As an eighteen-year-old, I didn’t know a lot about love, but I thought I did. When I moved into my college dorm room, my mom and my boyfriend helped me. He was the second boyfriend I ever had, and like with the first one, I saw us getting married one day. We had both said we would get married one day.
We were young kids dreaming about a good future different from our bad past.
One month into college, I broke up with him. Like many other high school relationships, mine didn’t last the distance—a whopping thirty minutes. Who knew if that distance would get larger when he graduated and started college too? As much as he did everything right, it all felt wrong for me.
Once my life diverged from his, I stopped giving the cold shoulder to the guys talking to me. Instead, I gave them warm smiles as they flirted with me during class. I took them up on their offers to play pool, kick the ball around, or walk to the next class together.
This might make it sound like all the guys were hitting me up. Not so. All the guys were hitting all the girls up. I was at a community college crammed full of 18–20-year-olds. It wasn’t exactly the prime age for gentlemanly courtship.
My college knew this, too. Inside the dorms, there were condom dispensers, free of charge. They probably hoped that if people couldn’t keep it in their pants, the guys would at least keep the sperm out of the girls. But apparently the condoms were expired, and the only place they ended up were unused, on the lobby floor.
Okay. So my campus had its issues. There was that gang fight that shattered the dorm’s glass entrance doors, the large amount of collegiate athletes smoking weed and drinking illegally, and the hackling from football players posted on the concrete welcome sign.
The “what’s yo snapchat?” and booty stares were endless.
But it felt like a dream to me. I had finally moved out and escaped all the things that had weighed me down at home. I got to play soccer in college, just as I had worked so hard for. In every sense, I felt free.
Not to mention, this campus hadn’t been white washed. There were people from all over the United States and from all over the world. As a soccer player, I hung out with the other girl and boy soccer players. I met people from Australia, Colombia, Venezuela, Chile, Brazil, Trinidad, Jamaica, Japan, Thailand, Germany, France, and England. Everyone was so different, yet the same.
I made new friends, ran sprints at practice, and put bets on who would lose the dinner game and have to take all the dirty dishes to the conveyer belt.
I had the time of my life.
And then I got sexually assaulted.
To this day, I don’t like talking about it. You think after seven years, it wouldn’t make me feel so uncomfortable and confused and still ashamed. But it does. As much as it shakes me now, it’s like an earthquake magnitude of 2.4 compared to what was an earthquake magnitude of 7.
People knew about it. I don’t how many people knew but enough knew. Some people didn’t like me because I had reported it. I lost a few friends. The friends that counted stayed. As for flirting? That no longer suited my taste. It repulsed me to the point that I felt yucky thinking about it. If one friend could assault me, another could too. Even if I did everything in my power to prevent it, nothing gave me confidence that it wouldn’t happen again.
Of the male friends that didn’t abandon me, I knew one had a crush on me. But I had lost so many friends, I pushed past the uncomfortable moments when he dropped hints about his crush on our walks to the cafeteria (the caf). Every other day we had our first class—The College Experience—together and he sat next to me.
Until one day.
A British boy arrived late to college. The first time I interacted with him, at the caf, he had rumpled hair and wore a crimson polo. One might think it preppy, but it came across as nerdy to me. I didn’t care. Most of my ancestors were from England, and British people excited me.
I tried to ask him a question. No response. Realizing he hadn’t heard me, I repeated it. No response. Realizing he was caught up in another conversation, I waited for better timing and tried again. He hardly looked at me as he mumbled an answer.
Shrugging it off, I decided he was not very exciting after all. I moved on so well and so quickly that for weeks I didn’t notice he had The College Experience class with me.
Until that one day. He walked in before my friend had arrived and sat at the other end of the table. I eyed him. There were two empty seats between us. He didn’t have to sit alone.
“You can sit here, you know.” I patted the seat next to me.
His head bobbed up, his mouth slightly parted. Closing his mouth, he restored his neutral face. “Okay,” he said, grabbing his backpack and switching to the seat next to me.
Funny how I hadn’t figured out that my invitation would bother the friend who had a crush on me, but my friend made sure I knew that later (“You let him sit in my seat?!”). Looking back, it makes sense why the rest of the class period I failed to include my friend in on the conversations with the British boy. He was too angry to participate. Or maybe I was too distracted.
The British boy began to consistently show up to class before my friend. Consistently, he chose to sit next to me. We developed a routine of going to the caf for breakfast. Well, I woke up early enough to eat breakfast before class, so while he ate his cereal, I drank my hot cocoa.
Then he started walking me to my next class. It flustered me the first time he not only walked me to the building, but he opened the door for me and walked me inside.
His banter increased and I followed his lead. When we took a values test in our class, ranking how much we valued one thing over another, his choices surprised me. I teased him for his cynicism. Being half-Scottish, he embraced his views with an impenetrable pride.
On one evening, I played pool with my friend (who began to resent me more and more for my interactions with the British boy) and his roommate—another soccer player and friend of mine. Cocky and lucky, I challenged them to a game. The British boy sauntered down around this time, also cocky. He took the challenge, and unfortunately for me, instead of luck he had skill.
The winner would buy the other person dinner. So far, fate had helped me hold my own, but I could see my winning chances were dwindling. The black and white ball rested on the felt. All others hid in the pockets. Stripes were shaking for me and colors were cheering for him. In one hit, he would win.
The cue stick collided with the white ball. It happened in slow motion. Literally. The ball moved so slow that when it reached the black ball it barely tapped it. The British boy smiled at me. My turn.
I put the black ball into the pocket and won. That night the British boy bought my dinner, and I knew he liked me.
He started coming by my dorm. I don’t remember the excuse for why, but I believe it happened after the move. The time when he asked to watch Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone with me. He loved the film, and I had a TV.
In the lead up to him coming over, I had a hard time deciding if I wanted this hang out.
One month had passed since my sexual assault. I knew I would likely be safe, so I moved forward with our plans.
As we sat in the dark, on the dumpy red couch that had been used by generations of other college soccer girls, I couldn’t focus on the movie. The British boy was nice, but the other guy had been nice too. We were in the living room area, but my roommates were gone. Nothing would probably happen, but I felt nervous.
What if I wasn’t ready? I liked this guy. A lot. But the whole making out during a movie trope seemed like too much. Waiting for him to make his move filled me with anxiety.
His hand inched closer to mine. Any moment I thought he’d move his arm around me. Instead, his pinky brushed against the outside of my hand. Half a minute later, it brushed again. Slowly, over minutes, he began to hold my hand. Gentle brushes of his thumb soothed me.
Not much more happened that night.
After he left, I fell into a deep sleep, thinking, Without me asking, he took it slow.
The little things added up. Our paths crossed one day as he came back from practice and I went to class, and in front of his teammates he placed his hand against my cheek. There were no official dates, but every night became a night with the British boy. We played Monopoly and Phase 10 and joked back and forth relentlessly.
My best friend hated him, and that added fuel to my laughter. Around others, he came across as . . . well . . . a bit of a jerk. But I understood his banter, and when it was only the two of us, he said the sweetest things.
When I hung out with my roommate, whose dorm room was next to mine, I finally felt understood. I explained how special the relationship was to me, how sweet he could be, and how surreal our love felt. “I don’t know how to describe it, but I can feel the love in the air around me,” I said.
She nodded. She had a boyfriend too. “Yes!” she said.
My roommate had a knack for making people feel comfortable in their own skin, so it’s no surprise that she was one of the few that didn’t make me feel irrational for being with this boy. She even commented about how often she could hear us laughing. I had validation. Someone knew how great it was.
But my best friend knew how great it also wasn’t.
The amount of times I begged for a hug goodbye. When I found out he thought it was needy of me to ask for a hug. When I called him a jerk for saying something rude and he called me a cry-baby. When he yelled at me for accidentally shutting down his video game (no progress was lost).
My friend saw my injuries, but I saw the bandages of the apologies he had made. A person can make mistakes, apologize, and make improvements. No one is perfect. Except the bandages didn’t stay long enough for the cuts to heal and more always came.
It hurt when he insisted I wasn’t funny, even though he laughed at my jokes. It hurt when he insisted I was too silly to be sexy, even though he called me gorgeous in the back of my car.
The infatuation mixed with the pain, the fun mixed with the fights. It thrilled me when we raced from my car up to my dorm room on the third floor (almost every single time we got back to campus). It comforted me when he stayed over and I slept in his arms. It shocked me when he, unlike many others before, stood up for me when people treated me poorly.
With all the bad, I had hope for the good. I could see what we could become, and I thought he could see it too. Once again, I talked with a boyfriend about marriage. Once again, we talked about the dreamy stuff, not the serious logistics. In my mind, I could not believe that we wouldn’t work out. How could it end, if you loved someone this much?
Then he said he wanted to move back to England.
The night he confirmed it would happen, I cried incessantly. My best friend came to comfort me, but she couldn’t stop the tears. Go to sleep, she insisted. Sleep will help. Speaking through the snot running down my face, I said, “I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere. I don’t want tomorrow to come.
“I don’t want to go to sleep.”
She pointed out that I had no other choice but to sleep. Consciousness faded.
The next morning, I woke up and for one split second I had no memories, no thoughts. Before the memories or thoughts came, the feelings showed up, and for the first time in my life I woke up crying. My body knew what was happening before I did.
In less than a month, my British boyfriend would return to his home.
I had to accept it.
He was miserable. Depressed. The coach wouldn’t play him, and he didn’t want to fight for playing time. He stopped showing up to classes. He stopped talking and laughing when we hung out. His lifeline depended on the airline ticket that would take him away from the United States.
In our time left together, we both became Phase 10 experts. We drove around the city with nothing to do but listen to music and stop for hot cocoa. Every now and again, we’d go to the city lookout, until we found out there was a curfew and got kicked out by a cop. Then we’d get McDonald’s ands hang out at Walmart after midnight, since it was the only thing worth doing in that town.
The day I drove him to the airport, I handed him a letter and asked him if we could try long distance. It wasn’t my first time asking, but this time he considered it. He didn’t talk about how long distance never worked out. He looked like maybe he thought it worth a shot.
So, we tried.
I tried.
He returned to his life. His friends. His parties. I heard from him less and less. Valentine’s Day came and I waited for him to say anything. In the evening, when he had clearly forgotten, I went and bought myself chocolate strawberries, reimbursed by my mom, and ate them alone in my dorm room.
After many talks with my family, my best friend, and God, I decided to break up with him. I wanted to do it the right way (not over text), and it took three tries to get him on the phone. If he hadn’t answered the third time, I would have just texted, but here I was, on a FaceTime with the British boy who meant so much to me.
His face fell as I told him my decision and why I chose to end the relationship. Somehow, after he began talking, we were joking and laughing with one another again. It felt good. It felt like the highs of before. By the end of the hour-long conversation, I told him we could get back together based on a condition that he read two parts of the Book of Mormon, since I wanted to get married in the temple.
It was a horrible decision and a horribly unhealthy approach I took based precisely on horrible advice I had been given. But I was still learning how to sift through good advice and bad advice and make decisions now that I was on my own.
You can guess how things went.
The British boy became what I wanted him to be. He complimented me daily. Heck, he talked to me daily. He even began reading the Book of Mormon. It was a complete 180.
But it didn’t last. I told him I would come visit him in England. Then I didn’t have the money. Then I thought I found a way, but it became clear I hadn’t. Then I for certain had the money and could come. He felt pulled around. He had stopped showing up to the relationship again. I called and called so I could confirm which flight time would work best for me to go. He didn’t respond.
My soccer coach gave me good advice on dating, and I decided I needed to break up with my British boyfriend. One final time. Call it not classy, but with the recent lack of response, I didn’t bother stressing about getting him on the phone. I sent the best heartfelt breakup text I could with the frustration I felt.
I wished him well and recognized we couldn’t grow together—we weren’t a good fit and the actions needed for growth weren’t there—but I was glad I met him and had the opportunity to love him. He apologized in one word. Sorry.
Our chats revived at some point in the summer, but by the time I left on my mission in July, our connection was completely gone and severed.
I had never felt such high-highs with a boyfriend and I had never felt such low-lows with a boyfriend. I can’t describe the entire tangle of our interwoven lives, but I know we were young and learning. I know it affected me longer than normal. I know I felt hurt. Yet, even on my mission when I emailed him and got no reply, despite his promise, I couldn’t say “F— you” and move on with it. Instead, I had one dramatic cry in a bathroom and realized how messed up I was emotionally. I realized he had to take care of his stuff, but more importantly, I needed to take care of my own stuff.
Throughout the months and years, I got over the British boy. I wrote a couple songs about him and checked his Facebook every now and again to see if he was doing okay. I saw that he moved on in life and met someone, and that made me happy.
I can’t blame him for how things went. Sure, he did wrong, but so did I. In the end, the British boy broke my heart, but I learned more about love and how to find the ones worth fighting for. Most of all, I began to learn I was worth fighting for—one of the biggest game changers in life.
It only took me six years after the break up for that lesson to make significant changes in my self-worth, but I’ll tell you about that later. That’s a story that’s still being written.
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