I didn’t know the answer. I felt shaken.
There was pain and there was blood, but the blood made the room look like a crime scene. It spilled everywhere in a gushing waterfall, staining through the bedspread and into the mattress, down the sides of the bed frame and onto the carpet.
After the bleeding started and we stopped having sex, I started using sanitary pads to try to stop the bleeding. When I got through six of them, I decided to call 111 and they asked if the sex was consensual and to describe the events that led up to it.
They told me to go to the nearest walk-in centre. At this point, I’d nearly fainted once and felt dizzy, like my entire body was experiencing pins and needles. My mouth was so dry. All I could think was that my family would kill me.
We went to the local walk-in centre – where they told me I had to go to A&E, I almost passed out, breaking my phone screen when it slipped out of my hand, as they didn’t have the equipment to find out what was wrong.
On the way there, alone, I nearly fainted again in the Uber – the driver had to pull over and get me a packet of cereal bars and a bottle of water, which helped. While in the waiting room, I’d managed to contact my best friend and by the time I’d been taken into one of the wards for serious injuries, she’d arrived.
When I arrived at A&E – about an hour and a half after the bleeding first started – I saw two gynaecologists and a revolving door of nurses – all women. One of the medical staff told me that if the bleeding didn’t stop by the next day, I would have to go into surgery.‘You have a tear on both your vaginal walls,’ someone said to me after using a cystoscope to try to figure out what was wrong. They said it could’ve happened because the penetration was too rough or even because I wasn’t ready or turned on. After that, they all settled on using gauze to stop the bleeding.
By this point, I’d been bleeding for more than three hours and soaked through more than 10 sanitary pads even when two were used together. I find it oddly hilarious that I hadn’t got a drop of blood on my jeans.
One of the nurses helped me put on a pair of disposable maternity-style briefs and on the end of the bed, I spotted the red and black silk and lace thong I’d bought specially from Ann Summers. Fat lot of good it’s done me, I thought.
I felt everything from panic and shock to amusement at everything that was unfolding. I ended up telling a nurse that I didn’t want my parents knowing I’d had sex because I wasn’t supposed to be having it.
I had my mother’s words ringing in my ears that I shouldn’t be having sex because it’s a taboo in our South Asian culture. We’re taught never to do it with anyone because it’s all boys – or men – want and once they get it, they leave.
‘They’ll make you all these promises,’ my mum told me in Bangla when I was 15. ‘They will tell you they love you or will marry you, so you have sex with them. But once you do, they will break every promise and leave.’
I went to sleep that night in the hospital feeling sick and frustrated. I also hadn’t been able to keep any food down and I couldn’t sleep either.
Every two to three hours, a nurse would check my blood pressure, do a blood test and take my temperature. I also had a catheter attached, which was extremely uncomfortable.
The next day in hospital, I spoke to a gynaecologist and told her I never want to have sex again. She laughed and said this isn’t how sex was supposed to be. ‘When you’re ready, it’ll be so much better,’ she assured me. I felt wary but nodded anyway.
