The story of an Ecuadorian girl

The story of an Ecuadorian girl

Get to know the story of an Ecuadorian girl that, at 18, traveled to Corea only to live a situation that changed her life forever. Today, she joins #ISayNoMore to continue her healing process.

I am going to tell a story for which I still don’t have a title; I have always called it “when I lost my virginity” or “the first time had sex”. Today, I do not know how to call it, or I have always been afraid to call it its true name: Sexual abuse.

A friend of mine told me once: “If you see an unconscious person, would you give them tea?” I did not understand where she was getting with that, and I told her “no, I wouldn´t”. She kept on asking these questions and I kept on answering logically, “well, no, of course not”. She said “well, the same applies for consent. If a person is unconscious, they could never give you their consent”. I stayed silent and forced myself to avoid thinking about that day that I called by its name. They had given me tea while I was unconscious. I did not want tea: in my condition, the only thing I wanted was to sleep.

How did I end up in that situation? Well, as many people, I went out to have fun and dance with my friends. I had met my friends two months before that. Now I know that it is best to go out and get drunk with people that you are certain are going to take care of you, but at that moment I decided to do it. One shot, another shot and then I lost my cell phone. I had it in my hand and then I don’t remember what happened to it. Blurry images. I remember going dancing on my own, free and unrestrained. I remember being tired and not being able to stand on my feet, I remember sitting down and all of a sudden I was kissing a stranger.

I don’t remember how it happened or who started it. It is all blurry images that I wish were just a bad dream, not real. What did I give consent to? To get out of that place. That was the only question he asked me, to which I answered “yes”. He called a cab and I let him carry me with my feet dragging on the floor like a rag doll. I was stumbling on my feet. I can remember his laughter seeing me like that. Then I remember sitting on a bed in an unknown place. I only want to sleep. I didn’t ask for tea. I just asked if he could wake me up at 9am since I had to go to class the next morning.

I don’t remember getting undressed or someone else undressing me. I don’t remember his face, only his hands touching my breasts as if he owned me, feeling his weight over me, crushing me. I had no strength, my body was not able to defend itself. And then, at that moment, he turned me into a rag doll. I remember screaming out in pain, it was the only thing I was strong enough to do. Then I saw the blood, so much blood in between my legs. Then everything turned black.

Sometimes I wonder if this guy knew the story of the cup of tea. I wonder if he knew that I never wanted tea. That I never told him I wanted tea. I wanted a place to sleep. I wonder if between one shot and another one, someone put something in my drink, and I don’t have answers. I can’t even remember his face, only his hands touching me. Someone told me once that the cells in the body regenerate every couple of years; the internet says every seven years. Years more or less, now I know that I shed skin, and that the skin he touched is not the same I wear now. That the cells of that rag doll that was lying unconscious in a bed, are gone. They are gone everyday and they leave me a new skin; a skin that, for me, is virgin. Everyday my cells free me of what I considered to be forever attached to me like a mark. Everyday I choose to be a survivor, I choose to help my renewed cells with my renewed thoughts. I choose not to blame myself, because I would also be blaming the rest of women and men that are survivors as well. Everyday I choose to work on naming that day and calling it by what it is: sexual abuse.