< Translator’s note: The original formatting of the stories has been preserved. The translations aim to remain as close as possible to each author's original wording and expression.
Unfortunately, in 23 years of life, violence has happened to me more than once. In each individual instance, and altogether, I felt — and still feel now — a sense of guilt. Some part of me still believes that if it has happened more than once, there must be something wrong with me. But I am working on that.
Today I will share the story that has probably left the deepest trauma on me, and that has had a great impact on how I relate to myself, my body, sex, and men. I was 17. I had been in a relationship for half a year with a boy from my college group — I will call him D. It was his birthday. A few days before, we had broken up. I was at home when his friend called and asked me to come and help get D. home, because he had drunk a lot and was unwell, and a house full of relatives was waiting for him. I agreed.
I brought activated charcoal and water. I sat with him until he felt better, and then I went to walk him home. The whole time, he was telling me how wonderful I was and how sorry he was about the way things had ended. When we reached his house and I was already getting ready to head back, he began asking me to stay with him a little longer. I felt sad, I felt sorry for him, I felt needed — and I stayed.
At first, we sat with his family and had some wine. I felt slightly drunk, but was completely conscious and in control of myself. And yet that glass of wine would torment me with guilt for a long time afterwards.
Then D. suggested going for a walk. We wandered around the neighbourhood and stopped not far from his house, lying down on the grass. It was a beautiful, fresh, fragrant May evening. The sky was very clear, we looked at the stars, and we kissed.
I should mention here that at the time, I had never had sex. Neither had D., and he constantly said how much he wanted to, but I was firmly set on not doing anything like that before the age of 18, and I told him so directly. Shortly before we broke up, he had eventually talked me into mutual masturbation and kept pushing me to perform oral sex, but I refused each time and made clear it was a matter of principle. That evening, he asked again: “Give me a birthday present.” Then he began asking for oral sex, and I said no again.
After that, events become blurred because I spent a long time trying to forget them. I haven’t forgotten — but certain fragments seem to have been blocked out. I remember him holding me by the hair and pressing my face down onto him. I was struggling to get free, but he held on firmly. I don’t remember exactly how, but at some point, he managed to do what he wanted, despite my “no” and my resistance. Then, I think, I bit him, and he let go.
I lay on the grass looking at the stars. I couldn’t move and couldn’t say a single word. It felt as though I was paralysed. He seemed to be saying something to me, but I wasn’t there — I was somewhere very far away. I don’t know how long I lay like that, but I remember that at some point he got frightened — I could see it in his eyes when he leaned over me and pleaded with me to say something, anything.
All I could think was: “You raped me.” But I couldn’t speak — not at all — and I was terrified. I thought I might never be able to speak again.
Then he picked me up and carried me to his older brother’s flat. I was silent. They started pouring me alcohol — I drank it, in silence, again and again. At some point, he picked me up again and carried me to the bathroom. I could see that he was frightened. He started saying: “Look, what happened might seem terrible to you, but actually nothing bad really happened.” Then his brother gave me drugs, I took them, and when they kicked in, I was finally able to say: “You raped me.”
He answered: “Please, never say that again.”
That night, I didn’t make it home. In the morning, I was riding a minibus, thinking about suicide. I thought I would never be able to go back to college because he was there. At home, I wrote my mother a letter in which I told her about the violence and asked for her help, but I didn’t say it was D. I wrote that it had been a stranger. I had already placed the letter on the bed, but at the last moment I took it back and tore it up.
I suddenly understood that it wouldn’t help. I thought about how my mother had always reacted to topics like this and decided that she would blame me anyway. And if I had said it was D., she would have told me I shouldn’t have gone over there, shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have had the wine. Besides, there had been no penetration, and I began to convince myself that I was exaggerating, that there had been no “real” rape.
That’s the story. For many years after that, I didn’t feel that my body belonged to me. I saw no point in saying no to anyone, because I knew my words and my principles were just empty sounds. I felt small, pitiful, unworthy of respect. Sex became an act of self-harm, during which I felt my body was simply a tool for someone else’s pleasure. Any sexual act — even a kiss — would leave behind feelings of guilt, sadness, and unworthiness.
After a long and difficult journey, I can now say that I have managed to overcome some of these struggles, and things are much better today. Improvement is possible — but you have to talk about it. We need to talk about this more. And I want to wish everyone who has survived violence strength and patience. You deserve the best, and none of this is your fault.
Thank you for listening.
Anonymous author; story shared in 2023 as part of the “16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence” campaign