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We started seeing each other and things didn’t feel bad at first. We spent time together regularly, and I developed feelings quickly. Over time, things began to change in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. Moments that once felt normal started to turn sour. “What else are you into?” he asked while we were having sex. “I don’t know. What about you?” I replied. “Slapping.” I was taken aback, but since I had feelings for him I wanted to impress him. Big mistake. “You want to slap me?” I asked hesitantly. “Kinda.” “Okay. We can try it.” So he slapped me across the face. It stung but I didn’t show it. “You like that?” he grinned. “Yeah.” I didn’t but I was too caught up in my feelings to say that. “You can slap me too if you want.” I never consented to slapping again; he never asked. Some time after, I refused to give him a kiss so he grabbed my hair and pulled me towards him. I pulled away and he slapped me. I kissed him so he wouldn’t do it again. Similarly, another time he was asking for a kiss when I was on top of him. I laughed and pulled away. “Please.” He begged. “Nuh uh.” I giggled. He looked at my necklace and grabbed it, ripping it from around my throat. We stared at each other for seconds before I laughed so I wouldn’t cry. He offered to buy me a new one but I said I’d fix it at home. I learned later that it was too damaged to be fixed. Another day we were curled up in front of the TV when I blurted out: “What’s your weirdest kink?” He thought for a moment before answering. “Blood,” he said. “Huh. Want to add more?” I asked, indicating the scars of self-harm on my arm. He chuckled. “Don’t have a sharp enough knife, I’m afraid. But when I get one, would you like to add some to me?” “Only if you want me to.” A moment of silence broken only by the TV. I didn’t know how to respond to that. “How about you?” “Huh?” “What’s your weirdest kink?” “Similar to yours; I like knives.” Again, I was trying to impress him. “I have a knife.” “I know. Want to give it a try?” “Do you want to?” “Sure.” He got up, retrieved his pocketknife and returned to the bed. We made out, got undressed and soon enough, he slipped inside me and brought the blade to my throat. He had his eyes closed and was focused on our lips and he accidentally poked the side of my neck. I didn’t mention it until the next time we hung out. The next time, he begged to cut off my underwear. I said okay, as long as he didn’t bring the knife near my throat again. He started hacking away and once there was a giant hole, he gave up and pulled them off before positioning himself between my legs and thrusting. He brought the knife to my throat. Thinking he had misheard me, I asked him to put it down. Through kisses, he asked why and I explained that he had poked my neck last time and I wasn’t interested in that happening again. He promised it wouldn’t and we kept going. I think I asked him to put it down again after that. Perhaps not, I really don’t remember. He asked if I wanted to top and I said sure so we switched positions and when I was settled, he handed me the knife. As I went to put it down beside us, he took my hand and assisted me in holding it against his throat. I don’t understand why he didn’t respect my initial no, I figured it was because of that old saying that everyone thinks at one point or another. ‘Boys will be boys’. Now I know that it’s boundary violations and coercive behaviour. When I asked him to stop, he should’ve stopped. Instead, he put me in an impossible situation where I had a knife at my throat and a man on top of me who refused to remove it. At that moment, I froze. I went to his house again after that and his hand tried to go up my shirt but I stopped him. I said, “No sex; just kisses.” “Just kisses?” He asked. I nod. “Okay.” He said. We kiss every few minutes while taking breaks to watch TV. His hand kept running up and down my hip and thigh. I took his hand and placed it on my thigh, telling him to ‘stay’. We kept kissing and his hand slowly trailed along my thigh and down to my butt, squeezing and stroking gently. I moved it back to my thigh and told him to leave it there. He tried to put his leg between my thighs like he’d do when we were naked before sex and doing a bit of foreplay. “Move your leg.” “Sorry.” He grumbled. His hand kept moving so I rolled over and put his hand on his thigh. “Stop touching me.” My turn to grumble. He asked, “Why?” “Because you’re making me horny.” “Good; be horny with me.” He said as he started kissing my neck and pressed his erection against my butt. “Not today. Don’t feel like it.” I moved my legs up and wiggled forward so my butt and his erection were inches apart. He stretched and moved his thighs so they were pressed against the back of my thighs and his erection was back against my butt. I rolled back around to face him and we kissed again. “Please, I need you.” He begged against my lips. I’m sure his boner wasn’t comfortable. So, I gave in. “I need you too, pretty.” “Can we fuck?” He asked. “Okay.” His hand went under my shirt and bra and he pulled both up. I removed them for him and he removed his own before settling back down with his thigh between mine. “Grind for me.” He commanded. “But I want you to fuck me.” “I will. Grind first.” I tried to protest but he started kissing and sucking on my nipples and instead, I moaned. He started grinding so I did as instructed and grinded against his thigh as we made out. As I got closer to orgasming, I said, “Please stop.” He paused and asked, “Why, baby?” “‘cause I’m gonna cum.” He continued to grind even though I had stopped. “Good girl,” he moaned. “Cum for me.” “But I’m wearing pants—“ “Shhh, that’s okay.” He took hold of my hips and guided me along his thigh, causing me to orgasm. My face was hot with embarrassment and I hid in his neck. When he stopped, he asked, “Did you cum?” “Mhm.” I nod against his neck. “Good girl.” No break, no warning; his hand wormed its way into my pants and underwear and he began to finger me. This is another example of how he refused to respect my boundaries and coerced me, wearing me down until I said yes. He would play games when we were done, logging onto Discord to voice chat with his friends. When he was in the middle of a game, I overheard him say, “how to give a bitch Stockholm Syndrome”. Again, I brushed it off as him being edgy. I realise now how disturbing his mindset had to be to say something like that. I told him I don’t beg for anyone. The next minute, we were undressed and he was rubbing himself against me, instructing me to beg or he wouldn’t put it in. I tried to resist, but he pinned my hands until I gave in. He would say, “you’re such a desperate slut.” Once he even told me that he was researching psychological warfare, and when I asked what that was, he said, “manipulation tactics.” Which truly highlights his mindset. I thought I might be pregnant and I sent him a text about it, expecting comfort and emotional maturity. What I was met with was a photo of a gun and cleaning supplies. Before I went to university, I joked about him getting together with an old lady to keep him company since our town is basically a retirement village. He said nah, he’s going to scout the high school for a 17 year old. With all the bad times stacked together like this, it’s easy to see the toxicity. However, it wasn’t all just bad times. He drip-fed me affection to keep me hooked on him, so that every time I tried to leave, he knew I’d come back hoping for the good version of him. We were watching a show when a scene depicting criminals getting shot at when I had a thought of what if one day it’s late at night and I’m at home with our future kids and he’s out somewhere and something bad happens to him but I can’t help him? A tear fell down my cheek and landed on his bare chest. I froze. I knew he felt it but I wasn’t sure how he’d react. He gently kissed the top of my head, changed the channel to ‘Cold Ones’—a YouTube channel we always laughed at while we watched. We were at his house in his new room and he kept trying to engage in intercourse with me. I told him no, that I just wanted to cuddle and watch TV. He got grumpy at that and told me “if you’re not going to have sex with me, you can leave.” I got up, started grabbing my stuff and he asked where I was going. I said I was leaving and all he said was okay. That response was so dry that I decided to stay. I climbed back onto the bed and he kept asking, “can I touch you?” I kept repeating, “it’s probably dry.” Without warning, he shoved his hand down my pants and started rubbing me, moaning about how wet I was. We started having sex because he wanted to and I didn’t want to get kicked out. His bed was too squeaky so we moved to the floor. I asked him to pass me a pillow and he dropped it on my face. Then he came over, stood above me and started waving his dick around over my face and squatting lower. I asked him what he was doing multiple times and he was just grinning without responding. Finally, I crawled out from under him and asked if he was about to take a shit on me. He replied that he was just going to get me to suck him off. I didn’t agree to any of that. Again, it wasn’t all bad. We were eating Domino’s BBQ chicken in bed when a drop of sauce fell onto my breast and he pointed it out. “Lick it up.” I grinned. “Ew, that’s gross.” He grimaced. “You weren’t complaining ten minutes ago.” He nodded. “True.” He licked it off. Some time later, he made a joke about getting me BBQ sauce for my birthday. Another time I was tickling his feet and he grabbed me and put me in a headlock with his legs and tried to fart on my face. This happened more than once. Christmas came rolling around and he asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Excited, I told him to surprise me and I went shopping for him, buying a bunch of items I thought he’d like including a music note necklace, a dragon-skin bauble, dice, fidget toys, incense and an incense stand. Of course, his favourite expensive chocolates too. When I gave him his presents, he had nothing for me. I saw a cat statue on his desk and he said it was for his ex-girlfriend. He never got me anything. He finally left me after I tried to commit suicide, told him I went to the hospital when really I was scared and hid in my room. I told him I lied and he freaked out, sending me a message that said, “my point is whilst you were idealising your own death I was stressed like a mf and everytime you declined my help it didn't make me feel really all that good, then you lied to me about getting help you made me feel like shit.” I wouldn’t stop messaging him, trying to get him back and understand why he treated me the way he did. He got an AVO and is actively using it against me.

I feel that I have never been able to be who I truly am. I was abused by my uncle from I think around 6 until 18. We lived with them and the reason I don't know the age I was when it started is that I remember nothing in my life prior to it. I know the exact story of the first time it happened and it then happened so frequently that I couldn't count. Many times a day, many days a week, many weeks a year etc. It has ruined who I am and my personality now is one of full compliance. I can't say no to people, i let people abuse me in many ways, not just sexually because I do what I have to to please those around me. I told no one of the abuse until 18, and have only told my husband. I have now found out that another cousin suffered the same and her life is absolutely off the rails. I think it happened to all of us, there are five girls but we simply never speak of it. He is still alive, I don't see him, none of us do as he is a drug addict. I want to seek justice but don't know if I am strong enough to survive that. He made my life a nightmare, he changed who I was, he destroyed me.

Numb. All I felt was numbness, this blind feeling of constant knives scraping, stabbing, swallowing me whole; the time I felt like this is one I’ll never forget, the time I lost my home. Home. It could be a place, a feeling or, in my case, a person. This person, you may ask, is it a friend? A lover? Or a family member? No, she was my world, she was my light, she was my everything, she was my sister. So, you may be wondering what occurred for me to lose my sister, well she’s not dead if you’re wondering, but rather her nature, her personality, her character is lost to me. The person I grew up looking up to, admiring, my inspiration, my muse. She is dead, and an imposter was born. Looking back is torture, a constant reminder of who betrayed me, but why is the question I will never know the answer to? “It’s a misunderstanding,” that is all it took to shatter me to pieces. From sister to stranger, that’s all that took. Now you maybe wondering ‘that’s it’ a misunderstanding, well it was not…. The night before my sister engraved those words in my brain, my ex-boyfriend assaulted me, he struck down, pinned down and consistently asked ‘but don’t you love me?’ ‘don’t you care?’ Every time I said, “Yes, but not like this!” But why didn’t I escape? I tried with all my might, but I couldn’t. He blocked me at every turn. I tried to go under the bed, sleep on the floor, and use my phone and play games to distract me, but I couldn’t think straight; my mind needed a distraction, needed an escape, but I couldn’t. He watched me like a hawk, waiting for another opportunity to catch its prey. So, as he left the room, he apologised, and his words of ‘I’m sorry that I assaulted you’ and my response of ‘blame it on the Viagra’ will live in my head for eternity. But how does this connect to my sister? Well… I spoke to her on the plane ride home as she sat next to me and opened up to her, and for the first time this year, I thought I had her on my side… But I was wrong. As soon as we had food, we confronted him on the phone, he said, and I will never forget ‘I didn’t know’ on what planet was he living on that he somehow in a span less than a day, he forget that he assaulted someone. Then, the gaslighting begins. He said we had a safe word, and we did, but at the time of the assault, we had broken up, hence ex-boyfriend. But no, that turned the tide, and the numbness of betrayal from him was enough for me to spiral, but no, that’s not all. My darling sister said, ‘that’s it’s all just a misunderstanding’ and it’s a miscommunication, on what planet does “NO, STOP and DON’T’ not define the lack of consent, clearly, I missed that cue. But she chose him. His side, not mine, the one who was assaulted, his: the instigator, the monster, the perpetrator, not me. She has known someone for less than a year and, at that moment, less than 6 months. My world shattered around me, numb from betrayal, numb from heartbreak; all I felt was numb. But that’s not the worst of it, not even close to, oh, you thought the assault and the betrayals were enough, ha not in my life. The car ride home was deafening; the silence outside was quiet, but my mind was a war and storm raging. She told me to ‘forgive’ him even though I don’t so that his mind could be eased that it was all about him and nothing about me. I felt like a pawn on a chess board that I wasn’t the queen I thought I was but merely a peasant at the hands of others to use; no one could prepare me for the betrayal, no one could prepare me for their admission of guilt when they begged me not to take legal action, begged me not to tell anyone. But as time progressed this year my silence spoke louder that most, when people asked if ‘I was okay’ I replied “yeah, just tired, or I’m okay, I’m fine” When in reality. I was losing sleep, nightmare-consuming at every point in time, restless sleep, haunting nights until his demise. To say I was thrilled would be an understatement; I was relieved that I never would have to face him again; the only problem I face is masking my true colours around her. ‘Karma’s a bitch’ and you reap what you sow; he was the death of me, the old me, I have a long way to trust another, mostly to love another, but my progress is there; I’m not a victim, I’m a survivor, I’m not a pawn, I’m a queen because just like phoenixes I rose from the ashes.

As a child i suffered sexual abuse by the neighbor next door. Also through school was bullied , teased , . My Parents were christians . But both were controling of my decisions . It was very difficult growing up as a child , teen and then youth. I eventualy had the confidence to leave home and live on my own .

I was first a victim of child-on-child sexual assault when I was 4 years old, my abuser was 9. She was a family friend, her and her family were always very close with ours. She would sexually assault me every time she saw me. A few years into it when I was 7 her younger brother who was 8 had begun sexually assaulting me too. Neither of them knew the other was doing it to me too so they would end up making 'accidental hand offs' of me. One would finish with me and send me off to go hang out with the other. This cycle continued until I was 13, it was my last time ever seeing them again as I had moved to the other side of the state. On my way home from that visit I blocked them completely. The last time they did it the older sister was 18 and the brother was also 13 as his birthday was later in the year. They sexually assaulted me countless times for 9 years straight and nobody noticed. My mother confronted me about it when I was 14, I had accidentally told a school counselor and they called her, she had multiple weeks to confront me about; However she chose the best time to talk to me about it was whilst I was dying in a hospital bed due to a suicide attempt. I am horrified of sleeping, every time I close my eyes all I see is what they did to me, I force myself to stay awake for multiple days in a row simply to evade the night terrors and memories. No matter how hard I scrub or how hot the water is it feels as if I'll never get their hands off of me. I can always hear what she said to me in the back of my head "Be quiet, they'll hear you". Both of our families were in the next room over. I still sleep in the bed they violated me in so many times, when I was 8 I would crawl under my bed and draw a little tally of how many times it happened; I gave up shortly after starting because it was getting too difficult to keep track of. I want to feel safe. I want my body to feel mine again. I fear I may do something to myself.

10 years ago, my body did something amazing. It separated me from myself so I would not experience directly (follow me) the trauma of what was happening to my body. They call this disassociation. It's not been until 10 years later, years of reliving, remembering and traumatic re-trauma that I have begun to appreciate, be grateful for and understand this mechanism the nervous system provides us in our most darkest of moments. It's a soul-protection mechanism, it often keeps us alive (for those of us that make it), and whilst it can take years to realise this or even entertain the idea that it was for our own survival, rather than a forced escape, it has been the most beautiful part of my healing. Let me share what happened. Ten years ago, (I am not 'allowed' to discuss my age publicly, my former employer or his name), but I can speak the truth on everything else; ten years ago, I worked for a tech company. It was male dominated, competitive and scarcly unhostile. I had anxiety every single day I went to work, starting in my first week when my then boss, demanded I not consider having children for the next 2 years at least, if I was serious about my career.....That first week should have been my swan song, and I take my exit. Instead, and somewhat predictably (based on my personality, nature and vulnerability), he preyed on the discomfort he sensed from my response and I eagerly went to work 'proving myself'. It was exactly what he wanted me to do.... I had worked with this person before, for many years but never directly. My perception of him was coloured only by what I had seen previously and I had not been warned that he was dangerous. By anyone. In fact, me joining the company was facilitated by friends who also shared the perception that this person was successful, caring and a 'family man'. They, like me were sorely mistaken. For the next almost 15 months, I was groomed, manipulated, put down, abused verbally, physically touched (in the office), visually raped, auditorily raped (yes turns out this is a thing), orally, digitally and finally penetrably raped by my former employer. He isolated me from my partner, my friends, worked me harder then I have ever worked before all whilst putting me down or building me up just enough that I became confused, lacked the ability to judge A from B, and did anything he asked me to do. He did this through multiple mechanisms, but the primary one was of malignant narccissm and power imbalance. He would remind me of how stupid I was until I started to believe it, stare at me (like prey) during meetings, with such gall that he almost didn't care if anyone noticed. He'd adjust himself (on purpose) under board room tables non-verbally provoking me to see if I would respond, or crack or speak up. I never did. I resigned 3 times before he finally 'let me go'. By this time, he was 'interviewing' prospective partners on my behalf, making plans to send me overseas where he could 'see me whenever he wanted' and taking control of my finances 'through monetary bonuses' or incentives to perform at work. He had carefully and methodically taken over every aspect of my life, including my own free will. But I have myself, and some angels to thank for my escape. Which, by that time, I was so broken down I became paranoid, suicidal and could barely function. All the while, he behaved like I was nothing, noone and at the same time said things like "you're more of a man than I am..." obviously representative of the bravery I had in getting away but also the determination to do what is necessary to survive. I've since validated my story in multiple ways, 1) I went to the human rights commission. The process, whilst broken and not survivor focussed, was a way to validate my experience first. It took ten years, and getting very very physically ill (and becoming disabled) to get the courage to do this. Through this process I had to face him, virtually (thanks to COVID - another angel), and I couldn't do it. I felt sick to my stomach, my nervous system could not tell my body that 10 years had passed, it only had muscle, nerves and neurons of memory and it was retraumatising. I took it as far as it could go and they granted me the opportunity to escalate it. 2) I went to a lawyer, multiple actually, but they were not that helpful in the end. They got what they needed out of it and I was able to connect with a softly spoken legal aid who helped me tell my story in detail. They defended me as best they could but in the end a non-empathetic barrister derailed me taking it all the way to court. It became clear during this process that it was not a civil matter either, this was criminal, so I wasn't on the right path to begin with. I knew from the past, and before the #METOO movement even happened that it was going to be really tough proving what happened to me. That it was going to be my word against his. This is where most stories end...BUT it is not where mine will end. The reason, I believe, that most women in particular, do not tell or share their stories, or hold their perpetrator accountable, is fear. In many ways it's because we blame ourselves, we look at our own deficiencies as to why these things happened to us. What did we do wrong in that scenario. Nothing. We did absolutely nothing wrong. Our only issue or fault lies in existing at all. And guess what, that is not our fault. I am going to say this again: We. Did. Nothing. Wrong. You. Did. Nothing. Wrong. What happened does not belong to you. It belongs to the person that did it. Who often are so closed minded to their own dysfunction they don't even realise what they are doing is not OK. So they do it, mindlessly, focussed only on self gratification. It's like an animal only. Not a human. That is how broken, soulless and miserable another human must be to inflict such horror on another. And it happens to 1 in 3 of us women at work. Worse if you're a woman of colour, worse if you are a woman of hispanic or indigenous background in Australia. I've decided, the time ends for me to separate my soul from my body to survive. In fact, as my nervous system has deteriorated after childbirth, and I've become palliative, I have now faced death so many times. Actual physical death. NDE's or near death experiences have taught me that survival, living is a choice. We can choose to be defined by our experiences, as the sole ones we focus on for the rest of our lives, haunted by ghosts of the past. OR we can speak our truth, so loudly that it drowns out all the other voices. We can work together, we can create something together, we can make things different than our past path set out for us. Noone gets to own us, no matter how much they infect you and your mind. In many ways, I have been lucky. Lucky to have had the opportunity to live, through so much trauma and still be standing (with my favourite walking stick of course) to spend whatever time I can with my family. Or in meditation, or stillness. He doesn't get to touch that, or me, ever again. And, my decision, is to not tell what I can about my story, to whoever will listen, as often as I need to, until my story is drowned out by voices of 'no, stop or I am calling the police'. And our girls, and boys are so highly tuned to avoid these people, that it just doesn't happen to them. Our stories may have rendered us powerless, as they happened. But the true miracle is that we have inbuilt survival tools, there for us to protect ourselves, even in those moments by dissociating our souls from our bodies, and floating (in my case as the chair sat in the corner of the room) or out a window or the ceiling. I didn't have to really be there to 'feel' what was happening to me. I was lucky. I now have the amazing opportunity to find my way back into my body, as a whole soul and can slowly and carefully unravel and re-wire that trauma from my life. I think that makes us true survivors. And that is a gift. Thank you for letting me share. Please, share your story too, the more you tell it, the easier the unburdening on your body and mind. xo name (aka sharky) or Mamma Sharky.

Not 100% sure if COCSA, still healing and navigating. I am currently 21, turning 22 later this year. I’ve spent years trying to fully grasp this ever since I was 7 and have only spoken about this with a counsellor from my high school and two other people. I’ve constantly pondered whether it was a case of playing doctor gone wrong or COCSA along with these events having a big bearing on me, I’m in a far better headspace mentally but I still ponder this and still feel I haven’t fully healed so I’m just simply going to share my story from here. So me and my older brother(3 years older) had a pretty standard dynamic of him being “cool” and good at everything per se whilst I was essentially second fiddle and felt like I was in his shadow, very up and down relationship due to me being neurodivergent which neither of us really understood at the time. It started when I was around 6 in which he’d(Age 9-10) randomly start masturbating or rubbing his penis in front of me, I didn’t think much of it at the time as obviously I was 6 and didn’t understand what was going on, we did share showers a few times but that was primarily innocent, eventually in 2009(8 years old now, him 11) as we were moving into a new house, as we were preparing everything, and on the bottom bunk of a newly put together bunk bed, he “invited” me to masturbate him(The words masturbate, etc weren’t used, I don’t remember the exact terminology used but it was about making it “grow bigger”), I remember being complacent which I don’t know why I was, perhaps it was because it was someone I genuinely loved and looked up to, I remember even saying that we’d pretend to talk about something else if we heard anyone come towards the room, I don’t know how long it lasted but I ended up stroking him after the aforementioned stuff of him talking about “making it grow”, etc. I remember at the time enjoying it and it didn’t feel weird, I remember him moaning and telling me not to go too fast, etc, I don’t know how long it was but he didn’t ejaculate from it. After that, nothing really ever happened apart from a few occasions from 2010-2011 in which I’d either see him casually pull out his penis and wiggle it around while lying down and on one occasion rubbing it on my legs when I was 8-9 and he was 11-12. The events in 2009 led to a whole spiel of me discovering and becoming addicted to masturbating myself, I remember feeling increasingly socially awkward as time went by, wondering if this was something normal for siblings, etc. I remember in 2012-2013 masturbating over the handjob from 2009 which in hindsight was a means for me to cope with what had happened and try and have some degree of control over that situation, I would have breakdowns over it and feel disgusted with myself every time I thought about it in retrospect. I had also felt conflicted as I was increasingly breaking down due to my depression developing at this time from various other circumstances as well and an existential crisis essentially, well at least for an 11-12 year old. I remember in my head blaming him for being the reason why I “wasn’t cool”, etc. After primary school and by the time of high school in 2014 I’d come to stuff it in the back of my head, at this time I got into porn and masturbating continued to be a habit from then and many years to come, I remember coming out as asexual and believing I really was at the time from 2014-2016 which part of the reason I’d attribute to all that had happened with me and my brother. I’d have further breakdowns about it in 2015 with my depression escalating and me and my brother arguing much more(I did not bring up anything about all that had happened apart from a “throwaway” remark in which I told him that he “traumatised” me around 2014, our arguments were seperate from this). 2014 was around the time I began to hold bitterness towards him and felt that he was the catalyst for me being who I was, and I hated everything about myself, by 2016 our relationship would begin to improve though. From this point it’d be very on and off until 2019 in which I finally opened up to my high school counsellor(Though in not as much detail as I am sharing here, mostly emphasising the handjob), she said that I had been sexually abused and we’d have sessions in which I’d navigate through it albeit at this time it was very difficult for me to talk about, it was the first time a label was put on it per se and the first time I had a firmer grasp on what had happened, eventually I opened up to my brother about it who had also brought up that he had a bad circle of friends through primary school though never went into any further detail than that and was exposed to a lot of things. So right now, I’m at a point now having done my own extensive research on sexual abuse, CSA, etc, etc where I’m doing far better now but still healing and still navigating everything. So I’m just gonna leave it at that, I know this is extremely long but thanks for listening.

To the man who exposed himself to me when I was 5 years old and the mother who didn't believe me , the man who stole my first kiss without my consent when I was 14. The man who groomed me when I was 16. The man who told me " I have been nice to you all day I deserve something". To the man who refused to wear a condom, held me down by my neck and finished inside me without my consent and justified it by saying he wanted to have children with me. To the man I worshipped who pulled up my dress at the washing machine, used me and tossed me away like I was his play thing. To the guy who pretend to comfort me and used my sadness to attract me when I was at my weakest. To all the men who touched me, objectified me and all the women who justified it, ignored it, allowed it...... Fuck you.

I was a shy 17 yr old at my sister's house party on new years eve. I found myself alone on an outside couch with one of her friends who she worked with. he was in his mid-30s and I felt pretty cool hanging out with him cause he was older. we chatted for a bit and then he mentioned he had some coke. I was pretty new to the party scene but was excited to try it out. he led me to the laundry and closed the door then leaned up against it. we had some and went back out. it was fun but a lot for me so I didn't want any more. he kept pestering me, asking if I wanted more, and I didn't want to say no so I said "not right now". I ended up saying yes. we went back to the laundry and he leaned back against the door blocking the exit. I didn't want any so I just had a little, he kept getting me more so I tried to distract him by kissing him. he was trying to undo the button of my jeans but said that the kissing was enough. he tried again and I didn't say no. so he did what he wanted then we left and I felt sick. people started to leave and I wanted to get away too. so I told my sister I was walking back to my friend's house nearby. she wouldn't let me go out alone in the dark so I was set up in the spare room. he stayed on the couch. I couldn't get to sleep from all the drugs so I just lay there. I heard the door creak open and he crept in and then into the bed I was in. I couldn't bring myself to say anything. I'm not sure how long it went on for but it seemed forever finally I spoke up and pretended I heard someone and got scared so he had to leave. I didn't get to sleep. he texted me the next day and said we should meet again. he still believes he did nothing wrong but I didn't tell him that he did.

I never thought I'd be a survivor to my own mother. It was shocking to learn at 15 that everyone else's mum weren't pressuring them to show their bodies, specifically nude bodies to them. Also the butt grabs that I never liked weren't going to stop till I disowned her. Yet here I am now at 18 having the best time of my life without her as continues to believe she never did anything wrong, she never will but she's gone and that's all that matters.

when i was 5, my parents divorced. one of them moved out to live with a friend. this friend had an adult daughter, who had one son my age and a son who was older. whenever i would visit, i would play games with the two boys. one game we played most often was 'mums and dads'. i was always forced to be the mum because 'i was the only girl', the older boy was the dad and the younger boy was 'our baby'. one day when i was 6 or 7, the older boy asked if i knew how babies were made. i had no idea, so i said 'no'. he proceeded to tell me what sex was. now, me being 6 or 7, i kind of just nodded and said 'okay'. he then said 'how about we make the game more accurate?' he was older and i looked up to him, so i said 'sure'. he then made his brother hide under the bed, made sure the door was shut and laid down on the bed. he pulled me on top and took off his pants and underwear, before taking off mine. he then proceeded to,,,,,,,,,well you know. we heard someone coming soon after, and he made me hide in the closet. i remember feeling like something bad had happened and i hadn't liked it, but i was too young to understand more than that. we played mums and dads a lot after that day. i haven't seen him for years now, but even when i hear his name, see pictures of his face, i panic. it's like i'm 6 years old again. sometimes i feel permanently broken. forever tainted. sometimes i feel disgusted with myself, like it was somehow my fault. i hold myself accountable for something i definitely didn’t want to happen. i think to myself ‘what if i had done something differently?’ but what could i have done? my skin crawls. i get this feeling in the pit of my stomach. a weight, a heaviness that pushes on my lungs and makes it hard to breathe. i invalidate myself. tell myself that i shouldn’t be so triggered by it. so affected. it was so long ago that i shouldn’t even remember it. after all, we can’t change the past. i hear his name, see his face and i feel like i’m about to cry. i scream, claw at my face, dig my fingernails in, but on the outside i am silent. still. i plaster a smile on my face and act like i’m okay. like i’m not broken. i found out he has a baby daughter and i cried all night. i felt terror and anger. because he's living his life not even thinking about me, when he's all i can think about i'm a survivor, not a victim.

Coercion, Abuse, and Feeling Alone in My Struggle I’ve been coerced into sex by someone who I thought was a mentor and a leader in human rights. He’s a researcher, a women’s rights defender, and runs a civil service organization. He approached me romantically and coerced me into sex, making me feel trapped and confused. We were in a relationship, but the whole time, I felt pressured and controlled. There were some times I was sick, intoxicated, or under his influence, and he used that to manipulate me. I initially resisted even his kiss,but it felt impossible to escape later days because of his repeated attempts and influences. Looking back, I now realize that what he did was wrong, but at the time, I didn’t understand it fully. What hurts the most is the disbelief and blame I’m facing from others, especially on social media. People don’t understand coercive control and rape, and it feels like no one believes me. He kept reaching out to me online, using me as a sex object, and I’m devastated by how he used me for his own purposes. I feel worthless, like I’ve lost my dignity and self-worth. The trauma, nightmares, and pain are overwhelming. I’m seeing a therapist almost every day to try to make sense of it, but it’s hard to cope when society and the connections he has make me feel so alone. I feel like no one understands what I went through. I don’t know if I can handle this trauma anymore. Advise me what I can do, or I am so tired of being hurt. … Please Name

This is an old story but not an irrelevant one. I was fifteen or sixteen, swirling in all the chemicals and hormones of my age and intoxicatingly in love. Hanging out in school holidays with my best friend in her small home town (now burnt to the ground)and her group, which included her ex boyfriend, the man, four and a half years senior to me, who I'd fallen for. That was the dating. Fast forward to parental permission to stay with him in his family's farmhouse for a short time. During that time, we attended a party of his family and relations in a near by town. I was underaged but he was consuming alcohol into the night. We came in his car so we left in his car. I'm talking 1969, 70. Not far from his parents home he took a turn off. Parking at an old church or it may have been a hall, hidden by the night and the bush, he raped me. I fought hard against his intrusion but he was far stronger than me. I considered him a good man (strangely enough I still do because I see it as ignorance, alcohol and the behavior of a perhaps spoilt only son of Italian immigrants) That doesn't make it acceptable in any way. I was a virgin. There were more incidents to follow, though that was probably the worst. I was intensely shy and had a fear response of vocally freezing. Somewhere around this time I moved with my parents 100 miles north to the city. Somewhere around this time, he was conscripted for service into the army. Must have been early 70's. In between or after....the rapes continued in an unbuilt new residential area, close to where I now lived with my parents. By then I had given in to it. By then I was engaging in underaged drinking. I had parental consent to date him. I was in love and confused by the events. I had no self esteem, making me vulnerable to undeserved shame. In primary school I didn't usually vocalize school difficulties to my sisters or parents. Into my teens I was even less inclined to speak out. I moved out of home and into a house in an old suburb, with him and a few others-my best friend, the same friend from high school. In May 1975, we married. In 1983, a few years after separation, we divorced. He was my first and deepest love. Perhaps we'd have had a longer life together had he been considerate, restrained and sober. There is of course many details left unwritten here. Over many years I did regain self respect and dignity. I didn't regain trust. I had an innocent trust before that first rape. My father was a considerate, gentle and sober person. Over a long period of time with respectful behavior, some men have gained my trust. Like many, I had material losses. We had moved to the east, leaving many of my precious belongings with his family. Some of monetary value, some sentimental and most of almost three years of my artwork from a graphic design course I did. Rejected by his mother, I didn't return. I was informed items were sold and sent to the tip.

just when i think i'm healing, i feel like i’m suffocating. like the whole world around me is collapsing in on itself and i’m in the centre of it all. and just as i finally get to take a breath, it collapses further and crushes me until i can’t take the weight and the pressure anymore. i can't escape my memories, can't escape my body. i'm trapped.

i'm so nervous this afternoon, i'm finally going to the police to share my story about a guy at school who assaulted me over the summer (i live in the southern hemisphere, so around january). he's a school captain, and i'm vice-captain so he's already in a position of power not only over me but the entire school, and the teachers practically worship the ground he walks on (last time i reported verbal harassment from him, the teachers blamed me) so i'm hoping something changes. i'm terrified, and anxious, but i'm also proud. knowing that i'm doing something a lot of victims don't get the chance to do. i'm going to share my story, and i pray to god that he faces the consequences because this isn't the first time he's done bad things, and won't be the last. stay strong my lovelies, you can share your story too <3 if you wanna chat at all, you can dm social media handle on instagram (my assault awareness page) - a survivor

It started in high school, NAME was a friend of friends, so I had met him and seen him around school. But we didn't interact much but I discovered he lived on the same street. It's complicated at this point, but I was bullied a lot for 'being weird'. I was told by classmates I was pretty, but it was weird that I didn't date. Honestly, I wasn't attracted to anyone. One night, my house got egged; my much younger little sister was terrified because it made such loud bangs. I ran outside and but didn't catch anyone. I thought NAME was involved, and I knew his number, so I called him and yelled at him then hung up. I found out later who was involved and it wasn't NAME (but it was his friends), so I offered to take NAME to the movies as an apology. While we were watching the movie, he tried to kiss me, but I moved my head away and said 'no'. A few months later, he rang me asking me out (we hadn't spoken much since the movie), I said I'm not interested in dating, I want to finish school'. A few months more and I graduated high school, he left me letters at my house, I ignored them. Then he rang me asking if we could go for a walk that night as he was in hospital. He had tried to commit suicide and wanted someone to talk to... I didn't want to be the person that turned my back on someone needing help so I said yes. He met me at my house at night and we went for that walk, he had bandages on his wrists, I can't remember what we talked about exactly... Him being sad, lonely, ugly, etc and before I went home he asked me out again. I didn't want to make him rip open his stitches again to kill himself so I said 'ok'. I don't know what my eventual plan was, I just couldn't be responsible for someone's life. We started dating, and eventually it felt nice, I didn't get a lot of attention from my parents and looked after my sister a lot, so I was surprised that someone actually seemed to love me. We moved in together and I left my parents house. We were together for five years and got engaged in the last year. During those years I would cook, clean; worked full time and went to uni full time. He barely worked. He would vent his frustrations about me and at worst hit me. He would ask for sex, and wouldn't stop until I said yes. When I was too tired, and refused to let him pester me into having sex, he would say things like 'you can sleep through it' and I would let him have sex with me. A few times, I woke up with him having sex with me. The worst time I have spent the last 13 years trying to forget. It was about halfway in our relationship. I was on the phone to my mother, sitting on the bed, and he started trying to grope me, I pushed his hand away and walked into the walk-in-wardrobe and sat down. I was still on the phone He followed me, and pushed me flat, then pulled my underwear down and began touching me. I kicked at him and slapped him with my free hand, but I felt ashamed and didn't want my mother to hear, so I wasn't very strong and kept listening to her like nothing was happening. He had sex with me on the wardrobe floor, and I just continued on the phone as normal. I said goodbye to my mother, hung up and just couldn't move. I remember he said, "admit it, you liked that". About three years ago, after therapy, I've wanted to tell someone about this time. I've thought about telling my mother, but I don't know what to say... she was on the phone with me and never noticed anything was wrong. Happily I got out of that relationship, but he stalked and harassed me. I got the police involved, but it took months for him to stop because I didn't have evidence and his stalking 'wasn't that bad'. I didn't tell them about the sex stuff, because if I didn't have enough proof that he was stalking me, I had absolutely no proof that he touched me.

I experienced coercive rape by my ex-boyfriend over the span of some months. After not only sexual but also emotional abuse I was able to leave the relationship two years ago. Since then it has been a confusing journey....it took me a long time to understand what happened and to acknowledge my trauma. Sometimes I still feel very confused. Adding to the confusion, a few days ago, I had sex for the first time after the abuse. I didn't know what to expect. I thought it might be fine and ill have a great time or it is horrible and I´ll finally have the strong emotional reaction I was kind of always hoping for so that I can validate my trauma. Somehow it was neither...but it wasn't really enjoyable. I felt like I was not really present but I also couldn't act to stop it. In the moment I also didn't feel like it was so bad that I needed to stop it. The person I was with was also very respectful and felt safe. Im not sure how to feel about it...I was hoping it might help me on my healing journey but I feel like I am still facing the same confusion as before. It was not nice or enjoyable, I was kind of dissociated and couldn't do anything to stop it....still I have this feeling that it was all not bad enough. At least not as bad as I always expected it to be after experiencing sexual trauma. Maybe someone had similar experiencs...?

Most of the time I feel like I have overcome his touch. But sometimes, I still feel the warmth of his embrace. Apparently “all boys aren’t the same” so I get close and touchy with them, tease them, and sometimes even kiss them. I think I do it on purpose. I try to convince myself that I'm over it, I'm over the fact that I've been marked by the wrong person. I'm over the fact that I can’t be alone in public. I'm scared. No, not scared, terrified. I'm afraid of loving another without knowing their intention. I’m terrified that someone is about to take another piece of my soul, I'm afraid that even if I say “please stop” it’s liable to be another 2 words that were misunderstood, I’m afraid of it happening all over again. This is like someone expecting to be burned when they touch something hot, no matter how many times they've been reassured the object is now cool. The fear is still there, even if the danger has passed. I want to be loved but my fears push everyone away. After 2 years of being in an abusive relationship, I thought I could get back out there and move on, but I moved into the wrong person. I was fifteen years old when the phrase “please stop, I'm tired” came out of my mouth. I wish I would never have to say it again. I'm sixteen. It’s almost been 5 months since it happened, but it somehow feels like it was just last week. The thought of his hands on my neck, blurry visions and the sentence “I know you want it” makes me want to curl up in a ball, cry and tear off the layers of my skin until I can no longer feel his touch. ‘PTSD’ they call it. Triggers that bring you back to your trauma. I walk right by my triggers every day; they think you're weak because you can't face them and always find other ways to avoid them. I'm not weak; I just can't bear to feel him on me every time I see that jacket. This is like the feeling of plunging into icy waters; the shock is so overwhelming that no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to swim back up to the safety of the shore. No matter how much time passes, the trauma still lingers, and triggers bring you right back to that moment. 2 months passed before I spoke up about what had happened. "Why didn't you say something sooner? Now it sounds like a lie" I wish I could, but deep down I was ashamed, scared and hurt. Every time I hear someone mention his name, my heart starts racing, my palms get sweaty, and I feel a sense of panic rising in me. Everyone says it will get easier, but when is that? As the Greek writer Vasso Charalambous once wrote: “The pain you feel today is the strength you feel tomorrow.” I’m still trying to find my strength to be able to trust another man without needing to stress if I need to tape my clothes to my skin I was a victim of rape and have been dealing with its aftermath ever since. The sense of fear, insecurity and vulnerability that I feel every time someone mentions his name is something that I struggle to shake off. While I cannot speak for all victims of rape, I can say that in my experience, the healing process has been invaluable. Through therapy and the support of my loved ones, I have been able to work through my trauma and come out the other side a stronger person. As of right now, I am still trying. I want to use my story to make sure that no other survivor feels alone in their experience. I want to be a voice for those who have been silenced, and I hope to show them that there is still hope, even after the darkness. Being strong and resilient, and having the strength to move forward, are things I'm proud of about myself. I will not let what he did to me define the rest of my life. I am more than my trauma. I am more than my pain. I am more than what he did to do to me.

Not really sure where to start this. I guess by saying that I am in no way trying to absolve myself of blame or guilt. I have just never said it aloud before. When I was maybe 10-11, my step sister and I use to engage in activities that we really shouldn't have. I guess I always just thought we were trying to experiment. We always had clothes on and I know it could have been worse. I can't help but feel such guilt for it. I am older. I should've know better. I think it was maybe a way for me to process my own sexual abuse. But how do I live with that? That I contributed to COCSA.

My first time was sexual assault by a stranger. I have done a lot of work since then and recovered. It's been years since then and more recently I had a crush on a friend of mine. I ended up back at his house a month ago and I told him I don't want to have sex with him. Throughout the night he continued to try, degrade me and make me feel bad for not having sex with him. I am confused because each time I said stop I don't want to have sex he would keep stopping and say he respected that. But then we would start kissing later and he would try again. After trying a few times I got angry and said why do you keep trying after I've said no so many times. He said "what do you expect I am going to do when you're on top of me like that". I later had sex with him because I felt so guilty and I believed what he was saying. I feel sick and stupid about it. I have avoided seeing him. Recently someone we mutually know passed away and I have had to see him again. I avoided him and then I felt so guilty for avoiding him. I feel bad for him and I don't want him to feel bad. I don't like that I care so much about how he feels but a part of me thinks he just did not realise what he was doing and that it was wrong to keep trying after I'd said no. I don't know how to deal with this as I keep fluctuating between hating him and getting angry at those around me being nice to him and wanting to be nice to him myself.