It Was My 18th Birthday
It was my 18th birthday. In my country, that’s our legal drinking age.
I went out with a group of friends. Anyone who knows me will tell you I make friends easily, mainly male friends.
One of the people I went out with that night was a male friend. We met at uni, and I said he could share my bed with me that night because two of my other friends had taken up the spare bedroom. For me and my friends, female or male, sharing a bed is platonic, normal.
I was incredibly drunk and crawled into bed. I was completely out of it. The only memory I have of the assault is him stopping because my body wouldn’t take it anymore.
It was physically impossible, I was tense and dry. He muttered that, stopped, and slept.
I woke up to my attacker’s arms pinned around me.
He was asleep thankfully. I slipped out and sat on my couch, headphones on, and in tears.
I went back to my room to find him unclothed on my bed, staring at me, asking what was wrong and why I wasn't there when he woke up.
I simply kissed his cheek and smirked that someone has a life and things to do.
The past few months are the first time in a little over a year I have talked to anyone about it.
The boy hasn’t spoken to me outside of being normal in social situations for small talk.
Does he know he did something wrong?
I have been diagnosed with PTSD from the event. It makes sense that I can become emotional and not want to be touched.
This story does have a happy ending because I choose to make it one; it is my life and by god it is my own damn body.
I have a partner who is wonderful, kind, and always knows how to make me laugh.
Be your own hero.