So yeah… that was ongoing for about half a year, after which he told me he needed to move back to Italy, with the question if I wanted to come along. By then I had gotten used to the regular package of unknown content deliveries to various places and getting leery and even shocked looks of me doing this, and all the while, once a month pretty much a stranger inside of me, so what can I say? Though I felt things were slipping out of my hands, I knew I loved him for the things I had done for him, and I said yes. There were night I lay awake wondering why the hell I was doing this, and then I remembered that life hadn’t been a picnic back home and I pushed my worries away.
We moved, and Italy was amazing. A warmer climate, a new, though smaller, apartment, different people, and a new language I tried to learn, trying to submerge myself in this new culture that was going to be my new home. But in this time Philippe seemed to get more distant, more distanced. He was quiet a lot, went out often and when he actually was home he stared at the TV without really watching, and the sex was… well… where he had once done anything and everything to get me off, it was not just quickies to get his load off. After me basically picking a fight in getting him to react, he sat me down and told me that he appreciated me helping out, but that the bills were just stacking up as cost of living. When I asked him how other people made ends meet and why in all this time he hadn’t gotten a job, he got really annoyed as he told me that with his rap sheet he was pretty much unemployable, and wining, dining and giving me presents wasn’t cheap. He calmed down after that and in a lengthy conversation, of which I don’t remember half as he did most of the talking and was quite repetitive in various and confusing ways that seemed to contradict each other but he assured me that they didn’t and I just wasn’t seeing the whole picture, what it basically came down to was that if I wanted us to stay together, which he assured me he wanted, I would have to step up my game. And so I finally resigned in asking what he had in mind, and he told me that he had friends who were quite jealous of him having me as his girlfriend. They would pay to get with me, and that would solve all our problems. I recoiled, understanding that he basically asked me to be his whore, but he first told me that that just wasn’t true and then admitted that this was the only way to get out of debt, that he had thought about it for a long time and didn’t even want to bring it up if things weren’t so dire. I got pretty close to leaving, but he seemed so glad to have shared this burden he had been carrying, and the lovemaking that night was so sweet, that afterwards I agreed to willing to try it, just once.
The guy was rude and rough, not at all like my boyfriend, or his friend, but I thought about the money and let him have his way with me. It broke something inside of me, knowing he was paying for it, but at the same time it helped me to distance myself from the actual action. Afterwards I took a long shower, and then a bath, and I was the same person I had been before it happened. Nothing had changed, except that the debts were now less high. We went out that night, having dinner at a nice restaurant as he said I really did my part and we could now afford this again, next to paying the bills, it became the new normal.
It is strange thinking back upon it now that I let this happen, but I also know that back then I really believed this was a good thing. I was helping, I was taken seriously (and seriously taken), and believed that this was what adults did; they did what ever they could to make ends meet. So why not use the assets I had, my youth and my body, to make money? Why is it that in society someone with a great brain is revered but someone with great looks, but not so much in the brain power department, is degraded, seen as less?
This is a question I still struggle with from time to time, just as I still struggle with what happened, with what I did, because I take full responsibility for my actions. Thank God I had always insisted on those men using condoms, as the consequences would in all likelihood have been worse. I was still at risk though, as my boyfriend did it without. And yes, that did go wrong a few times. Underage abortion is no fun, as you have no one to talk to, no one who understands. And it was not like I could really go to a clinic or something, as they would ask questions about my age. After the second time, and against my boyfriends wishes, I stole money from his wallet and went to the drugstore to get the pill. The woman there was quite judgmental, but as I pressed the issue that it was none of her business what I did, she sold me what I needed.
There was a third abortion after that, and after that I never got pregnant again. I didn’t know if the pill had worked or it all had left me damaged, and didn’t know until last year. And in case you’re wondering, I’m healthy, apart from a couple of hefty STD’s, which than God turned out to be treatable. But taking the pill at such a young age did have the side effect of worsening my Borderline. In the talks and tests I did last year, I found out the woman at the store had sold me the wrong type, by mistake or on purpose, that I’ll never know. In using that brand for years after, it seriously fucked up my hormone levels, as instead of flaring up and checking myself, I regularly went into full aggressive bitch mode at the drop of a hat. But at the same time it was that fierceness that got me out of this, so who knows… I now just take it all as history, something that happened, the good with the bad.