Before I get into writing this blog, I want to share how scared I am of it today. The part of my story that I am about to share is so personal and has taken a very long time for me to come to terms with- ‘how’ is a story for a different day. I am scared to the point that I am shaking and feel sick right now.
‘Why write it then?’ You might be wondering. I am writing it to release it into the universe and in doing so, free myself even more from it.
So, we left off in Magaluf. I was 19 and hardly knew anyone. For today’s story we are still there; I suppose a part of me will always be there.
I was settled into my life there; my job, my room, my apartment that might as well have had rotating doors as people left and moved in a lot. There was just one person left who had ‘always been there’ after a while- the guy who was there before me. We got along well most of the time; we watched movies, had dinner together, food shopped together, did general sober things. When one of us (or both of us) were drunk it was different, he would try it on all the time and I would reject him. For a bit of the time it was because I had a boyfriend but that didn’t last as he couldn’t handle my job as a jelly shot girl (now in a much busier bar), for the rest of the time I rejected him because I just didn’t see him like that.
He would get angry if I’d got with anyone and would often come in to my room naked and shove his d*ck in my face. I’d always tell him where to go. Then one day, he announced that he was going to be moving out. I was so excited for the day to come as I wanted his bedroom for some extra space and privacy; I also wanted the constant come-on’s to end. The come-on’s ending were secondary as I didn’t really perceive them as a threat, just an irritation.
The night before he moved out was a normal night, I went to work at around 7 got hammered with my colleagues and shot buyers and then went clubbing after. I got home and passed out in my own bed.
Waking up was not normal, I was not in my own bed and there was someone on top of me. I felt paralysed, I was already being hurt so didn’t see a reason to fight and get hurt even more. I didn’t shout because there was only one person to listen. I didn’t say no because ‘no’ clearly didn’t mean anything. I stayed quiet and compliant to save what small bit of safety I had left. Afterwards, I got up and went back to my own bed.
I told nobody and reported nothing- all I could think was that if I carried on as normal that things would become normal again. Besides, who would have even believed me? I didn’t even fight back. I felt worthless.
The next night, at work, one of my colleagues told me that my old flat-mate had been bragging to anyone who would listen about what had happened with me. She told me what she thought “he raped you, Becky. He is disgusting and is bragging about it”. I wouldn’t/ couldn’t accept those words yet so I shrugged it off and changed the subject. It had turned out that my other flatmate had been home at the time and hadn’t said that, so how could this woman be the judge of it?
After that, I had no trust in men left at all so I’d give them what I thought they wanted before they could just take it. That’s what I genuinely believed that they would do. I completely abused myself and my body before anyone else had the chance. I got into a lot more situations that I didn’t want to be in. But this time I had the power, right?
Wrong. That’s the thing about power. I don’t belive that anybody really has it.
People do whatever they can to hold on to their power for as long as they can, even if it hurts them. In my opinion; how can you be the one with all the power when you are so scared to lose it, when it’s hurting you to keep hold of?
And if that is power, do we really want it?
The funny thing is, I feel most powerful now with the knowledge that I have no power. I know my truth and I am happy regardless.