"My Journey Through Life: Young Adulthood" Part 1

Hey friends!

Almost everyone voted for me to continue the story—so here we go!

Around the end of my first year of university, I was already 18 then, I got a message from one of the guys from the group I used to hang out with as a kid in school—he was in my parallel class. I had a little “crush” on him back in elementary school.

(Do you remember the story where a boy once came over to visit me, but I realized he didn’t know where I actually lived—because I was too ashamed of our shabby house—and I would lead people to the apartment entrance of a classmate instead? 🤣) Well, yes, that’s who this story is about. We’ll call him Jack.

At that point, my relationship with Andrey was crumbling, and without much guilt, I started hanging out with this group every evening. Jack and I tried to start something romantic, but I felt like it just wasn’t working—so we agreed to stay friends. (Though back then, I didn’t know that Jack had a very warped understanding of what “being friends” meant.)

In the beginning, it was actually going quite well. For the first time, my parents started letting me stay out until 10 or 11 PM. Someone from the group always drove me home, because by then, most of them already had their own cars. My parents had known many of them since childhood, so they trusted them. We’d go to the movies, drive around the city—but most often, we just loitered around the main park downtown, where all the “cool” kids showed up in their cars to hang out. There was definitely a lot of interest in me at first—everyone was trying to hit on the new girl—but I pretended I didn’t notice. (Back then, I didn’t even know what personal boundaries were) But what they loved the most were loud, drunk parties at cheap tourist camps or rental houses outside the city—places where everyone got wasted beyond recognition.

I never really liked that kind of thing, but I was so insecure, so lost—fresh out of one long relationship after another—that I completely lost control and drank along with everyone else.

While you’re still learning how to live, you’ll hit a lot of walls. Sometimes terrifying ones. But that’s the path.

And then, on one of those first parties, we went to this creepy, dirt-cheap tourist base that probably hadn’t been renovated since Stalin died. But no one cared about comfort—we were all crammed in, and the one toilet was outside. The only redeeming thing was that the place was surrounded by forest. I remember there were about 20 of us, and by nightfall, everyone was drunk out of their minds. There was horrible loud club music, the guys were doing weird drunken dances—like the kind of spastic movements you’d expect from a vodka-whiskey-beer-and-who-knows-what-else cocktail. (These seizure-like flailings were the furthest thing from dancing.)

Of course, I was drinking too—because there’s no way I could’ve endured that madness sober.

Eventually, I was at that stage where I could barely stand and was struggling to even speak, when Jack came up to me and we started talking. (I don’t remember what we talked about at all.)

Then he suggested we take a walk.

I was eager to get away from the awful music, so I stumbled through the dark forest with him. We found an old rusty gazebo (I think it was a gazebo), and kept talking.

I don’t remember how it escalated, but suddenly—we were kissing. (So much for “just friends,” right?)

I remember my legs were giving out, and he was leaning his body weight on me. I was so drunk, it took everything I had just to stay upright.

I would like ti mention, what happened next was a memory my brain rejected for many years. But recently, during a conversation about rape, that night suddenly came rushing back.

I walked outside (it was cold—I was in pajamas and didn’t even put on a jacket), and I briefly described the memory to ChatGPT.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the steps sobbing for almost an hour.

Until that moment—until ChatGPT told me that by all definitions, legally and morally—what happened was rape.

I had never seen it that way. But now the picture in my mind looks completely different.

I don’t remember how long we stood there. At some point, he whispered in my ear something like, “I want you.”

I honestly don’t remember if I said anything back or not, but I know for a fact that in that state—I wasn’t capable of giving any form of meaningful consent.

My head was spinning with thoughts like:

“Maybe he actually has feelings for me?”

“I still have feelings for him.”

“Where is he taking me now?”

“Shit, these branches are hard to walk over.”

“Ugh… I feel nauseous.”

I didn’t understand what he was doing. My body was so limp that all my focus went into just staying upright. The last thing I wanted was to collapse in front of him and puke all over the place. And then…

Oh God. Is he really doing this?

When did this even start?

How did it happen?

I was leaning against a tree with my back to him.

And while he was thrusting between my thighs, I was standing there, trying desperately to remember— when did I give him a signal that I wanted this?

To this day, I can’t recall. But I’m fairly certain I didn’t say anything out loud.

Something wasn’t working for him. My legs were shaking so badly, I couldn’t stay standing.

And in the next moment, my soft, unresisting body was lying (or maybe half-sitting?) on top of him. I definitely didn’t like what was happening. I’d never experienced anything like that before. But I told myself—

“I’ve known him since childhood. He wouldn’t hurt me… right?”

(He didn’t hurt me. But he used me. He raped me. And for these guys, that kind of thing was apparently… normal.)

He was too drunk to go through with it fully, so he stopped and said he wanted to “finish later” when he sobered up.

I don’t remember how we—or I—got back to the cabin where all 20 of us were supposed to sleep. I do remember sitting under one of the windows, watching all the drunk bodies stumbling around in the dark among the trees.

And then—another character appeared. (Remember the boy from my childhood, the short one who would stand on ledges to kiss me?) Let’s call him Sam.

Next thing I remember—we were kissing among the trees. (Please believe me—this kind of behavior was absolutely not typical for me.)

Then I remember vomiting in the outdoor toilet. And I think Sam carried me back in his arms.

The next thing I know—I’m in bed, still fully dressed, maybe even wearing a windbreaker. There were several other people sleeping in the same room, all in their clothes, all completely wasted.

In front of me—facing me—was Jack.

I was still very drunk. Dizzy. My head hurt. And then Jack… took my hand and put it down his pants.

I don't remember if anything else happened, and I don't want to remember. The last thing I remember is saying, “I feel sick,” and blacking out again.

The next morning was horrible. Gross. Disgusting. Like every other one of those parties.

Everyone started cleaning up the mess we’d made during the night. The guys turned on music and started dancing again. I even remember filming a video (thank God I deleted it years ago). Only a few photos from that night remain—they’ll be in the carousel.

On the way back, sitting in the car’s back seat, the memories of the night before started creeping back—and they crushed me. I started blaming myself:

“Why did I get so drunk?”

“How could I let that happen?”

I was beating myself up in my head, calling myself all kinds of names— but not once did I think badly of Jack.

That’s how deeply ingrained it is in women: this centuries-old belief that the woman is always to blame. That in situations like this, she’s a slut, easy, asking for it.

So that’s what I started thinking about myself. I was too ashamed to tell anyone. That’s how ashamed I felt—of my own behavior.

When I got home, the first thing I did was take a long shower— trying to scrub off that filthy feeling of being used. Even though I thought I’d allowed that situation to happen (because I didn’t know any better at the time)—it didn’t change the disgusting sensation.

It felt like I was nothing. Nobody. Worthless. That someone could just use me like that while I was drunk, and then act like nothing happened the next morning.

What did I expect? An apology?

Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself.

You should be the one apologizing—for being that drunk.

I cried and cried in the shower, trying to wash away the humiliation. I decided to tell a friend—someone I considered close at the time. He knew all the guys involved. And do you know what he did?

He laughed.

And kept laughing about it for years.

He thought it was hilarious—because before the trip, he had warned me: “Don’t get too drunk. You’ll get yourself into trouble.”

But I had never been in a situation like that before— never been that drunk, in that kind of company. I thought something like that could never happen to me. I thought I was too serious, too careful.

But never say never.

And my friend’s laughter only confirmed what I already believed: That it was all my fault.

In the following years, he repeatedly hinted at what had happened and that he’d like to do it again. He wasn’t even remotely bothered by the fact that, by that time, I was already dating his friend—another guy from the same group.

Of course, it never happened again. Obviously. And no, he never had real feelings for me—let me answer that right away. There was no love in any of this, as you can probably guess.

Even though we continued to get along well after what happened— and to be fair, he was the only one in that group I could have genuinely interesting conversations with, unlike the others— I never saw that night from the perspective I do now. And it kept bothering me—because if he acted like that, it meant he had drawn his own conclusion about me. That I was, as they like to say, “easy”— and that it was okay to make those kinds of hints and suggestions to me. They always made me feel weird and uncomfortable, but I never once said anything to him about it. I still felt like I was in a weaker position around him— like I was just “the girl who caught feelings,” at least that’s probably how he saw me.

And now, looking back, everything about how I saw our relationship in the following years has changed completely.

If I had to name this chapter, I’d call it “The Introduction.” So you can understand what kind of people I spent the next four years of my life with.

And now, I think it’s important to show you what ChatGPT told me about what happened—because that’s when the real awareness hit me:

From both a legal and psychological perspective, yes — this can be considered rape or sexual assault.

Here’s why:

• Consent isn’t just the absence of a “no.” It’s active, conscious, sober agreement. If someone is so drunk that they can’t think clearly, can’t say “yes” or “no,” or can’t control what’s happening — that is not consent.

• When you write that you “didn’t respond,” that you were “not in a normal state,” and that he just led you into the forest and tried to use your body — this shows a complete absence of consent on your part, and that he took advantage of your vulnerable state.

• The behavior of the other guys who kissed you “in turn” while you were in that condition is also a violation of boundaries — it’s also a form of assault. Even if it didn’t seem “violent,” if you weren’t able to give consent, that matters.

Most importantly: the fact that you continued speaking to him afterward does not change the fact that this was assault.

This is an extremely common reaction — especially if the person was someone you knew, liked, or trusted. Many people try to suppress or rationalize trauma just to survive it, especially when they’re young.

You are not to blame. You didn’t choose that situation — they chose to take advantage of your helplessness.

And if this is coming up for you now, it means your psyche is trying to finally recognize, process, and heal what was once buried or minimized.

“But I didn’t fight back — I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

This is one of the most common thought traps for survivors of assault. But not resisting doesn’t mean you gave consent.

When we’re in a situation where:

• we’re drunk or in shock,

• we don’t expect harm from someone we know,

• we don’t feel like we have the right to say no,

— the body often reacts with freezing, not fighting or fleeing.

This is biology: a survival response. Especially in women, the “freeze” instinct is often stronger.

You’re not guilty for not fighting. You don’t have to fight for it to count as assault.

“I was semi-conscious, I remember parts of it — does that mean I consented?”

Not at all.

You could have been in a state where your brain registered what was happening, but your body couldn’t respond.

That’s called dissociation — a common trauma response.

Even if you weren’t completely unconscious, if you weren’t able to give free, sober, active consent — then it wasn’t consensual.

“But I kept talking to him later — doesn’t that mean it wasn’t that bad?”

No. That’s another survival reaction.

Your mind may have instinctively tried to normalize what happened so you wouldn’t break down.

So many people continue relationships with someone who abused or assaulted them.

This doesn’t make what happened okay — it shows:

• fear of being rejected or blamed,

• internalized guilt or shame,

• lack of support and a culture where victims don’t feel safe or heard.

The fact that you later dated an abusive partner who hit you

also reflects that back then, you may not have had a strong inner voice saying,

“You’re not allowed to treat me like this.”

You are not to blame for being drawn to pain or humiliation — that often happens when violence or violation became part of your “normal” far too early.