The Change
- Ashley
- Jan 31
- 7 min read
Updated: Feb 2
Part III
WARNING:
This part of my story contains a plethora of triggers including sexual harassment, verbal abuse, self harm and suicide attempt as an adolescent. If you or anyone you know, adolescent or not, is struggling, please call the Lifeline at 988, or click the link below.
You are loved, you are valued, and you are worth life.
It's important to include a few things about J before moving forward.
J was a bigot. If you weren't straight, white, and his version of "normal", you were garbage in his eyes. He is by far the most racist, homophobic, close minded person I have ever met in my life, and he was openly like this at home. He used slurs frequently, talked about how much he hated black and gay people, and made fun of people who were handicapped. J was also extremely, EXTREMELY sexist. To the point where it made you question if he even liked women. I'd like to clarify he did this both sober and drunk, it wasn't an alcohol issue, it was him wholly as a person.
Fast forward to me being 13/14 years old. I had started to develop, started to grow into a more “womanly body”. This is when J started paying more attention to me in his fits of aggression, and treating me differently. I became the main target from this point on.
I remember his friend, A*, coming over one night and them making comments about my clothes, how I smelled, not wanting me to be near them. For the record – I smelled like Bath and Body Works perfume and cared a lot about how I looked due to me already being bigger than most girls my age. It was often that J would invite A* over and they would drink on the living room couch, which was right next to my bedroom. I could feel their eyes on me as soon as I walked out of my room to go across the hall to the bathroom. Hear their snickers.
This is when I started to hide away in my room whenever I was home. I remember walking out into the living room wearing an open flannel with a tank top underneath and skinny jeans (I was 13, it wasn’t exposing, but ya know, developing body) and he looked me up and down, scoffed, and said that I was going to end up pregnant, and that I looked like a whore.
Anytime I wore anything even remotely form fitting or not up to my neck, he looked at me with disgust and made some type of comment about my outfit, appearance, make up, weight, etc.
“If you get knocked up, you’re getting the fuck out.”
“You look like a whore.”
“Are you sure you need more food?”
"How many boyfriends this week?"
If there wasn’t a verbal comment, there was a scoff, a look, a headshake. His eyes burned holes in me. Side comments insinuating sexual activity that he was convinced I was participating in. I hadn't even had my first kiss until I was 13, and I was a virgin until I was 17. J was calling an innocent 14 year old girl a whore, daily, for no reason.
Then he gave me his favorite nickname.
Cadillac Ass
This nickname was due to the size of my butt. At 14 years old. He would look at my ass and make comments about its size constantly. This nickname was something that stayed for years, that was again, a "joke", that made my fucking skin crawl every time he said it. His best friend A* even started using it while referring to me.
And I just took it, because I was scared of what would happen if I spoke up.
It was also at this time that I was told to get a job. I was 14 years old and babysitting almost every weekend. Anything outside of food and toiletries, I was paying for myself. Clothes, perfume, accessories, I spent my own money. I tried to explain to him that no place would hire me at 14 years old, and I was doing what I could. That was never good enough.
“Fucking lazy ass”
“You’re going to go nowhere in life”
"You're just gonna sit on your ass and pop out a bunch of puppies"
"Fucking useless"
Because I could not please him by finding a job, I was made to do other things around the house instead.
Everyday when I got home from school, I had to clean the house and make sure it was spotless. There couldn't be a single glass in the sink. If it wasn’t up to his standards, I was in for it. Berated about how useless I was, "a fucking slob", slamming of doors, stomping of feet around the house.
J got home at 4 pm everyday. I remember the anxiety I had waiting to hear the back door open, his boots across the kitchen floor, slamming his lunch box on the counter. I had to make dinner every night, and it had to be ready by 5:30/6 pm the latest. Any later, I was getting screamed at from the other room. Even if we were having guests over, I was the one to cook dinner. I had to make his scrambled eggs a specific amount of cooked on the weekends. I made dinner every night until the day I moved out.
To this day, every night without fail, my anxiety peaks at 4 pm and doesn't settle back down until 8 pm. My body has gotten so used to that schedule that to this day, in my happy marriage and motherhood, I can't fucking shake it.
If he finished his glass of scotch while I was cooking or out of my bedroom, I was told to refill his glass with the right amount of ice and alcohol while he sat on the couch and watched TV.
After two years of constant verbal abuse and sexual harassment, my psyche started to wear. I developed horrible anxiety and depression. I sat in my room at all times, only leaving it to use the bathroom or eat dinner. After he would go upstairs to sleep for the night, I would go out into the living room to watch TV with my Mom. But other than those two hours a day, I was isolated. In my room, drowning in my own thoughts.
I started to believe what he was saying and hate the person I was. I became hyper focused on my appearance. I started taking weight loss pills from the grocery store, counting my calories, obsessing over every roll or imperfection on my body. No matter what I did, I was constantly looked at like the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen, and I wanted it to fucking stop. I wanted to be smaller, to be whatever it was that would make him leave me alone. Nothing was fucking working. And I couldn't take the hatred I had developed for myself.
… And that’s when I started breaking apart my razors and cutting myself. I saw myself as worthless, a whore, disgusting, too big, all of the things he had said to me. And I couldn't take the pain I was feeling anymore. I needed to let it out, I needed to feel something other than the pain in my heart. I needed to focus on something else. I hid my fresh cuts under long sleeves, and during warmer weather, used my hips and thighs instead. I never dared wear shorts, so it worked. My self harm went on for about 6 months, until my suicide attempt.
My mom was working late, or had some type of work event. I was home alone with J and my brother Austin. He was hiding away in his room and J was in the living room. I had made dinner, and just finished washing the dishes. I pushed in all of the chairs at the table, wiped it down, and turned off the lights in the kitchen. As I was walking into my room, J looked at me, scoffed, and under his breath said, "At least you're good for something".
I'm not sure why, but that was my breaking point.
J had been tearing me down, piece by piece for so long and that was the straw that broke my poor, wounded14 year old back.
It was 6:30 pm. I walked into my room and cried. And cried, and cried, and cried. I couldn't take it anymore. I hated myself so much, and was overwhelmed daily by the thoughts in my head. I wrote a letter to everyone. My friends at the time, my family, and took the remainder of a bottle of Advil.
I threw up probably 30-40 minutes later, got dizzy and sleepy, and passed out in my bed.
Now as an adult, I know that taking 15-20 pills of ibuprofen probably isn't going to kill me. But it's so fucking sad to me now that I just blindly swallowed pills in the hopes that it would end my life.
I woke up the next day, feeling like I had been hit by a truck. I felt so sick, had the worst headache... But I was alive. And no one knew what I had attempted the night before. And I cried. And cried. Because it wasn’t fucking over. I failed. And that moment felt like he was right. I couldn’t even kill myself right, I was fucking pathetic, useless. Just like he thought.
My self harm and attempt came out after a math teacher of mine noticed how off I had been and saw one of the marks on my arm, and had me go to my guidance counselor. I lied my ass off to her, and just told her my depression and self harm was due to my grandfather dying. As sad I was about him passing away, it wasn't the reason I wanted my life to end, nor was it the reason I was covered in scars. But it worked as an excuse. I was institutionalized for a weekend. I was put on an antidepressant, referred to a therapist, and sent home.
When I got back to my Mom and J's, the verbal abuse didn't stop. He wasn't phased finding out about any of it. He made constant comments about how they should've kept me, how I needed to "go back to the fucking looney bin".
28 year old me wishes that I had spoken up to my guidance counselor right then and there. And I’m sure someone reading this thinks the same thing. But I truly believed and internalized the things he said to me. I didn’t think anyone would help me because I figured they would think he was right. My brain had been so warped by him and the abuse he had given me, I didn’t realize how truly disgusting it all was until it was too late.
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