I was 14 years old when I first looked up what an abusive relationship was, and I cried. I cried because you ticked every single box, and because I didn't know what to do about it.

At 14, I should have been wondering about boys who flirted with me in class, and who was dating who, but instead I worried about saying the wrong thing to you and setting you off.

In the mornings, I didn't pick my outfits based on what would be the cutest, I thought about the time you made me cry because an upperclassmen had checked me out, and "it wouldn't have happened if I wasn't dressed like a slut". I was wearing jeans and a long sleeve that day.

I wasn't lying to my parents about who was texting me, or whose house I was sleeping at, it was what noise had just come from my room, or why I was crying.

I tried not to cry at your football banquet when you yelled at me for "always being so damn nosey" while we were in line for food, because I had asked if someone was still dating their girlfriend.

Instead of making new friends and expanding my circle in high school, I pushed everyone away. I did that because you didn't like my friends, wouldn't let me have them to my house, and I sat with you at lunch every day.

Instead of "how to know if a guy likes you" filling my google history it was "what are signs of an abusive relationship".

When I started new classes, I wasn't excited. Instead I thought of the time you ripped the sleeve off my favorite back to school shirt because a guy reminded me we had to meet for a group project.

I never added anyone new on Snapchat, or social medias, because I knew you would see it.

I picked my seat in the computer lab based off of who would make you least angry to see me next to if you happened to walk by.

I hid my good scores on tests, and my report cards, because I knew your insecurities about school would only come down harder on me if you saw my successes.

I was a freshman in high school when you told me over and over that since there was never any real marks, no one would care, or even believe me, I believed that.

I was 15 when I had to go to guidance for the first time, not to reschedule a class like everyone else, but because you had cornered me in the lunch room , followed me around the school, and threatened to beat up my best friend.

I was 15 when you told me that your guidance counselor had suggested you just take things slower with me, in reaction to my complaint to my own.

I was almost 17 when I told my friends what had really happened between us.

I was 17 when I found out that you were doing these same things, and worse to your new girlfriend. Her and I cried together. I wish I had reached out to her sooner.

I was 18 when I finally told my parents what had happened. I cried then too.

I was 18 when you went after someone I knew, and I told them what you had done, and you told them I was a liar, and a psycho. They started to believe that. I cried in the bathroom at my friend's birthday dinner.

I am 18, and I know that someday you will pay the price for what you did. I don't care who you have to answer to, whether it be the police, God, or a judge, but it will catch up to you someday. Maybe then, when I was 14 won't matter to me as much, and that part of my life can be put to bed.