TW: Rape, sexual assault and emotional abuse
‘No’ is a full sentence. I know that now. I know that years after it happened. But at the time, had I said no? Did ‘no’ really make a difference when he did it anyway?
The times he did it over and over again when I was crying and I told him to stop.
My voice wasn’t enough or he didn’t care, did he?
He just cared about a stupid orgasm, a high that’ll make him feel satisfied but break my whole world in years to come.
I didn’t realise it at the time, I didn’t know what a toxic relationship was. Nobody ever teaches you that as a kid, the signs to spot, the controlling behaviour, the off comments, the ‘making you feel’ small; it’s not in the dictionary of life or the school curriculum. I wish I and all the girls after knew how to identify someone who pretended to love them and only wanted to control them.
I was 20 years old and never had a relationship. My experience is only with crushes and dating guys in the school year or friendship groups. Nothing serious. I was naive, unaware of what a relationship meant. I was innocent, frigid as many people have called me, the ‘cute’ one everyone had to protect. Nobody could protect me from what happened though. I was too embarrassed and too ashamed to let them in. I thought I found my love story, but instead, I realised what love isn’t.
I went on Tinder like all my friends did. We’d swipe together. It was a laugh, a way to chat with guys, a way to practice flirting, and the validation every insecure 20-year-old wanted. 200 matches telling me I’m beautiful? What was this internet magic?
That’s what you want when you’re young, isn’t it? Validation from everyone, people to tell you you’re hot, beautiful and sexy. That’s what we’re told as women, our value is only in our beauty. It’s our worth, what we should focus on, not our intellect or goals - only how to attract a man. From a young age, we’re told to fantasise about getting married, having kids and that domestic dream the patriarchy made for us. We’re not celebrated in other ways: a woman is never deemed successful single.
Dating apps were and still are the rage, to find the online fairytale story and the love of your life, living in a fantasy world like all the influencer couples. However, what if the societal expectation of that ‘success’ is the thing to break us? To break me.
Dating apps are all about appearance, let’s face it we swipe as someone looks hot but there’s only so much an image and a cringy caption can say about a person before you meet them in real life. You don’t know them, they could be anyone with a past or traits you know nothing about. I’d constantly swipe on the app, trying to find date options or people to compliment me, and when the message ‘you’re gorgeous’ came in, that hit my insecure heart: a way to entice my naive self was physical compliments. Sometimes, I wish I could give my 20-year-old self a big hug and tell her how wonderful she is.
The guy wasn’t a beauty or what I thought was my dream guy, I remember swiping as I liked the look of a girl in his photo. But hey, he was average-looking; he looked nice and normal, young like me, inexperienced even. He didn’t look mean but maybe that’s how they get you.
We messaged for a while before we met and honestly, I can’t even remember that. My first memory was going on the first date, a moment that changed everything for me. I put on my favourite little black dress and a swipe of red lipstick and straightened my ombre hair, hoping to look like the perfect image he saw on social media.
I rocked up to a pizza restaurant, waiting awkwardly outside in the freezing winter weather. I’d never been on a date with someone I didn’t know or hadn’t met in person. I was nervous, nervous I’d mess it all up.
He arrived and I fell for him almost instantly. That was the one glass of wine for a confidence boost and my naivety, wooed by a stranger. We spoke for hours until the restaurant wanted to close. I wondered ‘Had I found the one?’ That’s the power of youth and inexperience though, I couldn’t judge the situation. At 20, everything feels like a big deal and a permanent thing.
Our relationship moved quickly and after meeting only three times, we were a couple. He was nice and sweet and seemed innocent like me, with slightly big ears and kind eyes. Like me, he looked young for his age; we paired well.
Hindsight is a beautiful thing though. When I look back on the early days of how he refused to let me pay for things, would hide part of himself and denied cheating accusations I had from other girls messaging me, I felt like an idiot. I believed everything he said. I believed he loved me. I wore those rose-tinted glasses for nearly three years, even longer than that, until I realised who he was and how he hurt me. The power of realising trauma is only the start of the journey.
Nobody teaches you how to spot the signs of abuse in a relationship. We’re only told that men shouldn’t hit women. What we’re not told is about emotional abuse, coercive control, manipulative and controlling behaviour, or sexual abuse. We don’t get taught the signs and how to see if that’s happening in our relationship. We’re all prepared with what to do if we’re attacked in the streets, but not in the safety of our bed with a man who claims to love us.
It started with comments on putting me down, things that I didn’t realise had much effect until over time my confidence went. ‘You’re boring’, he would say when I didn’t want to drink or do drugs. ‘You’re not doing it right’, he would say during sex, comparing me to aggressive porn scenes he had watched. ‘My friends are better than yours’, he would say, putting my friends down, and making me feel like they weren’t good enough.
All these things changed me from a woman, keen to take on the world and follow my goals into a second-guessing, anxious person, doubting my self-love and if I’m good enough. The way he spoke to me, I felt shamed, unwanted and unloveable. He always made it out that everything was my fault. If something went wrong, my fault. If he was angry, my fault. If things didn’t go to plan, my fault. The world fell on faulting me in my every move and I was constantly walking on eggshells, doubting everything. I didn’t get excited about things the way I used to, I couldn't fully express who I was because I didn’t feel safe with him, emotionally and physically and wasn’t able to be authentically me.
The emotional abuse started with doubts and almost snowballed into control. He would tell me what I should or shouldn’t wear, claim I was flirting with other guys when I wasn’t and throw hissy fits, ignoring me for hours to days when things didn’t go his way. He controlled me in a way that my emotions were his, I couldn’t do anything wrong otherwise I’d be punished, receiving no communication, affection or connection. He’d take it all away from me, similar to putting a child in time out for no reason, because the parents couldn’t regulate their emotions. I was constantly in that corner but never for the explanation of why or how, all I knew was that I was the problem. I wasn’t good enough or worthy enough for his attention.
I didn’t realise it was emotional abuse, I didn’t even know what that was. I thought it was normal for couples to be this way. I thought this was love. I didn’t realise love should be kind, loving and respectful. You shouldn’t live in fear or uncertainty constantly, you shouldn’t be low on their priority list. You shouldn’t be hurt, mentally and physically.
Emotional abuse turned into physical and it changed my life forever. He was the first person I had sex with and I know at 20, that seems quite late for many but I was always too scared and shy to have sex with anyone. As my first boyfriend, I knew I’d have to. I put it off for months as it terrified me and I thought I was ready, but really, his whining and complaining pushed me into being ready for him.
Sex was never good with him. I didn’t enjoy it but again, I thought that’s what having sex was like. I didn’t know it was meant to be incredibly loving, safe and fun. I didn’t realise my pleasure could be prioritised. Most of the time, I waited for him to finish in positions he liked and rarely, he would consider my pleasure. I didn’t understand consent, I didn’t know I had the power to say no. When I didn’t want to give oral sex, he would tell me ‘That is what girlfriends do’, forceful language and forceful behaviour confused my view of consent and knowing what I wanted. Sometimes, I was too scared to say no and deal with the outcome if I didn’t do what he wanted.
The first time it happened. That panic always sits with me. The feeling of being in bed, him coming in drunk, pulling my pants down when he thought I was asleep and rubbing himself against me. The pure fear of something more happening. The frozen feeling. I didn’t know what to do. Luckily, he stopped that time. In a couple of instances, he didn’t. Being blackout drunk and waking up and falling back to sleep, he was there, inside me, having sex while I was unconscious.
The worst, if it can even get worse is when I was fully awake and aware and he didn’t listen to my pleas. The ‘please stop, it hurts’ as he thrusts so hard, I was shoved onto a pillow in an awkward position where I couldn’t breathe. Instead of stopping, he says ‘I’m nearly there, a few more minutes’. What psycho can enjoy himself knowing his girlfriend is sobbing and in pain? Prioritising pleasure over the safety and care of his partner is not love, it’s criminal.
They say, consent. It’s all about consent but even when you say no and scream ‘stop’, it falls on deaf ears. A rapist doesn’t care. Someone in control doesn’t care. They know they’re more powerful than you and will use it. I could name a million examples where I could have said no, could have pleaded no but he wouldn’t listen, he didn’t care. He’d find a way to do it anyway. And sometimes, dealing with the aftermath of him was worse than suffering the pain of unwanted sex.
The end of that relationship was the best thing that happened to me, yet living with this secret and shame is something which weighed on me for years. I hated myself for it, I hated what he did to me, how he treated me. I hated that there were so many women like me who had experienced it before, who lived with trauma. It took me a while to admit and accept my reality. He took something from me that I could never get back.
Admitting my experience to myself was the first step. Telling someone else was the next step. I was terrified nobody would believe me, I was overreacting or people would side with him. I was scared of how people would view me if they loved me the same. I felt tarnished and broken, unloveable and hurt, embarrassed that I let this happen.
I asked my best friend if I could talk to her about something. We went for a drive and parked the car, and she looked at me intently, concerned.
‘I was raped’ I said, turning away, looking at the steering wheel in my car.
Her arm squeezed mine, pulling me in for a hug. Her face looked angry, upset, and sad, yet she replied, ‘I love you. It’s not your fault. I believe you.’
That’s all I needed to hear. I needed someone to believe me.
From then, I could heal. Speaking to someone helped pave the way to finding and loving myself again and creating a future where I’m safe, nurtured and valued, surrounded by people who truly care for the real me. They don’t see me as broken or tarnished, but love and care for me and know it wasn’t my fault. I did nothing wrong. And that certainty makes every day a little easier.