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The first time I saw a penis I was 11 years old. A man flashed open his coat when he passed me by in the street and there I saw it, that odd fleshy bit hanging out of his open zip. I remember feeling panic, disgust and shame, as if it was my fault somehow. When I was 12 and on a holiday camp, one of the older guys working there invited me to his cabin to play some music and made me wait while he took a shower, coming out from the bathroom with his robe semi open. Again, panic and shame. In my first job, age 20, the boss became obsessed with me and I had to literally run around the conference table in order to avoid his hands on my body. Every time I was called into his office I asked my colleagues to interrupt the meeting after 5 minutes, so I could safely escape his harassment. I told my mother and she laughed it off, saying it was just classic men behaviour. I eventually had to leave the job cause he was becoming more and more persistent. I'm 56 years old and I personally don't know ANY woman of my generation who hasn't been through similar situations.

I was raped by my uncle when I was 11 years old. Most of my family didn't believe me. That was really painful and prevented me from getting the support and help I needed at the time. I developed an eating disorder and started self-harming as a trauma response. I had no other way of coping. I wish I had known more about SA when I was younger. Not to prevent it because I believe that it's the perpetrator that makes the choice to harm. But to understand that it wasn't my fault, that I was a victim and to report it when I still had time.

it still hurts. sometimes i feel like i am too harsh on myself. i only spoke up about waht happened when many years have passed. i knew i wasnt comfortable with what happened but i could expressed it, i kept it deep down and try to supress it from my mind. when i finally spoke up a long time have happened, i am hard on me because i knew it could have get better sooner, i am hard on myself because sometimes i feel like i am making a big deal out of something small. i try to remind myself that i am strong, that i am caring and this shall pass too.

My story begins long before the day I finally escaped. I was 18 years old when I met the man who would become the father of my children. At that time, I was young, inexperienced, and still trying to understand who I was and what I wanted my life to become. I had grown up in the country, but because my father had moved our family to country when I was young, I found myself building my adult life in a country that never truly felt like home. When I was 19, I became pregnant with my first child. The pregnancy was unexpected, but I was determined to do everything I could to become a good mother. I had been raised with strong personal beliefs about pregnancy and motherhood, and I made the decision to continue my pregnancy and welcome my son into the world. At the time, I believed that starting a family would bring stability and happiness. I believed that becoming parents would bring out the best in both of us. Instead, the abuse began during my pregnancy. The first incident that I remember clearly happened when I was eight months pregnant with my son. I was working because we needed money to prepare for the baby. One day, while walking home from work, I began experiencing intense pain and physical discomfort. My body was preparing for birth, and I was struggling to walk. At one point, my hips felt like they were giving out, and I had to stop and hold onto the side of a bridge while people around me asked if I was okay. I was eight months pregnant, visibly struggling, and the people around me showed concern. But when my phone started filling with missed calls and messages from my partner, his first reaction was not concern. I was only about 15 minutes late. Instead of asking if I was safe, he accused me of being with another man. He knew I had been at work, but he assumed the worst and demanded explanations for where I had been. At the time, I did not recognize this as abuse. I was young, and I did not understand that jealousy, accusations, and controlling behavior were warning signs. When I arrived home, I found our room destroyed. My books, which were incredibly important to me, had been thrown around, damaged, and ruined. I have always been a reader, and I am also a writer, so those books represented years of memories and a part of who I was. Objects that mattered to me had been destroyed. Things that carried sentimental value were broken. I remember feeling like I had walked into a battlefield. I tried to explain what happened. I tried to make him understand that I had not done anything wrong. Instead, he became increasingly angry. His face changed, he was yelling, and he became physically aggressive. During that argument, he pushed me while I was eight months pregnant. At the time, I did not understand the medical consequences of what happened. A few days later, during a routine appointment, doctors discovered that I had a tear in my amniotic sac and almost no amniotic fluid. I was immediately sent to the hospital. My son was born prematurely after an induced labor that lasted approximately 17 hours. He was born with serious complications and came into the world struggling because of the lack of oxygen. I remember being exhausted beyond anything I had ever experienced. I remember feeling alone. I remember being pushed to continue when I had almost nothing left. When my son was born, I thought the experience would change everything. I thought becoming a father would make him realize the importance of protecting our family. I wanted to believe that he could change. So I stayed. I tried to make it work. But the pattern continued. After my son was born, my life became centered around protecting him and trying to create a stable home. I was a young mother trying to balance everything: working, caring for a newborn, and trying to understand how to navigate a relationship that was becoming more frightening. At first, I kept hoping that the incident during my pregnancy was a one-time event. I wanted to believe that he had lost control because of stress, fear, or immaturity. I wanted to believe that once we had our child, he would become the partner and father I hoped he could be. Instead, the behavior continued and slowly became part of my everyday life. Over the years, the abuse took many forms. It was not only physical. There were constant insults, yelling, intimidation, and emotional attacks. I was called degrading names and made to feel like I was worthless. There were also racist insults that deeply affected me. Slowly, my confidence was worn down. At the same time, I was trying to be the best mother I could be. My son began experiencing serious medical challenges. When he was around two years old, he had his first seizure. At first, doctors believed it was related to a fever, but the seizures continued throughout his childhood. When he was around eight years old, he experienced a severe seizure that caused significant concern and led doctors to discover that he had epilepsy. I remember carrying him and running through the streets trying to find transportation to get him emergency medical care. He was already more than half my size, but in that moment, none of that mattered. I was his mother, and I needed to get him help. After further evaluations, we learned that my son was autistic. We began noticing differences in the way he learned, his writing abilities, his sensitivities, and the challenges he faced compared to other children. Instead of receiving patience and understanding, my son was sometimes insulted by his father because of his differences. He was called names and made to feel less than he was. That was one of the hardest things for me as a mother. I could endure many things directed at me, but watching my child be hurt emotionally was devastating. I tried to leave multiple times. By the time my son was about five years old, I reached a point where I knew I could not continue living in the same way. I decided to separate from his father. We attempted to move into a co-parenting arrangement, but because we were living in the same country without a strong support system, separating was much more complicated than simply walking away. I was isolated. My family relationships were already difficult, and I did not have a reliable support system around me. Many of my friends did not know the full extent of what was happening. I had become used to hiding what was happening because I was ashamed and because I did not know who could actually help me. During this period, I experienced some of the most frightening incidents of my life. One of the incidents happened after he looked through my phone and found innocent messages from someone I had known as a teenager. They were simple conversations, but he interpreted them as betrayal. He became enraged. He grabbed me, dragged me through the home, pulled my hair, and forced me outside while yelling at me. The force of him pulling my hair was so severe that hair was torn from my scalp, leaving a bald spot that I still have today. He threw money onto the street and told me to find a hotel because I could no longer stay there. What made the situation even more painful was that I was the person paying for the home. I reported what happened. The people I was renting from no longer wanted him living there after what happened, and this became another attempt to separate myself from him. But leaving was never simple. The years that followed were a cycle of trying to leave, trying to protect myself and my children, and trying to survive the consequences of each attempt. During the time that my son's father and I were separated, I was trying to maintain some kind of normal life for my son. I wanted him to have stability. I wanted him to feel loved and protected despite everything happening around us. But even after separation, the control did not end. One of the most painful parts of my experience was realizing that leaving the relationship did not automatically mean I was free from him. The emotional abuse, intimidation, and fear continued. There was one night during that period that changed my life forever. I had been invited to go out with a friend. It was one of the first times in years that I had gone somewhere socially. I was not someone who went out often. I was usually at home caring for my son, working, or dealing with everything happening in my life. Many of the people there were part of the same social circle that my children's father had, because we had shared many of the same friends. I had one drink that night, a non-alcoholic drink because I was never much of a drinker. Shortly afterward, both my friend and I began feeling unusually dizzy and unwell. The sensation did not feel normal, especially because the drink was not supposed to contain alcohol. I remember feeling unsafe and deciding that the best thing was to leave. I made sure my friend got home safely first. During the taxi ride, I tried to remain aware of my surroundings. I was trying to stay calm, stay alert, and make sure I arrived home safely. When I reached my home, I discovered that my children's father was there. He still had keys from when we had lived together. I do not remember everything that happened after he came inside. I remember feeling confused and disoriented, and the next thing I clearly remember is waking up the following day and realizing he was in my bed. Approximately four weeks later, I learned that I was pregnant. I struggled deeply with what had happened because I did not understand how I had become pregnant. I carried a lot of confusion, fear, and pain. Because of my personal beliefs and because abortion was not a legal option available to me, I continued the pregnancy. My daughter was born, and once again I tried to believe that this could be a turning point. Her father told me that because we now had two children together, and because he was attending organization meetings and trying to change, we should give our family another chance. I wanted to believe that people could change. I wanted my children to have a family. So we tried again. We moved into an apartment connected to his family, hoping that living somewhere different would create a safer environment. For a short time, things improved. But eventually, the same patterns returned. The anger returned. The insults returned. The violence returned. He began slapping me, pulling my hair, spitting on me, and verbally attacking me again. I found myself back in the same cycle I had been trying so desperately to escape. I reported incidents to authorities multiple times. I sought help. I documented what happened. But each time, I felt like the consequences fell mostly on me. Every time I reported him, I had to deal with the aftermath. I had to worry about retaliation. I had to worry about my children. I had to worry about whether seeking protection would actually make us safer. Over time, I began to lose hope that the system would protect me. The abuse also affected every other part of my life. I had opportunities that I worked extremely hard for, but maintaining them became almost impossible. I had a job at a software company where I taught students, something I was proud of and passionate about. I worked there for two years. But he would create situations where I would be late, interfere with my ability to maintain my schedule, and even appear at my workplace. Eventually, after struggling to keep everything together, I lost that job. It was devastating. I was not only losing employment. I was losing pieces of the future I had been trying to build. Still, I continued working. I continued caring for my children. I continued advocating for my son through his medical challenges. I was exhausted, but I kept going. Because my children needed me.By this point, I had spent years trying to create a way out. I was working constantly, saving whatever money I could, and trying to create some kind of security for my children. I knew that if I ever wanted to truly leave, I needed a place where we could be safe and stable. Before the pandemic, I managed to save enough money to purchase a small apartment unit that belonged to his mother. She was no longer using it, and she agreed to sell it to me. I paid approximately amount for it, and I worked overtime to make it possible. I invested my own money into restoring it and turning it into a home for my children. For me, that apartment represented something much bigger than a place to live. It represented independence. It represented the possibility that one day I could finally have a life that belonged to me. But the pandemic changed everything. When COVID began, I was forced to spend two years confined with the person I had spent years trying to escape. The isolation made everything worse. There was nowhere to go, fewer people to reach out to, and no easy way to create distance. The abuse continued in front of my children. They heard the yelling. They saw the arguments. They saw their mother being hurt and degraded. As a mother, one of the most painful things was seeing how much it affected them. I was trying to protect them while feeling like I had no way out. During this time, I reached a point where I stopped taking care of myself. I stopped caring about my appearance. I stopped feeling like the person I had once been. But I never stopped being a mother. Even when I felt broken, I continued working. I continued making sure my son received the medical care he needed for his epilepsy and autism. I supported him through school. I helped him learn. I advocated for him when he was struggling. Later, he was also diagnosed with juvenile arthritis, adding another medical challenge to a life that already felt overwhelming. I was carrying the responsibilities of raising two children, managing their medical needs, working, and surviving abuse at the same time. I was drowning, but I was still moving. During those years, I tried repeatedly to find help. I reached out to my father. I showed him evidence of what was happening. I showed him police reports. I asked if my children and I could have somewhere safe to go. But because of complicated family relationships and circumstances, I did not receive the support I needed at that time. I also did not have many friends I could turn to. The years of isolation had taken a toll. Many people around me did not understand the reality of what I was living through, and I felt like I had nowhere to go. I had tried leaving before. Several times. But every attempt ended with him finding a way back into my life. He knew how to convince me to stay. He knew how to create situations where leaving felt impossible. He knew that I had limited options because I was in country, without my documents, without a strong support network, and with children whose lives were tied to the country. Eventually, I began planning my escape more carefully. I knew that if I tried to leave without preparation, I could put myself and my children in greater danger. That was when the control escalated. He began taking away the things that made leaving possible. One of the most devastating examples was my passport. He took my country passport and destroyed it. Without my passport, my ability to travel, replace documents, and leave the country became even more complicated. My work equipment was also destroyed, including my laptop, which I relied on professionally. These were not just objects. They were tools that represented my independence. Taking them away meant taking away my ability to rebuild. I felt trapped. I had spent years trying to survive, and I reached a point where I understood something clearly: If I stayed, I did not know if I would survive. I had received threats. I feared what would happen if I truly left. I feared what he might do if he felt he was losing control. But I also knew something else. My children needed me alive. They needed me to keep fighting. And that became the reason I continued.By the end of 2024, I knew I was reaching the end of what I could endure. For years, I had been trying to survive inside a situation where I felt trapped. I had tried leaving. I had tried asking for help. I had tried working harder, saving money, documenting what was happening, and creating a future for my children. But I was exhausted. I had learned that sometimes leaving is not a single moment. Sometimes it is a long process of quietly preparing, waiting for the safest opportunity, and trying to protect yourself and your children while living with someone who has repeatedly shown that they will not respect your boundaries. During this time, money was another way I was controlled. There were many occasions where he would leave for days at a time, taking money with him, leaving me responsible for the children and the household without enough resources. There were times when I had to rely on his family for food because I had no other option. I had previously helped set up a credit card account as a backup because I needed a way to provide for my children during those moments. When he was gone and I needed groceries or necessities, I would use it and then pay it back little by little. I was not using it as a luxury. I was trying to make sure my children had food and basic needs met. When he discovered that I had been using the card and paying it back through small payments, it became another source of conflict and another situation that ended in violence. Three days after Christmas in 2024, everything reached a breaking point. He became extremely angry and decided to remove me from the home. The home he forced me out of was the home I had worked for. The home I had paid for. The home I had restored and created for my children. He packed my clothes into two trash bags and threw them outside. Then he forced me out. I recorded what was happening because I knew I needed documentation. I remember repeatedly saying that I would leave, but I would not leave without my children. That was the one thing I would not compromise on. I would not walk away and leave my children behind. When I tried to get back inside because my children wanted to leave with me, he shut the metal door and injured my arm. I went to the police station nearby because I needed help. I explained that he was keeping my children from me and described what had happened. But I was told that because he was their biological father, there was nothing they could do at that moment. I walked away feeling devastated. The system that I had hoped would protect me was not giving me the immediate safety I needed. That was when I called my father. Our relationship had been complicated for many years. There had been distance between us, and there were many family issues that had affected our relationship. But during that period, I had still worried about him. After he separated from his wife, I would secretly visit him when I could. I would bring him food, make extra meals, and check on him because I felt he was struggling and becoming isolated himself. This time, when I called and told him what happened, something changed. For the first time, he said the words I had needed to hear for so long: "Come here. You can stay here." That moment changed my life. I moved in with my father and started rebuilding. I worked harder than I ever had before. I focused on healing. I started therapy. My father helped me pay for my first month of therapy, which became an important step in beginning to recover from years of trauma. Slowly, things started changing. I received two promotions at work. I began rebuilding my confidence. I began remembering that I was not only a survivor. I was a person with skills, dreams, intelligence, and a future. Most importantly, I continued fighting for my children. Although I was able to create a safer environment for myself, the situation with my children remained complicated. Their father continued trying to use financial demands and access to the children as a way to control me. He demanded that I pay him large amounts of money, including child support and other expenses. Later, I discovered that some of the payments he claimed responsibility for were not actually being made. I continued documenting everything. I continued fighting. Then came the moment that changed everything for my children. The school called me. They asked me to come immediately. When I arrived, I learned that my daughter was sitting outside the classroom and had not been participating. My daughter has always been social, intelligent, and engaged, so the school knew something was wrong. At first, they believed she was struggling because of the separation between her parents. But then my son arrived. He was crying uncontrollably. He was overwhelmed and could barely communicate what had happened. Eventually, he told the school staff that his father had kicked him in the chest and that he could not breathe. For a child with epilepsy and autism, extreme stress and trauma can have serious consequences. The school told me they could not send my children home with their father that day. They told me I needed to take emergency custody because they were concerned for their safety and would otherwise have to involve child protection authorities. So I took my children home. That day, I knew I could not continue hoping things would improve. I had to protect them.Then came the moment that changed everything for my children. The school called me and asked me to come immediately. When I arrived, I learned that my daughter was sitting outside her classroom and had not been participating in school that day. My daughter has always been social, intelligent, and engaged, so the school staff immediately recognized that something was not right. At first, they believed she might be struggling emotionally because of the separation between her parents. They thought she may have been processing the changes happening in our family. But then they told me about my son. My son arrived at school that day crying, overwhelmed, and unable to calm down. Because of his autism, communicating during moments of extreme stress can be especially difficult for him. The school staff brought him to the principal's office so they could understand what was happening. That was when he disclosed that his father had kicked him in the chest and that he had been unable to breathe. Hearing that was devastating. My son already lived with epilepsy and autism, and I knew how vulnerable he was to extreme stress and trauma. I had spent years advocating for his medical needs, his education, and his emotional well-being. The thought that he was experiencing fear inside the place where he was supposed to be safe was unbearable. The school told me that they could not allow my children to return to their father's care that day without further action. They told me that I needed to take emergency custody measures because they were concerned about their safety and that otherwise they would need to involve child protection authorities. So I took my children home. That day, I realized that I could no longer hope that things would improve on their own.After I took my children home, my entire focus changed. For years, I had been trying to survive while also protecting my children. I had spent so much time trying to prevent situations from becoming worse, trying to keep peace, and trying to find a way forward in circumstances where I felt trapped. But after what happened at the school, I understood something had changed. Waiting for things to improve was no longer an option. My children needed stability. They needed safety. They needed a mother who was willing to keep fighting for them. I immediately began taking steps to protect them legally. I gathered the documentation I had collected over the years, including police reports, messages, recordings, photographs, and other evidence that showed the history of what had happened. I had learned through painful experience that telling the truth was not always enough. I needed documentation. I needed records. I needed evidence that showed the pattern of behavior and not just one isolated moment. During this time, I continued rebuilding my own life. After years of being controlled, isolated, and made to feel powerless, I was slowly discovering that I was capable of standing on my own. I had a home for my children. I had employment. I had support from my father. I had started therapy. I was beginning to find the person I had been before years of abuse had taken so much from me. But the conflict with their father did not end. Even after separation, he continued finding ways to maintain control through financial pressure, demands involving the children, and continued attempts to interfere with my life. I continued documenting everything. I wanted the legal system to understand the complete picture—not only one event, but the years of abuse, intimidation, and control that had brought us to that point. Then the situation escalated again. After years of abuse, separation, and conflict, his behavior became increasingly frightening. For approximately a month, I experienced a period of intense harassment and stalking. I felt watched and unsafe. I feared that losing control over the situation was causing him to escalate his behavior and that he was trying to find a way back into my life. This time, I refused to stay silent. I saved messages. I preserved evidence. I documented what was happening. I contacted authorities when I needed help. For years, I had wondered whether anyone would truly believe me. I had reported abuse before. I had gone to authorities before. I had provided evidence before. But each time, I felt like I was left carrying the consequences of trying to seek protection. This time, I continued because my children deserved safety. Eventually, the situation reached the courts. I presented the evidence I had collected over years, along with the evidence from the more recent harassment and stalking. The legal process was extremely difficult. At one point, the case was at risk of being dismissed despite the amount of evidence I had provided. I refused to give up. I appealed the decision and continued fighting to have my concerns heard. Eventually, I was granted a full no-contact restraining order. That moment was significant for me. It was not just a legal document. It was recognition. Recognition that what I experienced mattered. Recognition that my fear was based on real events. Recognition that I had a right to protection. Although the outcome was not exactly what I originally hoped for, there was finally legal intervention. Instead of going to prison, his family intervened and he was placed in an involuntary psychiatric facility. While that was not the outcome I expected, the court recognized that the situation required serious intervention, and I was granted protection through the no-contact order. But even with that protection, my fight was not over. Because my children and I were still in country. And I was no longer fighting only to escape abuse. I was fighting to bring my children home. During this new chapter of my life, I met my husband. He entered my life after I had already survived years of abuse, isolation, and fear. He saw what I had been through and supported me as I rebuilt myself and fought for my children. For the first time in many years, I experienced what it felt like to have someone beside me who believed me, supported me, and wanted a safe future for my children and me. He is now waiting for us in state as we continue navigating the legal process that stands between us and being together as a family. My dream has always been simple: A safe home. A stable life. A future where my children can grow without fear. But because our situation crosses international borders, the process is complicated. My son has a path toward obtaining country citizenship through his connection to the country through the proper legal process. My daughter's situation is more complicated because she is a country citizen, and bringing her to the country requires navigating additional legal requirements. So even after escaping the immediate danger, the battle continued. I escaped the relationship. I survived the abuse. But I am still fighting for my children to come home.

I was first abused by my stepfather in my early 20s, he took the opportunity while my Mom, sister and niece were away in theme park and molested me. I was taken aback, and had no idea what to do or how to process it. I was scared to tell my Mom and anybody else for fear I wouldn't be believed. I eventually admitted it to my Mom, and went to stay with friends, as I didn't want to be around him at all, and did not feel safe. I was afraid it would go further and that he would rape me. I was very clear with my Mom, I told her that I would not return to the house if he was there, she let him back, so I moved to stay with another relative and subsequently moved out altogether, I had very little contact and refused to return home while he was still there. My Mom found me a counsellor to help me talk about what had happened. I went to her for a number of years. I had issues with family members and friends believing me when I disclosed what happened to me, they insinuated that as it was only assault, it was not that serious. I found this very difficult to take, and it probably made me more reticent about talking about what had happened. About period of time later, the divorce referendum was successfully enacted and my Mom and stepfather were going to marry. My counsellor told me that if I didn't attend that day, I would never forgive myself. I attended, but felt uncomfortable and upset all day long. A number of years later I returned home as I needed somewhere to be as I changed jobs etc. I wasn't fully comfortable with this decision, however I thought I would be okay as my Mom was there too along with my stepfather and my sisters. My Mom got sick shortly after that, she was sick for period of time, and passed away in year. After that, I was living in the house with my stepfather alone. Over a period of time, he deliberately isolated me from my sisters and other family members. So much so, that I had very little support available to me. And then the molesting/assaults started up again, I really didn't know what to do or how to react. It got gradually worse, and for a period of period of time or longer, I was being assaulted/raped on a weekly and sometimes more regular basis. Towards the end of this period he was even talking about marrying me, which was very creepy and inappropriate. This was an excruciating and very difficult time, as I had zero support, and nobody to reach out to or help. Due to health reasons, my stepfather had to move and live with relations in another part of the country, and this finally ended this period of physical and emotional abuse. However I had suppressed and blocked it for so long, that I found it difficult to face or come to terms with. Now period of time later, I am finally seeking help to give me healing and help me come to terms with all that has happened to me. I am grateful that I am at last able to admit how bad things were, and also that I can try and rebuild my own life after years of sidelining myself to look after others. I hope my story will help others in similar situations reach out and seek help and support in the future, even though I cannot take legal action against my abuser, I still want to be able to heal and try and come to terms with all I endured.

I was a young waitress who didn't feel protected or safe. "The customer is always right" isn't true for someone who is harassing you, touching you without your consent or being a creep. I wish people stood up for me.

At the age of 7 my cousin who was 2-3 years older than me assaulted me. I was in my room alone when he came in asking if he could touch me. I said no. Then again he asked. I said no again. But then he said “I’ll let you play this game on my phone.” It was a specific game that I had seen all my cousins play but was never allowed to play. So then without a pause I said okay and let him touch me. I then laid on my stomach while he pulled my shorts down and started to mess with my butt, feeling around and even putting his face on it. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I even giggled as he was assaulting me. After he had gotten done he told to then not tell anyone and keep it as a secret. I said okay. But something in me just couldn’t keep it to myself. I then at some point told my mother in the same room where it happened. I remember very little about what I said to her but I remember what she told me. “I’m sorry we can’t do anything about it.” (At that time we were living in the same house as my cousin due to financial stress after my father had been incarcerated.) I remember her hugging me tightly as we sat on the same bed where it all happened. Now as adult and having to process what happened to me I sometimes downplay it even saying that no it doesn’t affect me in any sort of way but after reading so many articles about the affects of cocsa I realize that it does affect me especially with close relationships and day to day life. I question if my mother really loves me as she says she does because if she did why didn’t she protect me from my abuser? I feel shameful and disgusted in myself after learning that I had continued the cycle I feel so ashamed I feel so nasty so disgusted with myself I can’t help but just feel so much self hatred towards myself because even when I was hurt I still ended up hurting others. I don’t know where to begin healing I don’t know how to forgive myself I find it hard to even start with forgiving myself. I feel so disgusting.

I’m sharing here because I hope I can reach out to other women who may have gone through marital rape or may still be going through it and I want you to know you are not alone. For years I felt as if I was asleep as I couldn’t face up to what was happening to me, why I was losing weight and why I so depressed. I minimised everything, even to him. I would try and make him feel better afterwards. Most of the time it was as simple as me saying no to sex and him doing it anyway while I was completely disconnected, and it was so often, I would lie there and wait til he was done most of the time, but each thing built up to him pushing the boundaries further, sometimes when we were out in public, always after I went out with my friends, it was part of the deal. I always told myself he’d be in better form if I just went along with it. He was always so stressed and so angry. And I loved him and sometimes I enjoyed sex with him. It made things very confusing in my head. And I was eating barely anything, which he encouraged, he was constantly buying me exercise equipment and sexy outfits. I kept getting sick, I was tired and low all the time. My family and friends were saying I wasn’t myself. There were 3 incidents that I play over and over in my head that I couldn’t minimise (although I tried). And they led to me telling him our marriage was over. That was a year ago. I thought it might help me to write one of them down and maybe someone will identify with me and it might help them. It was at his best friends wedding and as usual, he wanted us to do something exciting sexually. So we went to the men’s toilets. We were kissing and we started to have sex. I was quite drunk. All of a sudden he turned me around and bent me over the toilet, my hands on the window sill. I started to say no. It came out in what sounded like a little girls voice. I don’t know why I remember that so well. I don’t know why I didn’t shout. He raped me anally in the men’s cubicle and I was crying looking at a dirty window sill and I could hear strange men outside commenting. Afterwards I kept asking why did you do that, I didn’t want that, it hurt me, you were too rough, I said no. But he he didn’t want to talk about it. He left me sitting with one of his male friends that I didn’t know to go outside with his best friend and have cigars. He saw I was in pain and bleeding for days after. I stayed with him for years after that. Other things happened after that too. I ended up feeling like his stress ball, a rag doll, good for nothing else. I was with him since I was 18 years old and we have children together. He was all I knew. He was my husband and I loved him. No one knew what was happening. Everyone thought we were a couple in love. It wasn’t until I told him I couldn’t share a bed with him anymore and I was starting ti have panic attacks that we went to a marriage counsellor and it all came out. I woke up. It was her face. Her reaction. I felt so stupid and embarrassed. And he tried to explain it away to her shouting at her that he was a man. I was sitting there thinking how did I let this happen to me? I always saw myself as quite a strong, intelligent, bubbly person. I’m in my 40s, I should know better. I was looking at the counsellors face and it somehow didn’t feel as if it was happening. I realised I was shaking and she was worried about me and he was shouting at her. I felt so embarrassed and helpless. And stupid in front of another grown woman. I was thinking what if this was someone I loved telling me this happened to them? But still in my head I kept thinking its not really rape because he was my husband, and I loved him and so many times I wanted to have sex with him so how could it be rape. But why did he want to hurt me? I kept thinking this couldn’t be happening to me. Anyway thanks for reading. I hope it helps someone. I feel it helped me to write it down.

I was abused by my mother. She was harsh with me, hitting me, calling me stupid, and saying I shouldn't have been born, making me feel like I had no value in life. My mother wasn't just a scary person; she was kind to my younger brother Name , so she could be kind to him too. I met my current husband at University , got married, and had children. I was overwhelmed with anxiety that I might do the same things to my own children as my mother did, and I cried to my husband many times about it. My husband suggested I talk to a counselor, and I am now attending counseling sessions. I always thought that my mother's harshness was my fault, but now I realize that it's not entirely my fault, and talking to someone about the words and actions of my mother that I had kept hidden until now has lightened my burden. I hope that sharing this here will bring some comfort to others. Thank you for reading this.

My sexual assaults story is uncommon for most and hard to most people to grasp. Who would believe that children are capable of knowing and doing such gruesome things to person? Most children are not like this and their experiences are different. It first happened when I was 8 years old while, my abuser was 7 years old at the time. I remember the abuse happening gradually as we build our friendship. It first started with us doing typical kid stuff like us playing together and joking around. And one day, he asked me to play this new game with him. I said sure. I thought it would be one of those silly jokes stunts of his. Instead he pulled my pants down and rubbed his private part against my bottom. It was really uncomfortable moment for me since, I grew-up in a strict Christian-based family. I have never witness anyone on television or heard of the things he was doing to me. Afterwards, I remember me being shy to tell anyone and feeling like I would get into trouble. So I remained quiet. How would any parent react if you see children engaging in sexual behavior? Wouldn't you automatically assume it was the oldest child to teach someone this behavior? This went on for almost 2 years. His behavior became more advance and his request got more weirder. One time, he begged me to drink his pee directly from his part. I told him no. And he stomped across the room mad. He kept persisting and demanding that I try it. Eventually, I gave in but, I told him only from a cup. It was the most dehumanizing experiences of my life. It was not long afterwards, that my father caught us. I remember me trying shove the boy off of me. And telling him that my dad was coming and he kept going harder and harder. I guess he thought I was lying to convince him to get off of me. He wouldn't stop until my father walked into the room.

Having YOUR voice is the most important thing that you can have as an abuse victim. After going through abuse for multiple years at Location, I felt like everything was stripped away from me. My dignity, self respect, confidence, happiness, and strength felt like were taken by the age of 9. Summer after summer i went to this dark place that was supposed to be a positive experience. My parents thought they were dropping me off at a place to help grow my walk with the Lord. What they didnt know is that Name 2 told me that if I did the sexual acts he wanted me to do, he promised that I would become closer to God. He was a sick individual that constantly broke Location's guidelines and the law. The worst part is that Location had insight and knew these events were happening but did nothing. Leaving camp and going back home I remember feeling empty and depressed. You are not at a maturity level at this age to be able to grasp what has happened and how to process it. I went to child advocacy centers to get professional help and struggled to even talk about what happened because it did not make sense in my head and could not verbalize the events or the impact it had on me. As i moved into my teen years I became more depressed. Every night I would have a dream of Name 2 abusing me and I felt like every night I went to sleep, I was going to be abused again. The fear, anger and depression I went through weighed so heavy on me that I was close to not wanting to make it to the next day. After years of this cycle, I decided I needed change to be able to live a full life. I started to to work on my physical, spiritual and mental health. The biggest part of this is having your voice. You have to be able to share your experience so that you can get the help you need and to express the pain you have been through. That is why I am thankful for Trey's Law. This removes the ability for organizations like Location to silence victims after they put them through horrendous experiences. It gives the power back to the Survivor. Treys Law will save lives. It will allow for someone to stick up for themselves. It will allow for less criminals/organizations to get away with what is the worst crime someone can commit. If anyone is reading this and needs help, I am always happy to listen to your voice! Name

At the end of my freshman year of college, I was at a house party. Towards the end of the night, after I had already been drinking, I said I wanted to go smoke and a guy who had been interested in me asked if he could come with me. We were friends at the time so I agreed. We went to the area in the back, which was an enclosed greenhouse-type porch and no one was back there. After we finished smoking, he leaned in and kissed me. I was shocked but went along with it at first. He proceeded to kiss me more intensely and started to touch me. Feeling uncomfortable, I stopped and told him I wanted to go inside. I sat at a table inside and he was next to me. I started feeling the high from smoking as I was having a conversation with my friends who were right across from me. Suddenly I felt his hand move up my thigh and he proceeded to rub me over my shorts. I was in frozen in shock thinking, "what the fuck is happening right now? This is really weird and i'm not enjoying this. Am I too high to do something right now? There are so many people around me. and no one knows what is happening. What is going on?" After a what felt like forever I felt him try to go in my shorts and that's when I snapped out of it and just looked at him. I didn't know what to say, and I don't really remember what happened at this point. I was just. in shock. He said something to me, I probably said something back, and then he just walked away. The day after I cried and had breakdowns in the bathrooms of the student center. I was confused and conflicted with myself trying to process what had happened. I felt like it was my fault because I googled things like "what constitutes as sexual assault/harassment?" because I wasn't sure if what i had gone through had "counted." I thought that since it was only touching it wasn't a big deal. I thought that because I was under the influence it was my fault. That I shouldn't have been that fucked up. That I shouldn't have been leading him on and making him think that I was into him. That I should protect him because he was friends with so many of my friends. But at the end of it all, HE WAS IN THE WRONG. I WAS PUT IN A SITUATION WHERE I WAS UNCOMFORTABLE AND HE HAD VIOLATED ME IN A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE. I'm here to say that no matter the action, no matter how small, if you were violated your feelings are VALID. If you did not give consent and you felt uncomfortable, it IS ASSAULT. It is still your story. YOUR trauma that you have to live with. Do not brush it off or belittle it because you don't feel like it's worthy of being labeled. You are worthy. You deserve to be heard.

I had a tough year, I had lost a parent, I had been cheated on, I had to end a very good friendship. That summer I was going to have a good time, and enjoy being young. After work one day, I sprung up the idea to go on a night out with my cousin who had a similar year to mine. We went out for drinks, the two of us going through the same motions of a night out, batting off creeps at the bar, dancing, having a good time. We met with one of her old school friends and his friend, and I took a liking to the friend. We all piled up in a taxi and went back to their place. We all had a couple more drinks, and my cousin and her school friend went upstairs, leaving me with the other friend. One thing lead to another and we went upstairs. Through the motions there were things that didn't feel right, and I tried to tell him to stop, that I was uncomfortable, that I didn't want to do that, but he didn't listen, he just kept going. When finally, it was over and I just felt frozen in time, more concerned for my cousin in the next room, and not about myself, being in a scary position. My phone had died and nobody had a charger for it, so I had to beg the guy who had just assaulted me to order a taxi, because I didn't know what part of town I was in at the time, but all I knew was that I had to get home, and fast. All I remember was my cousin getting annoyed at me for leaving, but I didn't care, I wanted to get home, I wanted to be safe. I remember the taxi driver, it was a woman who told me about her son living in locationand how humid it was that time of year. It mightn't have been much, but it was comforting in that moment. I remember the streetlights reflecting on the rows of houses in that suburb, which still haunt me any time I pass through that area, sending a shiver down my spine. She pulled up to my house, the sun was starting to come up, my dad left the porch light on. I undressed and took a shower. Still not processing what had happened, I wrote in my journal and tried to pass it off as a silly dating fail, but knowing at the back of my mind it wasn't okay. I couldn't sleep so I read a book and the following day, took my younger sibling out into town to get school supplies for the new year. Months passed, and I tried to tell a friend about what happened to me, but all they could say to me was: "Well, what do you expect, that's what happens when you hook up with random people" and I retreated into myself. After that point, I went a long time without telling people what happened until I was visiting another friend in a different city and I decided to go on a date with someone I matched with on an app. As I was about to board the metro to get to the date, I froze up, I panicked, I started to cry. My friend immediately asked what happened, if I was okay, and was there anything she could do to help. I couldn't say it was nothing, because it wasn't nothing. It was something that shook me to my core, made me think I was in the wrong for enjoying my sexuality. I didn't go on the date, but what I did do was tell my friend what had happened, and instead of being met with judgement, I was met with kindness, compassion, and love. We left the train station, picked up bits for a self-care night, and I was allowed to be myself in a space where I was believed and listened to. It took me a good while to feel comfortable in myself, how I looked, how I expressed myself, how I even was in relationships. If it weren't for the friend who made sure I was okay and I was safe, I mightn't be sharing my story right now. There are still times when I pass through that same neighborhood, hear that person's name, or even go pass the bar we met at, and a cold wave passes through me, but I'm proud of the work I have put in to not let it ruin my day, get me down, or define me.

It’s the first time I share this story in a community. I feel I need to share more to reflect on it and to understand how I can get over it. A man I knew tried to sexually abuse me, I physically fought back. After years this triggers me. I started having anxiety in more than 5 years after it happened. Sometimes I’m thinking of going into court.

I was in an abusive relationship for 12 years. I met him when I was fourteen and we came together when I was fifteen. He was nice and lovely and I fell in love with him. I never thought that he could have a dark side. After a few month I began to realize, that there is something inside him. When we had our first fight, he screamed with me and I had so much fear. He apologized and I forgived him. But: It didn‘t stopped. He was verbal abusive. He said that I am a whore. He made me feeling small and like I am the worst person in the world. He said, that I am a psycho. He said I am a joke. He said I am nothing. He said, that he has to talk and scream with me like this, because I don‘t understand his points otherwise. He began to destroy things like my watch or a necklace. The walls had holes and he often grabbed me at my shoulders very hard when he got angry. When I cried, he became angrier at all. I locked myself in the toilet because I had so much fear of him. He also pushed me at the asphalt when he was drunk sometimes. I had bruises. One time he choked me. I never told anybody what happend, because I always forgived him and felt so fucking guilty. I tried to left him, but he always said, that he will kill himself, when I go. I went to therapy but even there I was so ashamed, that I didn‘t talk about the abuse. After two years of therapy I got stronger and stronger. I was ready to talk to somebody about the things that happend to me and that I want to leave him. Suddenly I felt free and was ready to go. He always said, that he loves me and that I am the love of his life. It never was love. I realized that I was in an abusive relationship. There were verbal, emotional and physical abuse. I didn't imagine any of it. I wasn't crazy. Whoever is reading this and is in a similar situation: You are strong! You are intelligent! You are beautiful! You are a good person! You can trust yourself! You can talk to someone! You can do this! You can leave him! You are a wonderful human being! I love you all out there and send you hugs. We have to share our stories and we are allowed to share them. Together we can change something.

I never knew a happy safe experience of intimate connection until i was 39. Well, I don't know if that is 100% accurate to say but it feels true to say. It was with a woman - a friend. We were pretty drunk and I was getting over my first relationship, one which had turned abusive, and she was maybe exploring her sexuality before committing to a life relationship with her partner. We were not alone - there was another friend also there - on the other side of her - a good guy, a very good friend of hers. Me and this guy friend did not gravitate towards each other though. She kissed my hair. I hadn't felt so loved or cared for in a long time. The grasping/rejecting/fearful dichotomy was gone and for the first time i sensed it didn't need to be that way. She seemed to want me to be close to her and i didn't feel pressure to be anyone or do anything other than what felt right in that moment. From that experience, i learnt that there is such generosity and healing in reciprocal loving touch. I guess i maybe felt that way occasionally with my ex-partner. But it's funny how when bad experiences happen between you and another person, it can rinse even the best memory and sensation with a dulling wash.

I was assualted, sexual assualted by a man I trusted, who I looked up to. I was 21 at the time, modeling, doing shoots, stepping into the modeling industry. Little did I know how dark things would get. These women who would stand by these abusers. He groped me from behind and touched me sexually on a shoot. I froze, I couldn't say anything. Couldn't process what was happening. He drove me home, told me to play with myself and let him watch. I ignored his requested and he told me if his wife found out, she'd die from the stress (she was sick at the time) and it would be MY FAULT. I strongly believed this and held everything in for three months. I pushed everything to the back of my mind, denied it. Everywhere I looked I saw the make of his car, his name, thought he was following me. I eventually I had a breakdown, went to the guards. Who were absolutely useless and laughed at my five page statement. There was no evidence but my word against his. So he got models to read off scripts and tell the guards how I was in love with this man and "asked for it". Told everyone in the industry that I was "unstable" and how he feared for HIS life. As if I was the predator. The coward couldn't even come forward himself...turned everyone against me. Feeling so alone, I confided in my dance instructors who I really trusted. Only for them to be STILL working with this man to this day. I gave up fighting as no one around me believed me. Taking me 7 years to open up again about my trauma. Everyday it still effects me..seening his name everywhere on social media. People singing him praises, if only they knew... would they believe me?? Do I risk going through the trauma all over again??

I was conditioned to think catcalling was a compliment, that if someone held your waist a little too long at work it was just cause "ahh they're just a bit touchy", that it's easier to just "go with it" than to say no and risk their response. It took me years to identify that no matter the degree of your experiences it still is never ok. We often get told sexual violence is one way but it isn't, it comes in many forms and sometimes you can't identify it at first - and that's ok. I am only recently coming to terms with the varying degrees of experiences I've had. I didn't want to say anything because I was made to believe I'd "rock the boat". Well some boats are meant to sink. Let's rebuild the boat so everyone can stay afloat, included and safe.

I work with survivors of sexual violence as a part of my job...and it can be really difficult to engage in my own healing while I am constantly hearing the trauma of others. Most days are fulfilling. It is special to connect with folks who have experienced something similar to what you have...but it can also be uniquely isolating. I long for the community of survivors I often refer my clients to, but for some reason I feel a barrier to engaging in these services myself. "Too many people know me there," I rationalize...would they have concerns about me working with survivors if they knew I was a survivor myself? I was sexually assaulted by a massage therapist....something that I have very rarely said out loud but still think about nearly every day. I can still feel his sweat dripping onto my body...and have a visceral reaction to even raindrops falling on my bare skin. God I hate that guy...I don't even know where he is now, but I always wonder if what I did was enough. Did his boss take my accusation seriously? Why did I insist that I not be contacted again? I really wish I knew the outcome of my complaint... Despite this unknowing, I really feel like I have came a long way. The anger is still there yes, but my hatred for myself has slowly been materializing. Day by day things get easier, as I try to find spaces that make me feel seen and find people who understand why I do what I do. I hope I can do enough to make this world a little easier for those, like me, who often feel like they are suffering in silence. But I also hope I can rest. And love. And feel peace. Because now I realize I deserve that too.