By Abi Ponce Hardy
Content Warning: Explicit mentions of sexual violence, harassment and abuse
I was 16. He was my tennis coach and I had a crush on him for a while. He was 18 and had a bad-boy attitude. One day after tennis lessons he asked me to come over. I was excited he had chosen me over my friend, who also had a crush on him. But as soon as we were alone something felt very wrong. I had knots in my stomach during our walk to his small apartment. We got to his place and I followed him to his room. It wasn’t long before he was on top of me and it was all too fast too soon. He tried prying my clothes off, all of them, and I was fighting to keep them on. He called me slut and whore and then fucked me against my will. The crazy part is that as I walked home, broken and sore, I liked the feeling of being treated as garbage. It was thrilling to be around his unpredictability, drug-using, fast-driving and bad mouthing. Part of me felt sorry for him because he had been dealt bad cards. I dated him for three months and endured more abuse, partly because of the thrill and partly because I wanted to help him. I was naive to think I could help him change — who was I to think I could have that effect on him?
We always go to the same place, our favourite, where we can dance all night and have fun. But I don’t think I’ve ever been out without pushing one, two, three or more guys away from you, away from me, away from us, just so that we can have fun. It’s gross, feeling their eyes on your back, your bum, your face, feeling their breath on your neck, their hand on your arm or anywhere else. We move all over the dancefloor, changing places every once in a while, because some creep is making us feel so uncomfortable that we have to leave. Why is it that guys think they can do that, and then tell us to fuck off, that we’re ugly, that we’re sluts, if we don’t immediately fall into their sweaty palms?
Does The Human Body Really Replace Itself Every 7 Years?
Probably about seven years ago I was sexually assaulted by a boy I went to school with. He lived a couple of streets up from me and we were in a lot of the same classes. We would be alone together and he would push me up against the wall and try to force his hands under my top or inside my jeans. I am not really sure how long this went on but I remember it happening multiple times. My memory from around that period of my life is not too great, but I do remember looking forward to seven years in the future because my body would have been completely replaced by then, and it would be like I have never been touched by him.
The Phantom
A phantom came in the middle of the night
I remember his pounding heartbeat
I remember mine. Terrified.
His hands.
His voice.
My guilt.
My shame.
I had a home until that day
15 years later
IT is there because it happened
Although IT exists more like a memory of a
nightmare
IT feels so unreal
IT did happen.
Sometimes the tears just fall,
These feelings that seem like they come from
the abyss flood out
Abi Ponce Hardy
Abi is a Scottish photographer. After completing an Art foundation course and exploring some photography, she travelled for a year deepening her practice and understanding of photography, experimenting and gaining confidence. When she returned she began taking a lot more photos of people, mostly during their personal yoga practice. When #metoo came to the forefront of social media it triggered some feelings and emotions within her which lead her to creating this project. She would like to continue working with similar areas of storytelling and photography to raise awareness for important, undercooked issues.
