbled, and the person I had felt at peace with no longer provided that safety net. Without that security, I found myself fumbling in the dark, trying to grab onto something or someone to live for. My hand landed on the assault, and I couldn’t help wishing that it would result in a pregnancy. 

I’ve always wanted to be a parent, and I believed that if I had a child, I would have a reason to stay alive because I would have someone to belong to. But a few days later, when I pulled down my underwear and saw blood, I felt like I had lost something more than my virginity. I vividly recall being at a Walmart a month later and feeling my throat close up as I stared at the newborn section, unable to walk through it.

Seven years after my assault, Roe v.Wade was overturned. This event led me to write and publish a part-memoir, part-fictional novella about abortion, sexual assault, and family dysfunction. Despite the success that followed the release of my book, I still feel embarrassed for how I wanted my assault to result in pregnancy because there are women and gender-diverse individuals across America who don’t have access to abortion. I am ashamed of how painfully desperate I was for something that most rape survivors would beg God not to let happen.

My teenage years consisted of several frantic attempts at trying to find security. Today, I feel most at home when I am writing my truth. Sexual assault and abortion are complex and nuanced subjects that unfold differently for each person who experiences either of them. I don’t have the answers, but despite my past troubles and thoughts, I have an unwavering belief that one’s decision about their body should not be a question.

Now, each time I enter my menstrual cycle and look down to see a red ink splotch on my underwear, I remember my sixteen-year-old self. I remember the hope I held tightly to my chest and how it slipped through my fingers like a child’s hand. 

For those who are wondering, I was hoping to have a son. He would've had his father's green eyes and my dark curly hair. My child would’ve been a boy who’d grow up to be a man with a heart softer than a woman’s skin. A man whom I would walk down the aisle to marry the person he loves and go on to live the life he wants—his smile stretched with confidence from the fact that he will always have a place to call home.