When I was a young adult, I experienced violence several times. The first time, I was twenty-one. One evening, I went to play pool with a colleague who was the same age as me. I was quite intoxicated and no longer able to resist when things started to get out of hand. Normally, I might have said yes – after all, I liked him – but not like that, not in that state. I didn’t want it, and I made it clear to him. Unfortunately, he was also drunk and didn’t want to hear it. I cried silently in the dark as he continued as if nothing was wrong. In the end, alcohol kept him from “finishing,” and we fell asleep.

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A few weeks later, I realised I was late. I took a pregnancy test, and it came back positive. My world collapsed. I called him to tell him, and along with my best friend at the time, he accompanied me to the gynaecologist. He didn’t want to believe he was the father, but the doctor explained it was possible from the very first moment. I remember the consultation and what was said, but I don’t remember what I felt—I was in total shock. I never saw him again.

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At the time, to get permission to have an abortion, I had to consult with a doctor from a list given to me by the hospital and explain to him why I was in physical, psychological, or social danger. This doctor then gave me permission to have the procedure. I never told anyone it was a non-consensual encounter. I was too ashamed, and, besides, I was about to terminate my pregnancy, so nothing else mattered much.

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At the hospital, when I asked the nurse how it would happen – if I would “see my baby come out” – she responded, “Well, yes, you should have thought about that before!” Looking back, I realise that was also a form of violence and was not normal. At the time, I was numb; I felt nothing. It was just “too much.” That night, after leaving the hospital, I called him to tell him “it’s done.” He replied coldly that he was at a restaurant and that I was disturbing him. That was the last time we spoke.

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In the months that followed, I self-harmed in various ways. I wanted to die to stop feeling anything. But I didn’t have the courage to end my life, so I found other ways to destroy myself, bit by bit. Oddly, it also felt good, as I punished myself for what I had done. I had “killed my child,” and the thought was unbearable.

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For years, it was easier to blame myself for getting into that situation. Punishing myself felt simpler than chasing after someone who had disappeared. I could have pressed charges, but I was too ashamed and afraid I’d be blamed because I had been drinking.

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My relationships with men in the years that followed weren’t always healthy. I was deeply depressed for two and a half years, under antidepressant treatment, because of what happened, and I was anything but kind to myself. I wanted to die many times.

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Four years later, I met someone with whom I started a beautiful relationship. But one evening, he hit me violently in a fit of rage. He had been drinking. I called the police, then changed my mind. A few minutes later, we heard the sound of a siren, but it left shortly afterward. I think officers still came “to scare him.” The next day, I returned to Geneva and went to the police “with a clear head.” They suggested I go to the hospital to document my injuries, which I did. I had bruises on my face and wrists. Then I went to LAVI once, without giving my name.

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Ultimately, I didn’t want to press charges. I was too afraid to start a process I didn’t understand. Since I hadn’t reported it the first time, four years earlier, it didn’t make sense to do so now for something “less serious.” Because I refused to give his name to the police, nothing happened to him afterward. I only saw him once after that, a few months later, and he was kind to me, so I left it at that.

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Today, I’ve forgiven myself for having experienced these acts of violence, and I’ve learned to be kinder to myself. I understand that I was raped, but the abortion remains a far more significant trauma. I’m not sure if I regret not pressing charges. I don’t think I was in the right state of mind for it. Mostly, I wanted to grieve in private without having to talk about it.

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From my own experiences and from confiding in close friends, I see that too many men don’t care about consent. I even get the feeling that some are aroused by resistance, as if it’s some sort of game. Or, once a certain line has been crossed – like spending an evening together or kissing – it’s assumed that “it” is inevitable, part of the deal.

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Fortunately, things are starting to shift, little by little. I hope that never again will a woman feel forced to accept the unacceptable.

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December 2021

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