I’m marching because my body is MINE and I can wear what ever I chose to.  

I’m marching for all those girls in abusive relationships that never leave and never call it rape and never report it.

I’m marching because my father hasn’t spoken to me in over two years because I’m a “slut” and “sex slave.”

I’m marching for all those ignorant men out there who blame women for men’s vile actions. We blame ourselves anyway. We judge ourselves and chastise ourselves and hurt ourselves.   

I’m marching for the deputy head at my CATHOLIC SCHOOL that told me “don’t start things you can’t finish.” Reassuring words to tell a traumatised teenager. What hurts more is that I know she has experienced the same thing. 

I’m marching for them not removing him from my classes and moving me instead to lower sets, even though I’m more intelligent than him, further instilling the idea in other’s minds that I’m at fault, I’m to blame and I’m a liar.

I’m marching for all those women whose cases are swept under the carpet by people in positions of power, people who are supposed to help us. 

Every day I am angry. Even in my dreams I am livid.

He took all my power away.

He took away my peace of mind.

He took away the control I felt I had over my body.

I will wake up every day and I will live and I will survive this because it has not and will not kill me. I was a victim once but that doesn’t mean that’s my label forever. I am not a slut and I am not a victim. I am a human being who was hurt and is hurting and I’m doing my damn best to heal.

I have never been able to write this down and even though it has caused a lot of tears writing it, I’m glad that Slut Walk has given me a reason to.

No one should have the power to silence us. 

READ THIS WHOLE PIECE UNDER THE CUT - MAJOR CONTENT WARNING FOR RAPE

I’m marching because I am a survivor. I was 15 and he was the first real boyfriend I ever had. I loved him; the way you do when you’re 15 and everything is intense.

We were together for about 6 months, but I’d loved him for much longer and been on and off with him for about a year. I’ve always been unpopular to say the least and he is loved. He is still loved and will probably always be loved.

I wanted to be a ‘good Christian’ and not have sex with him, and I made my feelings on the matter very clear. But that didn’t stop me from going to his house and engaging in other sexual activity because those were my boundaries and I was comfortable with them and trusted him with them. I went to his house at least once a week after school and I was happy. I think it hurts the most admitting how very deeply happy he made me. I felt loved and safe and accepted in a way that I’d never been before and haven’t been since.

I had always told myself that rape is when you’re walking down an alley and it’s a stranger and it’s violent and you know to be scared. I had always equated rape as being a fate worse than death. I’d always thought that if I were in such a situation I would know to fight and scream and run. Those were things I’d been told and what I believed.

One day I went to his house and he held me down and even though I was wriggling around, like a worm and saying NO it just didn’t matter to him. In the beginning I thought he was joking. Then it was all happening and it was like I was looking down at myself and watching it happen and I couldn’t stop it and I couldn’t understand it. I’d bought him these joke handcuffs for a valentine’s gift among other gifts and he used them to chain me to his bed railings.  I didn’t cry or scream. I just wriggled around and said “no” again and again and again.

He stopped in the middle, while he was still inside me and said “sorry”.

That’s when it clicked in my head that everything was WRONG and he was apologising for doing something evil and I was a victim and I refused to be. I went into the deepest denial I have ever been in. I went home and had a shower and cried for hours and hours and scrubbed my skin until I bleed. I felt contaminated and dirty and full of so much shame. Over two years have passed since then, I’m 17, but I still have days when I feel the same.

I called it, “that unfortunate incident” and banned him from apologising for it almost immediately. He sent a sorry email, calling it “technically rape”. I told my closest girl friend at the time the day after and she reprimanded me for struggling me so much, saying that because I loved him it couldn’t be rape and “shit happens” and that the next time it would all be better. We escaped ever seeing the severity of his actions by never calling it “rape.” I allowed it to be trivialised and I buried the memory.

I didn’t leave him. If I left that would mean acknowledging truths I wasn’t able to face and the fact was that I still loved him so unequivocally and stupidly that I felt crippled by it. Having battled intense bouts of depression for many years since puberty began, what followed was the darkest depression I have ever had. It’s as if my mind came apart of the seams, hours of me trying to piece together and understand my feelings and reckless actions. I looked for all kinds of other explanations to justify my distress because I’d completely blocked the memory of it and it was only a few weeks later. After much self-destruction aimed at scaring him and pushing him away and hurting him but not really understanding why I was so angry, he left me.

I went a woman from my church and told her. I wanted God to forgive me and make me clean again. I thought I was going to hell, even though I was actually living in it. I just wanted to someone to tell me it’s not my fault. Due to some child protection regulations she got the police involved, which then got my family involved, but of course amounted to nothing but more pain for me. If I were to pursue this they told me I was an unreliable witness and my chances of it amounting to anything were slim and I knew having to go over and over it would only cause more damage especially if chances were he’d never be convicted and it would never get to court because there wasn’t enough evidence. I looked like a “bitter ex girlfriend”. The rumours around school of our break up of course began to circulate; I was just a “crazy slut” among other harsh labels I’d never be able to shake.

I tried to kill myself, and was hospitalised which would ultimately lead to years of therapy that is yet to extinguish my guilt and shame.

I’m marching because my body is MINE and I can wear what ever I chose to.  

I’m marching for all those girls in abusive relationships that never leave and never call it rape and never report it.

I’m marching because my father hasn’t spoken to me in over two years because I’m a “slut” and “sex slave.”

I’m marching for all those ignorant men out there who blame women for men’s vile actions. We blame ourselves anyway. We judge ourselves and chastise ourselves and hurt ourselves.   

I’m marching for the deputy head at my CATHOLIC SCHOOL that told me “don’t start things you can’t finish.” Reassuring words to tell a traumatised teenager. What hurts more is that I know she has experienced the same thing. 

I’m marching for them not removing him from my classes and moving me instead to lower sets, even though I’m more intelligent than him, further instilling the idea in other’s minds that I’m at fault, I’m to blame and I’m a liar.

I’m marching for all those women whose cases are swept under the carpet by people in positions of power, people who are supposed to help us. 

Every day I am angry. Even in my dreams I am livid.

He took all my power away.

He took away my peace of mind.

He took away the control I felt I had over my body.

I will wake up every day and I will live and I will survive this because it has not and will not kill me. I was a victim once but that doesn’t mean that’s my label forever. I am not a slut and I am not a victim. I am a human being who was hurt and is hurting and I’m doing my damn best to heal.

I have never been able to write this down and even though it has caused a lot of tears writing it, I’m glad that Slut Walk has given me a reason to.

No one should have the power to silence us.