The night of my junior prom was full of colorful, floorlength dress, most of them drooping to the floor as the girls beneath them saw how low they could go. Disco lights raced across the walls, people laughed, drunken couples caressed and sober couples fought. At least, that’s how I envision it.

My dress was hanging calmly in my bedroom closet. I was in the basement, chomping down on popcorn to distract my throat from its intentions of getting all choked up. I don’t remember what movie I was watching; I can’t imagine I was paying much attention.

My ex-boyfriend of one week, whom I had spent the last year of my life with, was surrounded by all of my friends, dancing at our junior prom with his date, a girl I had never met before, an “old friend” of his that he asked to prom when he realized at the last minute that I couldn’t go with him.

I couldn’t understand why I had to give up parts of my life experience when he was the one who did something wrong. He had called my mom a bitch, he had dictated how I was to dress and wear my hair that night, he had ignored my curfews even as I begged him let me get home on time for once. My parents knew how he abused me, and yet I was the one who was punished.

He seemed more than friendly with his date, people told me the next day. Sadly, that was not surprising. What killed me was that weeks, months, even years later people would say to me, “Remember at junior prom, when…” They share memories that I should have had, but I never did.

My dad would say, “Tough, life’s not fair,” in a very comforting, philosophical tone. My mom would begin ranting about what a vile, horrid creature he was, how she’s sure he would have killed me eventually. (Somehow keeping me home from prom was a step toward preventing that.)

In some ways, they were both right. What they’re forgetting is the mark it made when I realized how hard it was to separate my life from his. I had to find things to do when he was with my friends, I had to reorganize my life around him, so that in avoiding him I was constantly thinking about him.

Making that conscious effort was heartwrenching at times. But as much as I felt like I was punishing myself, the effort I made reinforced what I was beginning to understand, that I could decide whether I wanted to see him or not. And every time I chose not to, every time I chose to avoid him even when my friends were with him, it made up for a different time, a time when he chose what I did.

In the end, junior prom wasn’t as fun as senior prom. I only went to one of them, but that’s what I hear.