I was fifteen when I met Gregory Baker. If there was one word I could use for him by just looking at his physical appearance, it’s intriguing. Even now, I would use it for him, no matter how reluctant I am to admit it aloud. He was tall – maybe 6’1 – and had these piercing green eyes that I could stare in for days. I can’t tell you how often I’d gotten lost in those eyes.

His blond hair was cropped short and he had only slightly sun-kissed skin. The muscle he’d already had indicated that he worked hard for them. Every girl is attracted to at least a little muscle here and there. Having Greg just within my reach was like a dream come true. He was handsome, smart, popular, and athletic.

Check, check, check, check.

My untouchable list of what the “Perfect Boy For Me” would include had been completed by this unbelievably perfect being.

But I realize now, there was one thing I should have also added to my list: human.

No, Greg wasn’t an animal or poster. By human, I mean, empathetic and real – someone who would only touch me lightly with care and respect.

I remember the first time I’d laid eyes on Greg. I was new at Northern Temple High School, entering as a sophomore, and had already made five friends. They were all art geeks – one of them a complete pothead, but that’s a totally different story.

I walked into my fifth period English class only to bump into non-other than Gregory Lawrence Baker, possibly the most gorgeous boy I’d ever seen in my life. He was a close second to Channing Tatum and that’s no simple feet.

Anyway, my arms chose that exact moment to give out and I dropped all of my books right onto his feet. He gave a quick intake of breath and winced when a corner of my heavy social studies textbook jammed into his right foot. I gasped and quickly dropped to my knees to gather my books.

I should have seen it in the way he held his breath as I frantically grabbed my books and stacked them into my arms tightly. I should have seen it in his tight smile when I apologized. At the time, I thought his fake smile and flushed red cheeks indicated that he was shy. What an idiot I was to think that.

The only thing he did was nod and duck his head as he stepped out of my way and walked past me. I blinked before cursing my clumsiness and heading into class.

Another thing I remember is when we got closer. We had three classes together and every chance he could get, he sat beside me. We didn’t talk much. The only affection we’d actually exchanged were a few mischievous glances at each other when a teacher said something that sounded remotely dirty or that we could flip into some ridiculous innuendo.

One day, Patty, one of my friends from art class, invited me to a party at her cousin’s house. She never liked those parties where a majority of those who attended were either high, hooking up, or both. Actually, she despised them. But it was her cousin’s birthday and being a big family person, she couldn’t just not go.

So she asked me to tag along, thinking that I would be mature enough to control myself. I made a vow to myself never to drink. Of course, I used to take a smoke every now and then - though I promise, it was nothing crazy. I only took a drag when my parents argue. They’d been doing a lot of that at the time.

Because my uncle died of lung cancer from smoking, I tried not to do it too much. Instead, if my parents’ fighting gets out of control, I’d try to weasel my way out of the house and go to some friend’s place.

The night of the party, while Patty and I were getting ready at my house, we’d heard my front door swing open and slam shut. With the loud noise came my father’s barking shouts that echoed through the house. He was slurring drunken words together about how he was tired of my mother and her cheating. I rolled my eyes and apologized to Patty. “Ignore him, he’s like this sometimes,” I reassured her while she nodded worriedly.

Truthfully, that was the first time he was so drunk that I couldn’t understand a word he said. He was always a brick wall when it came to alcohol. It never affected him as easily as it does most people so when he slurred the words together the way he did that night, I knew he’d been drinking way too much.

I hid my worry from Patty, though. I didn’t want to scare her. I figured she and I could just sneak out the back door and not interfere with my parents.

But then I heard the crashing of glass as my mother screamed. The house was quite for a moment and my heart skipped a beat. Patty and I paused. She stopped combing her hair and I stopped trying to get my other contact in.

And then it happened. My mother yelled a long string of exploits and the last sounds I will have ever heard from her were the clicking of her heals and the door slamming shut behind her.

She finally left. I don’t know how I knew it. I just did. It was a premonition in the back of my mind all along, I realized, that she would sooner or later walk out on Dad. I’d thought she’d bring me with her as a good mother would but I also knew she didn’t have much maternal instinct left in her.

Now I know my father loved me more than she ever really did or would. But at that moment, I was so distressed that I quickly put in the last contact before analyzing myself in the mirror and grabbing Patty’s hand. We crawled out my window and walked to her car. Neither of us said a word until we’d reached her cousin’s large house.

I couldn’t tell you about that night even if I wanted to. I don’t remember most of it. All I know is that the next day at school, I was stuck with a massive head ache from a hangover I never wanted again and a bunch of people smiling and waving at me.

Whatever happened that night changed my life forever. Gregory was closer than usual and he put his arm around me at lunch when he sat beside me. I pretended not to be surprised but when he leaned down for a kiss, I couldn’t explain how red my cheeks got.

I played it off as if I knew what was going on that day. Finally I saw Patty in study hall and asked her what had happened. She looked me up and down with a raised eyebrow and worry crossing her face. “You drank a lot and hooked up with Greg, I think. I saw you with him for a majority of the party and then you left together.”

I wanted to know more. What happened after that? What did I say? What did I do? But at the same time, I was too afraid of what I might have done. Too ashamed of what most likely went on with Greg that night.

Eventually, I started to enjoy being with Greg.

But then the night came when he hit me. It wasn’t on accident. I watched his hand swing back before it struck me in the cheek. It was a powerful slap - one that sent me staggering backward onto his couch. We’d been arguing about what had happened at his friend’s party the day before. Apparently, I was “checking out other guys”. Honestly, I wasn’t eyeing boys. I was eyeing the cigarette in Trevor Dixon’s hand in dire need for a drag.

I fell onto the couch, pressing my hand to my hot cheek where I could feel it pulsing. It was a slap with so much force that a bruise had formed in a mere two minutes.

It went on like that for a long time - for about five months. I’d started wearing turtle necks and long-sleeved shirts and jeans. No shorts or anything that showed skin. Anything to cover up the shamefulness of being beaten by Greg. I think he liked it that way too.

I was too afraid to tell people. I couldn’t go to anyone. My father wouldn’t listen - he had his own worries, I thought. He’d gotten a new job and we moved into a different house, leaving memories of Mom behind us. I couldn’t put him under any more stress. He was still getting over the divorce papers sent to us through the mail by Mom a week after she left.

Not surprisingly, she hadn’t sent me any letters. Not even on my birthday. After that blow, I went to Greg a lot more. His beatings gave me something else to think about. The physical pain became more tolerable that the mental hurt I’d been facing.

Patty stopped talking to me because I didn’t spend enough time with her. She thought I was too obsessed with Greg. I guess, in a way, I was. I didn’t do it on purpose. Greg got mad if I went anywhere without him or lied to him. I couldn’t even compliment a male without worrying Greg would find out about it and hit me.

I began to spend every day with Greg. Our time together was always the same. First we’d stay at his house, in his room. Those were the times he took advantage of me the most. We were alone and no one was around to interrupt. But he didn’t hit me there. Those secret times together were for a different occasion.

He mostly hit me in his car or in his living room. I preferred the punches in the arm or when he slammed his fist onto my leg. Those hurt less and were easier to cover up when bruises formed. He knew this too but when he got angry enough, he’d strike my face.

I made excuses to my father and the people around me about slamming my head into my locker or getting hit with a ball while walking past a football practice.

When Greg had heard about that last lie, he got angry and told me that people probably thought I’d been at the football practice to check out the boys. He often put words into my mouth, making himself angrier and angrier. I don’t know why he wasted his time assuming the worst or accusing me of doing things I didn’t. He just did.

I became gradually friendless, my grades dropped, I was home less. People just stopped talking to me unless I was with Greg. But even Greg didn’t talk to me much anymore. Almost anything we talked about made him angry. I was like his personal pet. He laid down the rules, and I had no choice but to follow them.

At the time, I thought it was because of him that I still had any kind of social life. Now I realize I would have been just fine with my own social status if it weren’t for him coming into my life in the first place.

One night, after spending my usual evening with Greg, I got home a little past curfew. I entered the house, and trudged into the main hallway. I figured Dad was already asleep so I didn’t bother to adjust my shirt to cover the bruises. I stepped into the living room to go upstairs. The light was on. I guessed my father forgot to turn them out but he never forgets. He’s big on saving money.

And he was there, lounging on the black leather couch with his legs crossed and a newspaper in his hands. He looked up over the paper with a skeptical look. But that washed away quickly and turned into a mix of shock and worry. He jumped up and dropped the news paper to storm up in front of me.

He raised his hand to my face and I winced at the movement. It was a gesture I knew all too well. Greg’s hands were always on my face. But my father’s hand didn’t strike my cheek or temple like Greg’s had so many times. He rubbed the spots that had bruises on them.

“What happened?” He asked, alarmed. I didn’t hesitate. I’d been planning excuses for months.

“I fell down the stairs at school,” I told him. I bit my lip, knowing I’d already used that excuse two weeks ago.

“You gave me that excuse the first time you ‘fell down the stairs’. That doesn’t happen twice in one month. Is someone bullying you?” He pressed.

“No!” I said a little to quickly. The argument went on but eventually he got the truth out of me. For some reason, it was the hardest thing I’d ever done, admitting to being a victim of an abusive relationship and to say Greg had been the one to touch me so violently.

Thirteen years later into the present is where I am now. A twenty-nine year old woman with a masters degree is psychology. I’m a therapist working alongside my husband, Byron Evers, who is a social worker. We both help children, teens, and adults who deal with abuse.

I’ll be honest, when Greg was first charged with so many faults, I was heartbroken. He looked at me with such hate that I cowered in bed for months until Dad made me take group and personal therapy. My mother lost all contact with us. I still don’t know where she is but she’s somewhere far from me whether mentally of physically.

I often wonder what she would have done if she’d known about what I’d gone through.

After therapy, I’d learned to love again even though I told myself I would never trust a man for as long as I live. But I had gone through many simple relationships. None of them lasted all that long until I met Byron four years ago.

He’d been abused by his own parents and was taken into custody by a distant family member when he was fourteen.

I don’t think anyone should go through what I went through but it definitely made me stronger. It was like a wound. It was a deep cut that was sewn together. Then it was delicate and fragile for a long time before it finally healed. The scar is still there but it’s hardly noticeable these days.

My advice to you, is to never let anyone take advantage of you the way Greg did to me. You don’t deserve to be beaten by anyone. And most of all, don’t be afraid to tell someone. There are some real bad people out there who will do anything to keep you in their cage. Sometimes you can’t just break it off. You’ve got to tell someone or there’s a chance you’ll never heal.

I hope you’ll take my story seriously and never forget that you are not someone to be messed with.