And so I changed, trying to fit into the ostentatious drama, because what else could I do, anyway?

It’s humiliating, having to strip down to your undies and try on clothes with a man you’ve only just started dating, specially when you’re being made to feel low and not good enough. I guess I was on autopilot. He made me try on a rather over the top blue dress with sequins and feathers, and I looked like a stripper in those extra high heels. And after what seemed like ages, he mercifully “allowed” me to wear a pair of shoes that weren’t as high. And this straitjacket of a dress he thought was classy. How do women breathe in stuff like this? It was like being stuffed into a sausage casing. He tucked my hair behind my ears and said he wanted me to be the best and have the best, and he led me downstairs, on his arm.

I was naive, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, really.

Everything felt like it was on show, I felt exposed, and for obvious reasons – this was a show. This wasn’t me. I don’t have Angelina legs or Kendall Jenner collarbones. But I do have a nice face, he decided that, and he made sure it was the center of attention. Everyone was looking at me. At some point, I ended up being surrounded by men. I couldn’t remember getting drunk or getting into bed with people. Multiple people. I didn’t know where he was, or when he’d left me alone with them. These men who thought I was a mint-condition toy that needed some roughing up and some playing with. These guys that left me in the master bedroom when they were done. I’d never been with anyone before and my first time was a violation of my body and my rights.

I went back to my dorm, made it out of there somehow – with my pride wounded but my strength resolved, I decided to someone that could fight for women, fight for their rights, fight for them all.