When I was 17, I got into my first serious relationship. He told me he loved me, that I held the keys to his heart. I remember, he used to throw stuff around when he got mad, once he threw a punch through the wall. Another time he destroyed his wardrobe. But I thought he would never hurt me, because he promised me he loved me. He didn’t like my body, said my ass was not firm enough. So I lost weight. I lost weight until people started asking me if I was sick, told me that I didn’t look pretty anymore. When I weighed 49 kilos he said that I looked much better, he liked thin girls he said. He said that I should be more independent from my parents, that my friends were boring. So, I isolated myself until I only had him. 
I remember once we were having a fight and he raised his hand as if he wanted to slap me. I got scared, then I got mad. I screamed at him, told him he was a piece of shit for intimidating me like that. He screamed back, told me that if I thought so little of him maybe I should leave him. I told him I’m sorry, I love you, I don’t want to leave you. 
Another time we were about to go out when he looked at my top and he told me to take it off, because I looked like a bitch. I said no, I can wear whatever I want. He told me he wouldn’t go outside with me dressed like that, after all he was doing it for me, so that other guys wouldn’t get weird thoughts. I said let them think what they want. He started to scream at me, telling me he would leave me. I said I’m sorry, please don’t leave me, I love you. 
When I broke up with him I cried. I cried because I thought I was losing the love of my life and that I would never find someone that loved me as much as him. But now I know that I cried for myself. Because he had broken me and even until the last moment I couldn’t tell him. When I said goodbye for the last time, I didn’t get mad, I didn’t scream at him, I didn’t ask him why he treated me that way even though he had promised to love me, I just kissed him as if nothing had happened. He will never know that that relationship has scarred me forever. That I can never be with someone without asking myself what it is that they actually want from me-yes they say they love me, but is that only an excuse so that they can hurt me? He will never apologize nor feel guilt for what he has done to me. 
When I was 19, I went on holiday with my friends. We went to a party and I got with a guy. He had a car and my friend was being sick so I asked him to take us back. I could barely understand what was going on, I was quite drunk. He took me to the beach and wanted to have sex with me. I said no, I don’t want to. He wouldn’t leave, so I gave him a blowjob. Afterwards he left. A few days later I met him again, he started to go to the same beach me and my friends were going to. Once again after a party we ended up on the beach and once again he tried to have sex with me. I said no. He pushed his fingers up my ass, and told me at least we could have anal sex. I told him absolutely not. He said the least I could do is give him a blowjob again, this time he wanted to cum in my mouth. I said I would, but that I didn’t want to have his cum anywhere near my mouth. So he just didn’t tell me when he came. As I was spitting his cum into the sea, he stood next to me and told me that he would have liked to have a threesome with my friend. I said she would never be up to that, she had more self esteem than me. When he left I went back to my room and cried. He probably doesn’t even remember my name, “the girl who made him believe she would give it to him and then didn’t”, that’s probably how he thinks of me, if he thinks of me. He will never apologize for his actions. But since then I have not been able to give blowjobs. Every time I try, I feel like I’m suffocating. 
This summer, I went to a party. We knew the owner of a pub and he kept it open just for us. I drank two glasses of wine and one sip of prosecco that someone handed to me. Once I got there a guy kept on giving me beers. I drank two. I vaguely knew him, he was called F. and he was best friends with my housemate. After a while I couldn’t stand anymore. I kept on falling, everything around me was spinning. My friend had to lift me up and carry me to the toilet because I couldn’t go by myself. I found it hilarious. For a bit. I don’t remember why or how but I was tumbling by myself along a corridor and F. came up to me. He pushed me against a wall and started kissing me. I remember I really didn’t want to be there, but I couldn’t really do anything. After a while he let me go and I continued my “walk”. From then onwards I don’t remember much. I passed out in the men’s toilet where my “friends” found me in the morning. During the next day a random guy who had been at the party came into my room and told me he thought I had been roofied. I hadn’t even thought about it up to that point. I laughed it off, said I probably just drunk too much. But I didn’t drink that much. After three days I decided to go to the doctor. I wanted to know if it was possible to trace back what I had taken/ if I had taken anything. As I entered the room she told me that it wasn’t the first time someone came with a similar request. A lot of girls had been raped after going to parties. A man even slipped his wife sleeping pills into her tea and abused her. Crazy times, she said. She was very apprehensive. She told me that after three days you couldn’t see most substances in someone’s pee but that we could do a blood test. However, she made me pee on a stick anyways, just to be sure. After a while she called me back into her office, she told me she was very sad to tell me that she found traces of weed in my blood. I told her I knew, I had smoked it myself. She told me to come back the day after for the blood test. After I left the room I heard her whispering to her assistant, they were wondering if I had told the truth. Apparently people who smoke weed don’t get raped. I never went back for the blood test. 
I will never know what happened that night. I will always wonder if I should have pursued this. But maybe it was nothing. What I know is that once again I felt like I was incapable of doing anything. I had no say in what had been done to me, but in the eyes of others it was me who put myself in that position, it was me who would suffer while others continued their life as if nothing happened. I am sick of waiting for apologies. Sick of waiting for people to realize that through their actions I have felt that I was disposable, not good enough, not “worth it”. If I am not to blame for my suffering, how come no one else seems to take the blame?