©Illustrations by Sophia Riahi
It’s funny how time makes everything clearer. What follows, these words that I am finally willing to lay down on paper, are fairly recent realisations.
I was 17 years old when I met him. He was the new student, and had just arrived at our high school. It was nice, at first. We play hard to get, we try to pretend it’s nothing serious, we see each other at parties... Then came the first “I love you”, “I want us to be together for real”.
I had never slept with anyone before. I had promised myself that my first time would be special, that I would keep it for someone I loved deeply, and who loved me back as much. A couple of months went by, and I was holding back. I wanted to, of course, but I just wasn't ready yet.
Then, one day:
"Hey, my parents will be out of town this weekend, so I'm throwing a party. Do you want to sleep over?"
I said yes. I trusted him, and knew he wouldn't force me to do anything I was not comfortable doing. But I still wanted to be ready. After all, we had been together for two months. I convinced myself that weekend would be the one, I would be ready.
Fast forward to the night of january 14th 2017. I remember the precise date because it was a horrible night. Long. Harsh. All of our friends have left and it's only him and I. He decides to undress me, and grants me about two minutes of his precious time. Then he stands up, and reaches for a condom.
Suddenly, I am not so sure anymore. My pulse races.
"Ahm… actually, I am not so sure about this..."
He takes a split second to look at me, with this self-satisfied smirk I will never forget, and goes:
"Well, I am not giving you a choice anyway."
©Sophia Riahi
In that moment, something struck me. I still didn't understand quite what it was. I stood still on the bed, watching him as he approached me. The room was submerged in absolute silence, my heartbeat was racing, loud and heavy. I stood in silence. And I opened my legs.
It was incredibly painful. And long. I cried for a while, but not too much, not enough for him to stop.
He did stop though, after what felt like an eternity. I guess at some point it became arduous for him, seeing how dried up I was.
The morning after I left, on my way home, I kept telling myself that he was right to act in such a way, that I was being a pain in the ass. "You started, you have to go all the way."
I wanted to tell my friends about it, but growing up where we did, sex was a shocking taboo, and I was scared. Scared of being judged, scared of the looks I was going to be getting. Scared of being labelled. A few weeks after, once I had finally gathered the strength to tell my bestfriend, I was frozen by her severe look, filled with judgement and disapproval.
"It won't be like that for me. I will make him wait longer than just a couple months."
The months that followed were considerably violent. Psychologically so. 17 is not an age when one is able to take a step back and look on one's life. There is no sense of self. I had built and drawn myself up through other people's opinions: my family's, my friends', my boyfriend's.
I found myself completely wrapped up in this wave of insecurity, of the self disgust women are taught to feel so early on. Half of my family made a vow to always let me know how "cadaverous"I looked. In highschool, my friends would comment on my body constantly. And my boyfriend made sure I understood how lucky I was to have him, and how far from enough I truly was. I wasn't pretty enough, curvy enough, "I wasn't squatting enough at the gym."
©Sophia Riahi
The first comer would instantly transform into a mere comparison object, one he would compare me to. I even had the chance to have my body compared to those of my best friends.
Every night for a couple months, I compulsively ate until I felt nauseous. I needed to get fatter. I needed to get myself up to his level.
I couldn't stand the thought of him leaving, of him getting fed up with me. Our intimate life was entirely dedicated to him, no matter if I wanted to do it, if I found pleasure in it, if I consented to it.
One day, I found pictures of (nearly) naked girls on his phone. I panicked, and asked him for explanations. Who are they? Why are these pictures on your phone?
I didn't have to wait long for the answer: those are pictures his best friend sent him. He thinks it's funny to take pictures of the girls he is with, and then share them on WhatsApp.
The worse thing is, I was reassured. I was relieved that he wasn't cheating on me (if only I knew). In that moment, I failed to realise how horrendous the situation was. I failed to realise that those girls probably didn't consent to the sharing of their pictures. That they probably didn't even realise that their photos were saved on a stranger's photo gallery.
To this day, I am pretty positive and terrified that he did the same to me.
In the end of summer 2018, I left for Paris to continue my studies. That was the ultimate liberation for me. I was finally meeting uncomplicated people, people who sincerely believed my body was amazing, people who made me realize my body is amazing. I found myself, my self-love, and the respect I owe myself.
A month after, I left him, and forgot him.
Now, I am 21 years-old. Only during these last few years did I realise the nature of the abuse I went through. It was only when I was taught about consent at university that something clicked.
When I look back at my first time, I feel only disgust. I see myself lying there, steady. I see him, and his cynical stare telling me"Well, I am not leaving you a choice anyway". I want to burst in, scream and push him away from me. I want him to give me back that moment. I want him to give it back. I want him to give back my consent.
"As a spectator, I observe the scene of life,
Where characters arise
In moments of joy or spite."
©Sophia Riahi
The author of this text has chosen to remain anonymous.
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