As I got older, I let my value rise or fall according to the men around me. My feminist politics dictate that, as a survivor, I am supposed to be unashamed and even outspoken about what happened to me. He was the first boy I allowed below the waistband of my Bluenotes, and underneath my fluorescent padded bra. Twitter hashtags sprouted like mushrooms: While my friends delightedly talked about their new boyfriends, their flings, their discovery of sex, I was numb. I wish she could see that she didn't need any of them to feel whole. I was 14 when I bought my first laptop with my own money. Then he unzipped my jeans, his arm a crowbar against my chest.
Yes, I really did love him. We resorted to blunt butter knives for months, crookedly sawing carrots, cheese, peppers. I learned how my brain had betrayed me, tricking me into believing that negative, abusive behaviour was thumbs-up normal. When I refused to talk about it, she hid all the knives and scissors in our house. I would shut down during sex. But at night, all my pain floated to the surface. And I had to like everything was peachy-keen; nothing to see here, folks! It was so easy to convince myself it was my fault: I wondered if he was lying. And we never actually talked about it; it was this unspoken thing that clearly affected the relationship between my parents and I, but nothing was ever done to address it. At the time, all I wanted to do was run away; I was counting down the days until I turned I don't talk about this because honestly, I'm ashamed. A tight pain in a place I never knew could hurt. I recently received contact from one of these men and had a small breakdown. I was lonely, depressed, suffering from an eating disorder and was recovering from incest. When I saw my friends engage in loving, respectful relationships, I was baffled and sad. He was the first boy I allowed below the waistband of my Bluenotes, and underneath my fluorescent padded bra. Under the weight of all this, I tried to control my body with obsessive dedication. A few months after I started seeing my therapist, she urged me to tell one other person what had happened to me. When one boyfriend started to rate my behaviour daily, tallying my good and bad conduct, I accepted it as a helpful way to make me better. I know I internalized a lot of what these men said to me, what they did. It took me 15 years to realize that the only way to put my broken pieces back together is to tell my story a hundred, a thousand times—until that shame goes away. Harder still when I told him to put the condom back in his pocket. I wanted to reduce myself, to abuse my body back into submission. His words strike at the heart of the Rotherham abuse scandal in which 1, children were groomed and abused by Asian gangs over 16 years. I sobbed the whole time, tears pooling in my ears, flooding onto the pillow.
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