A Letter To Every Boy Who Thinks I’m A “Crazy Girl”

Baie.
Baie.

We have dated, we have had sex or we have merely just talked. I was just another girl you went for that Thursday night I caught your eye. Six months ago? Or was it a year? You wouldn’t possibly remember now. I was simply a passing month-or-so in your life that you probably never look back on; a name on a list, or someone to be found in your blocked group on Facebook. Another ‘crazy girl’ story you have to tell your friends over beers and banter.

And you all have one thing in common. You all hurt me far more than you should have. I shouldn’t have cried over you, I shouldn’t have had to run to friends for support, and I shouldn’t still be thinking about you now. But I am.

I am the girl you tell your friends about. The girl who won’t get the hint that you’re not interested, the girl who won’t pick up on when you are just using her for sex, and the girl that will believe every lie you tell her.

Headstrong in every other aspect of life, you wouldn’t pick me to be the one to let a boy bring me to the ground. To let a boy control every single emotion I feel, and allow him to bring me up and tear me down at his leisure. I shouldn’t have this weakness with boys. But I do.

When at high school I never had this problem. Turning down sex in the most heated of moments, I had control over my emotions. Until I met you.

I had just turned eighteen, about to start University and had never been truly hurt by a boy. You were a friend of a friend, over ten years my senior, and just in the country visiting from Europe. We all went out, my friends all went home being too incoherent for conversation, and you took me back to where you were staying. I passed out and woke up to me losing my virginity, to who I thought at first was someone I knew, but was actually you.

I screamed and ran from the room, cried in the bathroom and returned to an empty blood-covered bed. I sat, trying to clean the sheets with a facecloth, tears adding to the mess, unsure of what had just happened. It wasn’t till I confided in my friend a week later that we put the pieces together. The absolute incoherence after such few drinks, me seeing things that weren’t there, and the unusual taste of the drink we were so used to. We had been drugged, and my virginity had been stolen.

It was in that moment that I should have learned how to protect myself. But I didn’t.

From then on, any boy I have liked I have thrown myself at. I needed someone to restore my faith in the opposite sex, someone to not let me down, someone who would not break my trust.

Since then I have put my trust into every one of you. I have believed every lie you told me because I wanted to be able to trust you. I have been used for sex and then never spoken to again, strung along with the prospect of a future relationship, and been told you’re going to fall in love with me, the day before you told the other girl you were seeing that she was just special to you.

And every time one of you has broken my trust it has broken me just a little bit more. Every time you lie to me, I’m back to the eighteen-year-old losing her virginity. I’m back to a helpless mess, who still wants to be able to trust you. Every time the hurt I feel is stronger, the betrayal even worse than last time. But I still allow it to happen, in the hope that one day I’ll finally be able to trust one of you.

Please let me be able to trust one of you.

We have dated, we have had sex or we have merely just talked. I was just another girl you went for that Thursday night I caught your eye. And you were just another boy to take another piece of me. TC mark

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  • http://flawedtwenties.wordpress.com Lyla Michaels

    Reblogged this on Conversations I Wish I Had and commented:
    Vulnerable and raw; incredibly touching.

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