By Elisabeth Woods

 

*Content Warning – SA / R*pe

 

We met in September 2019. I had just moved to the area. They were one of the first people to speak to me, one of the first people to actually make an effort; we clicked straight away.  They showed me affection in a way no one had before; they were willing to listen and be a helping hand. Our friendship blossomed. Before I knew it, I found myself with them every day, enjoying their space and company. They made me feel special. Loved. Safe.

 

But it got too much. They wanted more than a platonic friendship, and when I said no, I was raped.

 

My best friend did this to me. The one who claimed that they loved me, the one who I let hold me when I cried and when I was sad and scared. The one I relied on, the one I saw every day, the one that I loved. The one who apologised after they did it, the one who cried and said they didn’t mean to, the one that made me bleed and scream and shout stop so many times my voice became nothing.

 

And I told them that it was okay, that I forgave them. I held them whilst they cried, stroked their hair as they begged for forgiveness, apologising profoundly.

 

I let them get away with it. Why didn’t I say something? I cried that night. I wanted to die.

 

A couple of weeks passed. When I worked up the courage to question them about it, they said that it was my fault, that I had forced them to do it. They were so strong, so committed, that I began to doubt my experience.

 

The next day they attempted to hurt themselves in front of me – claiming it was a test of my love, to see if I really cared. They wanted to make me feel guilty and stay, and it worked. Where did it all go wrong?

 

I know now that I should have left, but I felt so responsible. Was it my fault?

 

I told the police.

 

I had given this person so much. In return, they took a piece of me that I will never get back. I gave them songs; I gave them my body, mind and my heart, time, friends, and weekends. I gave up my family for them. I gave up my privacy. They owned me.

 

They controlled what I wore, who I saw, how long I would eat for. They went from my best friend to my abuser, bruising me with blows both physical and verbal. 

 

The thing that hurts me – the thing that makes me ache – is that they know about the abuse that I went through before. But instead of helping me heal, they broke me even more.

 

I couldn’t leave because they had me trapped. I still can’t let go, and the worst part is that I still see them every day.

 

My body still craves an answer. What possessed them to think that what they did was okay?

And why did I stay?

 

I hate myself because I still love them and wish them the best. I just hope they have learnt from their “mistake”.

 

But I’m scared, too. Am I always going to be treated like this? Am I unlovable? 

Deep down I know that it is these men at fault and not me. As long as we live in this world, though, a world in which these things are allowed to happen, it will be women like me that have to live with the consequences.