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This happened when I was in grade 3, a boy and I had known each other since kindergarten. We went on the same bus, had the same teachers and classes and even the same stop. So obviously me and him were close. One day he brought his iPad on the bus, me and him had been playing around and I had said "If you win, I'll kiss you." It was a joke. I had been laughing and smiling nothing flirtatious just innocence. He won, grabbed me by my neck, caged me against the seat, and kissed me. Tongue and everything. He did this till the school year ended. Anytime I fought he'd bite me or tighten his grip on my neck. When I told teachers they didn't believe me. They believed his version, that it had never happened. When teachers started to wonder he'd say that I had consented. I didn't know what to call it for years later, until I saw a post on COCSA. I still struggle to call it that, because I worry if he was right and I had consented.

I am a child sexual abuse survivor living in Canada with an NDA for childhood sexual abuse for the past 28 years. When I sought to lift my NDA in 2018 after my abuser had died, the British Columbia court denied me and refused to lift the NDA. So, for the past seven years, I have been advocating both provincial and federal politicians in Canada to ban the misuse of NDAs for childhood sexual abuse survivors. With the passage of Trey's Law in both Texas and Missouri (and more states soon, I hope!), this will place pressure on the Canadian government and the provinces to pass similar legislation. I'm very heartened (and healed too!) by all of the survivors sharing their stories in the Missouri and Texas legislatures. All of this testimony is very important as evidence to prove the long-term extensive damage of an NDA on a childhood abuse victim for ensuing court cases. (This kind of evidence of long-term damage was missing in my BC court case; as a result, my application to lift the NDA was denied). We all need to keep speaking out to change the future for children. We might not be able to change the past, but we can certainly change the present and make the world safer for others. After a great deal of suffering for many years, I can see now that the suffering has had a meaning. As a result, I have become a stronger person. I am not thankful for the abuse, but it seems to me that a greater force in the universe is helping all victims to completely change the world right now. It is an unprecedented moment in human history and we all need to keep moving this incredible change forward. Thank you to Trey's Law and to all the survivors who have spoken in support of Trey's Law.

Last year I was gang raped. I have an ear ringing called tinnitus that has not stopped since. I have nightmares. I flew with my mom to a wedding overseas. I was excited. She would be busy with her friends and cousin and I would get to spend time with my awesome second cousin who is two years older than me. After the rehearsal dinner we went out. It was fun because I was not legally able to drink there even though the age was lower than in my province, but they did not check ID’s. I did not drink much because it was not my thing and I had a boyfriend but I was able to go to some bars then a club attached to a hotel. So much fun up to when we met two soldiers in uniform who were cute and separated us from her friends because of our looks. My cousin is stunning beautiful. They had a private room at the club and several soldiers were there and two prostitutes also. Those prostitutes definitely hated us being there. I wanted to get out anyway and the cute ones that invited us acted like they understood and took us out of there. We stupidly let them take us to their hotel room where they totally dropped the cute romantic act and made us strip our clothes to music. They showed us a gun they had in a drawer. I was terrified. They made us lay on our stomachs bent over the bed side by side and had sex with us that way. They switched like we were interchangeable before finishing in us with no protection. We held hands. I was crying while my cousin was trying to be strong and cheer me up. We weren’t allowed to leave and our clothes were hidden. Before took our phones we had to text that we were staying at my cousin’s friend’s house. Then they called two other soldiers, one of them a huge tall dark guy with body builder muscles. He was the worst to me. They made us dance and then we had to use our mouths on the cute ones that had lured us there while the other two had sex with us. I vomited and my cousin cleaned it up but then it started again. They had cocaine and made us sniff it off their parts and sniffed it off us. Another one came and I think it was just those five during the night but they kept raping us and making us do things even when we would pass out. I would like to have been more unconscious but cocaine makes you so awake. I want to remember less and think about it all less. We showered many times. The big dark one peed on me and in my mouth the shower. He did it more than once like I was his toilet. The other men even had to tell him to chill out when he was making me scream liking his fingers and pushing them in my arse, but not when he made me crawl around like a dog using my hair as a leash. I remember one of them calling their friends to tell them to turn all their t.v.’s way up to hide the noise in our room. They watched sports news on the t.v. They had me and my cousin kiss each other and stuff. I could not act like it was a fun party like my cousin did sometimes and encouraged me to do. She tried to take some of their attention away from me over and over. I love her for it but they did not leave me alone. My chest is something they were obsessed with. They did not care that I was obviously distressed and freaking out or that in my country I was three years below the age of consent. There I was the minimum. We woke up in the morning on one the beds together with only the two soldiers sleeping on the floor. The black one was gone! They had sex with us again and another man who was much older and who they called SIR came in and had sex with both us but mostly me. They cheered him on and my head was pounding and I was crying and it seemed to last forever. Finally we got our clothes back but they took us for brunch wearing their normal clothes. They showed me pictures on their phones that made it look like I was having fun and warned us how bad it would be if we said anything different than we had a nice party. A nice party in hell! Before that I’d had sex with only my 1 boyfriend ever. One night of hell and now my number was seven!! We had to start getting ready for the wedding right away and I was exhausted. My cousin hid me and I took a nap in my dress, hair and makeup until the last minute. I cried in the ceremony but not for the wedding. I was so sore in my vagina, muscles, and brain that I got so drunk at the reception I barely remember any of it. Just part of being on the plane home. I told my mom the truth when I got back and she got all crazy, so did my dad, and they tried to call over there and the hotel and such but there was nothing the police would do. I saw my dad cry for the first time as I told the whole story. My boyfriend could not handle it and dumped me. I go to group and do therapy. I take a pill everyday and now benzo’s for break through anxiety. I try to hide my large chest under baggy clothes where before I used it for attention. STUPID! My cousin does not seem to have the trauma I do or the nightmares. In her country they are done with secondary school up to two years before us and are more treated like adults sooner. I said mean things to her once because of it. She forgave me but we talk much less since I asked if she has gang bangs all the time. I felt terrible because she even let them have anal sex with her to lure them away from me. I could tell it hurt her so much but at the time was just thinking about my own survival. My childhood is OVER but I do not feel like an adult. Her advice is -Don’t let it get you so down-. Like I have a choice in this!! She went to a therapist ONCE because her mom made the appointment and does not plan to go back. Her life did not really change!! She works reception at a tech company and models on the side and still goes to parties and clubs and dates. How??? It is unbelievable how attitudes toward something like this can be so different in different countries. I am a victim now and I usually feel like it. Definitely damaged. Everybody at my school knows why. I am THAT girl. My new more mature boyfriend is understanding but I feel like a sad little burden to him. I am hypersexual sometimes now and can’t help it. It is a coping mechanism that happens to some victims of sexual assault. I did not ask for it. I worry my boyfriend can’t trust me because of it. I had an older guy friend who’s been my neighbor for years take advantage of me after I told him the story of what happened at his house. We had sex and then he felt guilty for being turned on by my rape story. He admitted it and asked me to forgive him. The sex helped me calm the ear ringing for just short time periods so I did it with him more than once a day for a bit until my dad started to suspect something and talked to him. Since then I don’t trust myself. I want to marry my boyfriend in large part just to protect myself and show him I love him and am loyal even though I am not sure I can be. I worry I cannot love like a normal person. I worry I push him away being too needy and wanting to marry him so soon. I need him more than he needs me. Is that the way it will always be in relationships for rape victims??? I work hard at school not to ruin my future. It is so hard to focus. My ears ring constantly. Thank you for listening.

I was 21 on my university exchange me and my best friend were out one night and near the end of the night this guy pulled me to the side and we started making out. I was so drunk I’m sure I was falling over I told my friend I was going home with this guy. I had just had my heat broken by another guy I had met recently and was looking for any male validation I could get I guess. I was so drunk I don’t remember anything that happened after we left the bar I don’t remember getting into the Uber or his house. I told him at the bar that I didn’t want to have sex with him and he said it was fine we could do other things. I don’t remember getting into the bed or how it started all I remember is him putting himself inside me. I don’t remember saying yes or no and I don’t remember why I let him do that or if I even did. I remember it hurting and I remember wanting to stop but not knowing how. I remember letting him do me again in the morning I don’t know why maybe to make it feel like I wanted it. I was a virgin and would have never let him do that to me sober. Maybe it wasn’t rape but all I know is that it keeps me up at night.

I live in a home with someone I wish great harm on (even death), with another person I am Coming to resent for not believing and worst of all a third person I cannot properly protect, because you see Only one of the 2 people that are the main people in this mess, are telling the truth. there is no way to find out the truth with out causing more harm to who I believe is the victim, to Possibly find the truth will tare apart the victim's family which they do not wish, they rather live as if to pretend it didnt happen ,just move on. For Me I sit and think if, I said anything would leave the victim in a position of more harm,in a position of being marked for pitty,or disbelief, for the many years left of there life, and least of important the victim would come to resent me. How do you protect someone without causing their whole world to fall apart, there is no possible proof to make sure, only space to break the victims hart more.

At age 15, my doctor asked me if I was sexually active. I cried and said “sort of”. When she asked me why I was crying, I told her it was because I thought it was embarrassing. I’m now realizing that I was not crying because I was embarrassed but because I was ashamed. I felt ashamed for having sex at 15 years old (which I felt was too young for me), and even more ashamed at how it happened. I had consented to fooling around with my boyfriend at the time but did not consent to penetration. I was not expecting to look up to hear him say “it’s in”, when I had clearly told him that I did not want penetration. I pushed him off and started crying. However, I brushed it off as being part of a normal healthy relationship, not knowing any better as this was my first relationship. For the next year and a half, I stayed with that partner while dealing with many ridiculous commands and events that I did not realize was unhealthy until much later: being told I wasn’t allowed to wear leggings because then other people would see my butt; being told not to drink coffee (still did); not seeing my friends other than at school; being told I couldn’t wear makeup because if I wore makeup, it would obviously mean that I was trying to attract other guys to cheat on my partner (meanwhile he cheated 3 times); being stopped on the street by a stranger asking if I needed help who then called the police about a domestic violence dispute (i wish I knew who that woman was so I could thank her today); being slut shamed; if we argued, being told I couldn’t leave him because no one else would love me since I was worthless and unlovable; finally, being controlled and manipulated. I’ve heard somewhere (not fact checked) that it takes women on average 7 attempts to leave their abuser before an attempt to leave finally sticks. I remember it taking me 3 tries but it’s possible that I’m forgetting some. Oct 2nd was the day I finally left. We’d broken up numerous times before but he always reeled me back in. He’d reel me back in by forcing himself to cry or to throw up, or by threatening to tell everyone that I was a worthless whore. That year and a half long period of my life still affects me. While I can’t blame all my problems on one person or one situation, I strongly believe that that relationship is the root to my insecurities and anxieties. Fortunately, the past two and a half years, while tough and emotional, have been periods of self love and self discovery.

We get on the late bus we’re going to take to get to my house, the “activity” school bus, since we’ve stayed behind after school. He leads me to a seat somewhere in the middle, then shields us from the thin stream of other students trickling in. Without warning, he leans forward and kisses me. The instant our lips meet, a white-hot something flares up inside of me and I think: I don’t want to do this anymore. I pull away almost immediately, the kiss lasts only a few seconds but it feels like an eternity. He says in an almost condescending tone, “That was physically nothing. You made it sound like you knew how to kiss.” As though he’s entitled to someone more experienced. Of course I don’t. Does he not understand what a first kiss is? Did I even like it? Before I have a chance to say anything, he pulls me in and kisses me deeply, his lips pressing against mine. A translucent blush clambers up my neck and caresses my cheeks before it digs its nails in. Once he’s done, he gets up and switches seats, leaving me alone for the remainder of the ride home. In the thick, heavy, humid air of my room, mingled with the smell of our sweat, his cloying scent—of cologne, tropical gum, and mint with a hint of vanilla—penetrates my nostrils. His cruel hands emerge from the shadows, tangled in my hair, cradling my jaw. Without a sound, they slither to my waist. Unsatisfied, they creep, groping lower, wrapping around my hips. His touch is unforgiving. It makes me want to cry. His hands move like it’s easy, like he doesn’t have to think before using me. I can’t tell the difference between him and the dark. It’s so opaque I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed. I can’t see anything. I can only feel. He kisses me relentlessly, ruthlessly, his lips warm and wet. The sound is nauseating. It makes my skin crawl. As his kisses deepen, they turn cold as he slips his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like all the tears I wish I could cry. He was soft, even gentle at first but he’s allowed his obscene hunger to consume him. He’s getting rough but I can’t say no. I can’t say or do anything, I’m running on autopilot. I tear away from myself, it feels like my soul has been taken out of its socket. I’m a detached spectator watching it all unfold as I hover outside of my body, facing the scene. I don’t recognize the boy kissing him back. It can’t be me. This can’t be happening. But it is. We barely part for air because he just won’t stop. Even when we pause for the briefest moment to catch our breath, I can still feel it. His phantom lips on mine. I didn’t think it would be like this. I don’t want to watch anymore, disgust roils in my stomach, but I can’t look away. Cacospectamania—an obsession with staring at something repulsive or vulgar, where our tendency as humans towards morbid curiosity comes from. I can’t close my eyes and even if I did, the sight has already burned itself into my eyelids. I feel sick. I can’t breathe. But he doesn’t stop, he takes and takes as my skin begins to simmer with the invisible fever beneath his skin, poison seeping through my veins. For the first time, he asks me before he does something. “Can I kiss your neck?” he asks. Without thinking, my head automatically falls forward in a simulated nod, even though I don’t really want him to. My mind is utterly blank, I can’t comprehend, can’t process what’s happening. I’m not even looking at him, I’m watching from behind, peering over my own shoulder into nothing. My motionless body buzzes like a hive, vibrating from within. I feel his hot breath on my neck like a wolf panting on the fur of a rabbit. He kisses it roughly and it feels like he’s rubbing my skin raw. He traces one point along my jugular with his lips and tongue, like he’s a vampire trying to suck the blood out of my body. I wonder if he can feel my pulse screaming his name. I do not want this—it hurts, it hurts like hell—but my body unspeakably betrays me. Pleasure rises to the surface, giving me a high I’ve never felt before and will never feel again. My sole reference is the only other kind of high I’ve experienced, the rush spilling one’s own blood brings. Soon enough, I will slice my skin open in a futile attempt to bleed his fever from my veins. Except this is different. It unfurls like a vapor from the thick ice cover of numbness across the white, barren landscape within my chest, melting from the heat of our bodies. I retreat into my mind, bent on my hands and knees over the foggy surface, and try to break through to and unearth the fear buried far beneath. But it doesn’t feel good. Not in the slightest. The tingling, throbbing skin on the left side of my throat and all over my lips ache as though I’ve been stung by the restless bees inside me. I don’t know if this is normal or not. I wonder, Is it supposed to sting? The sensation is like rope burn, in the same spot where a noose had once dug into my flesh, leaving my skin scraped scarlet from the weight of my body I had left to the mercy of gravity. But at least that left a mark, some kind of proof, even if it was superficial. When it comes to him, all I have is the hurt. Nothing to show for it. Later, he hooks a finger on the collar of my v-neck T-shirt and tugs down. Dizzying, deep, instinctual fear drenches me, ice water being poured down my front as my heart drops to my feet. It arcs through my body, as sensitive as a live wire, electrocuting my nerves. I’m drowning in it, it’s so dark and cold, it’s like being plunged into a frozen lake and pulled to the bottom. I don’t know which way is up or down. But I know I’m going to die. Either from fright or from him. I manage to break the surface and as I do, I push him away with every ounce of my little strength. I’m so scared I can’t think straight, I can’t think at all. Every other emotion has left me except for the terror coursing through my thrumming veins. He’s going to rape me. I’m going to die. He practically said it before, when I told him my mom wanted me to keep the doors open. ‘What, does your mom think I’m gonna fuck you or something?’ The doors are closed. No one is going to help me. In stark contrast to me, he is harrowingly calm. But I can feel him trembling. Why is he shaking when I’m the one getting hurt? Is it excitement? Fear? Shame? Desire? I want to scream and cry until I’m wrung dry of tears, but my voice is stolen from me. I open my mouth but the sounds die in my throat, in the same way I will, an endless, excruciating death. I wish I could say, “No! Get off me. Get away from me. I don’t want to. Stop touching me. Leave me alone. Please. Don’t. Stop it. It hurts.” But he is the only one who can speak. I don’t want to listen anymore but it doesn’t matter. His voice is faded but his words are clear as a bell. “Don’t worry, I’m not taking anything off.” He’s trying to be reassuring but it doesn’t make me feel any safer. I don’t know why I reluctantly go back to him. I thought I could trust him. I wish I hadn’t. When I innocently drape my arm over his waist, he looks at me and says in a blasé tone, “You don’t know what turns me on, do you?” I quickly pull my arm back and cradle it against my chest like a bird with a broken wing, fear turning my blood cold. His expression never changes. Mirroring the countless times he’s gotten turned on by me and verbalizes it, regardless of my then asexuality. Later that same night once he’s home, I regrettably send him a poem with the misnomer desire, simply detailing the strange, foreign sensations all over my body, awaiting his lips and hands—or in retrospect, his hurt—to return. He responds, ‘You’re so sensual.’ I imagine him dragging out each word, slow and sultry, as though to entice me. At some point, I bite down on the inside of his lip. He pulls away and his mouth splits into a chilling smile. He says, “You bit me.” I apologize, even though I don’t mean it. Nothing I do stops him for longer than a few moments. He is ravenous, starving for me. He cannot get enough. He devours me. All I can do is watch, a ghost witnessing their own demise. Words no one else can hear are whispered in my ear from behind me. “This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.” I believe them because it’s better than dying. His response when I later told him it didn’t feel real? ‘You know it was.’ He says, ‘You’re mine, now. Forever.’ I imagine him saying it with a sadistic, self-satisfied grin. The words like hands pinning me down, shrapnel embedded in my skin. A brand on my soul—unforgettable, claiming me, marking me for life. His name threads through, weaving its way between everything. It carves itself into my heart and fuses with my bones, swirling in my bloodstream—every wounded bit of me engraved as his. I wish I could find the voice to say, “I’d rather die than be yours.”

I am ready to share my story. I am 57, a mom, daughter, sister and friend. I am a survivor. It is 51 yrs ago that it happened to me and it is a memory that is as present and vivid in my mind today as it was that Saturday night. My grandma went to Bingo like she always did and I was at home with my grandpa. The hockey game was on because it was Hockey Night in Canada and every Saturday night that’s what everyone watched. Sitting beside him on the sofa, I was eating potato chips when he reached into the bag and pushed it down between my legs. He didn’t look at me when I looked at him and moved away. Instead he moved the bag and started fondling me. I was terrified, crying and saying no, no, no. He just kept on touching me and I didn’t like it, told him to stop and he kept watching the hockey game then asked me if I wanted to go and lay down with him in grandma’s bed. I said no and sat in the kitchen where I could see him, waiting for my grandma to come home. I always slept with her. I said nothing because I did not know what to say? I never went near him again. He was crippled, walked with crutches and never touched me again. I saw him try to touch and grab my cousin when she was dancing around the house in my grandma’s nightgown. She never said anything and laughed about it. I never understood but it made me feel afraid. I knew it was wrong. I hated him. When my younger sister was 9, he tried to touch her and she told our parents. All hell broke loose! My dad was so angry, asked me if he ever touched me and I confessed out of fear! My aunt and uncle stopped my dad from wanting to beat the living shit out of my grandpa because he was a “cripple”. They didn’t want any shame to come to the family, couldn’t send a cripple to jail and what about my grandma? As I heard all of this, I just cried and was ashamed, embarrassed that me and my sister were causing so much trouble. I was now 11 yrs old. Carried that secret with me for all those years and wanted to just die, disappear. You see, my aunt and my uncle, their families knew about my grandpa’s molesting behaviours because he molested their son and daughter before me and my sister. My dad supposedly didn’t know. Do I believe that? Honestly no, he and all of them knew what a pig their father was and did nothing to protect younger grandchildren that came along. My younger sister broke the silence, the cycle and nothing was done other than protect the grandparents and their families from any shame. It wasn’t until I became a parent at 38 that I was able to appreciate and experience true love as a mom, realizing my baby was my heart beating and living outside of my body. No one would ever hurt her as long as I live and breathe. I suddenly felt very different toward my father (deceased) and family. I questioned my step mom and aunt, asking them how could they choose to protect that person who was a repeat offender, a predator whom they called dad and never once did he or anyone in that family ever hold my hand and apologize to me for what happened? No one ever said anything to me, not a word nor an apology or how it impacted my life. I did tell them how I felt and my step mom was very compassionate, understanding and said she was very sorry she couldn’t do anything to help me. She was married to my dad who called the shots. My aunt? She had a lot to say and it wasn’t nice. Her thoughts were that I had parents who could’ve done something and it wasn’t up to her to do it. That’s where she is wrong and this is what I told her: I have a child and I have 2 nieces and a nephew. If anyone in my immediate or extended family ever did anyone of them harm in their actions, words, I would not hold back to protect them and make sure the perpetrator was called out, reported to authorities and held responsible for their action. I told my aunt she was the biggest hypocrite, coward, liar, worthless piece of shit on the face of this earth and that she was not worth the breath I breathe to waste another word. Being a mother, she should be ashamed of herself just as her mother and father, siblings should be. I said what I had to say and it was cathartic. My grandfather died in his sleep, he was found dead on the floor by my grandmother. My father, uncles and aunt saw that with my grandmother. I went to his funeral because I had to. My sister and I did not shed a tear. He deserved what he got and so did my father, aunt and uncles, grandmother. I have never gotten over this and still ask myself, why me? What goes through the head of a grandfather to look at his 6 yr old granddaughter and decide that he wants to touch her body sexually? Want to lay down with his 6 yr old granddaughter and do what? Who lets this behaviour just go unnoticed, when everyone knew about it because it happened to grandchildren before me? All of these people are deceased now, except my aunt who doesn’t speak to me at all after I confronted her about 15 yrs ago. My final words to her, she couldn’t handle and somehow still blamed everyone else and took zero responsibility because my grandfather molested 2 of 3 of her kids (older than me). I made her uncomfortable, I forced her to acknowledge that she was as guilty as her pedophile father because she knew and did absolutely nothing to stop it or make an effort to protect innocent kids in her family, like me. I hope she suffers til the day she dies with that guilt. Somehow I do t think she loses a wink of sleep. Perpetrators, wrong doers don’t. For me, I’m surviving every single day. I lead by example for my daughter, to keep her safe, understand and create clear boundaries with people whether it’s family, friends, co-workers, doesn’t matter who it is. If something is t right go with your gut and tell ME, tell someone you trust, love and never be silent. My voice my daughters voice is powerful. This has affected me my whole life. For that I will always hate my family.

I can't remember the month I met him or the day he became a coworker. I just remember meeting him and thinking he was shy. I remember him having a friendly smile. Something about him made me feel safe. He was kind and patient and empathetic. I guess our friendship started when I needed someone and I was vulnerable. I've been happily married for over a decade. Even now, I've haven't spoken about what happened. I feel dirty. I haven't been able to write about what happened to me. For a long time, I blamed myself because I was high when it happened. I was so high that I couldn't feel anything. There are blank spots within my memory, but I do remember the first night. A few coworkers and I had decided to go out for drinks and play pool at a local bar. He offered to drive me home and we talked. It was nice. After a few hours, he picked me up again and we drove around the city. It wasn't long before the feeling on his hands were on my skin. I asked him to stop and he did for a while. He drove into an old church parking lot and we continued to talk. He knew I was married, but he wanted to kiss me anyway. When he leaned in, I told him no. I don't quite remember the rest of the evening but I remember reading the time and seeing 2:13am. I told him that I needed to go home, but he said I had to do something first. I thought he was joking. He placed my hand on his lower body. I pulled away and told him no. He said, "Please. It would feel so good and I really need this." I told him we shouldn't, but he was persistent. He continued to grab my hand and put it on his crotch. He said it would feel better if he was able to "take it out". I asked him to stop and he said, "Sorry." I was grateful he apologized. "I thought you wanted this, though. You got me hardd, so now you have to finish," he said. I kept saying no and he continued to be persistent. The only answer left was to say yes. Externally, I said yes but internally I was saying no. I figured if I could make the situation less unpleasant, it would end quickly. I laid in the passenger seat feeling his hands move from my upper body down to my groin. He asked me to turn around and bend over. I told him no. He said, "I'm almost done. Please.. I need this." Even after saying no, he was persistent. I should have walked away or called 911 or called my Mom. Anything to save me. But I knew if I did, it would cause chaos. I was located 30-45 minutes outside of town - it was dark out, and I was worried he was going to hurt me or kick me out. I feel guilty for allowing him to touch me. It's hard not to feel guilty even though I froze and did what I could to survive. I returned home confused about what happened and acknowledged that I had not consented to that encounter. I know what assault is. I didn't want this to happen and I said no. Yet, it happened anyway. I learned about sexual coercion a few months after. This continued for a few months. He told me that I was a cheater because I didn't walk away. I feel like a cheater. I feel useless and powerless because he told me I had no choice. I feel responsible for what happened, but confused because it was unwanted. All along I've been wondering what he took from me. He took my consent.

Tears fall from my face when I have flashbacks. The amount of times I’ve ran to the washroom and cried remembering those nights. Frozen in fear, unable to move. Feeling his hands on my skin. And hearing his voice as he tries to make sure I’m not awake. The excuses I’ve heard and the disbelief I’ve been through, that I still go through. Most dont believe my story, they believe his because “how could he do that?” They act like he never added the second part of his side; he admitted to touching me without consent. People don’t realize that I check that the doors are locked before I go to bed. They dont realize that I always have an eye on him making sure he’s not about to pull another stunt. The excuses they use. They believe his excuses and act like nothing happened. Sexual assault has been normalized but they forgot about me who’s still drowning in grief. The little girl inside of me was forced to grow up that night. That part of me that I will never get back. The fear that I will never lose. And the memories that can’t be erased. Most blame it on the clothes I was wearing. Those nights I was wearing pajamas. Shorts and a tank top. Considering it was 40° outside I believe I had the right to be wearing those clothes. When I think about that night my heart gets heavy. It’s like my heart gets bigger and it’s pushing against my chest. Every time I have a flashback I relive the experience. I feel his hands on me and remember the pain I felt. Most survivors say that they were almost broken, but I dont think I qualify for almost broken. I am broken. And I surprise myself everyday that I don’t cry in front of him. People think I need words of encouragement but in reality I need a hug. That's all I want, a hug from the right person. A hug.

After spending a year being single on purpose, I had decided that I was finally ready to invest myself in a relationship. The very next morning, I opened my phone to see a message from someone on Facebook asking me out on a date. Apparently they were following my photography page on Instagram and we had a mutual Facebook friend, and they decided they would shoot their shot. From the very beginning they were extremely funny, our sense of humor seemed to mesh really well, and they were easy to chat with. We met at a pub, and it seemed to go pretty well for a first date. It ended up getting crashed by their coworkers, so it turned into some drinks and karaoke. My cheeks hurt from laughing, they seemed really outgoing which I appreciated and their coworkers said really great things about them. On the second date we talked for hours - I felt like I had known them my entire life. No nervousness, I felt seen and accepted right away for who I was, and it was comfortable. It was a dream come true, which is how it felt for the first few months of the relationship. They appeared to check all of my boxes: self aware, empathetic, honest, open-minded. We fell in love quite quickly. The early signs of psychological and emotional abuse started within the first 6 months, but I didn't recognize it as abuse at the time. They were extremely jealous and would often say very hurtful and derogatory things about me. I'd catch them in lies and then they would break up with me stating indifferences in morals, but then would return the next day with heartfelt apologies and promises to work on their insecurities. I believed them. Of course I did, because I excused this behavior as a result of their trauma, the stress they were enduring at work, they were drunk, etc. I thought I could love them through it, so we made plans to move in with each other. That was when the insults, gaslighting, stonewalling worsened - and new aspects developed. Now I was being criticized daily, punished if I didn't tell them where I was going before leaving the house, threatened to send emails to my boss or intimate photos to my family, and my things would be written on with permanent marker or urinated on. That was when the violence started. I didn't feel safe in my own home because my things would get smashed and broken regularly. Police came to the house twice and told me if they came a 3rd time, they would make an arrest, so I ensured they never got called again. However, if I tried to call someone else for support I would get chased, held down, grabbed so I couldn't make the call. I locked myself in the bathroom once and the door was kicked down. I didn't see that as abuse at the time though, because they never hit me. I was so lost in this disillusionment of "love" that I thought they just needed my support, I needed to be more compassionate, I needed to love them better, that's what they told me anyways. This was my fault and I had to fix it. All areas of my life had been threatened: my home, my job, my relationships with my family, my pets, my safety, my health. I became extremely depressed and lost in a state of dissociation. My family became aware of some things (I kept most of it secret until near the end of the relationship, but there was much I wasn't able to hide), and they told me they feared for my life. I didn't respond, as that thought had crossed my mind already many times before and it no longer evoked a reaction in me. I was completely dissociated by this time and I had accepted the possibility. One night while I was driving, they grabbed the steering wheel and steered us into the ditch. That was when the fears became a reality for me. I started safety planning with the hopes that we could still make the relationship work. The trauma bond was strong. One night they started drinking and things were escalating, so I left the house and went to my sister's. In the past I would stay to ensure the things I loved most didn't get destroyed, or I would leave and sleep in my car - but this time I chose to see my family. I started getting text after text all hours throughout the night with horrible things being said. They hinted that my new kitten had "escaped" from the house, and my family had me back at the house, kitten and bags packed, and out the door in 20 minutes. At this point my family had seen everything and there was no turning back. Ending the relationship was confusing, because I didn't feel like I consciously made the choice myself. My family drafted my messages to kick them out of the house. I accepted it, because I just felt so drained and defeated by that point, I had absolutely nothing left to give. We continued to talk for a few months and both discussed how we missed each other and wished things could work, but I knew I could never go back to that, I didn't have the strength. My heart hurt and I definitely grieved - on the floor sobbing - for months on end because I truly felt as though this was my person, this was someone who I thought knew me and saw me for who I truly was. But the truth was, they didn't know me. They didn't even know the color of my eyes after 2 years together. I eventually realized I was grieving a version of them that didn't exist. I was grieving the life I thought we could have, the future family, the relationship that I thought we could work towards. I also realized I was grieving myself. My self esteem was diminished, I felt a huge loss of identity, I couldn't make a decision to save my life, I was exhausted and irritable and angry. I didn't recognize myself for a very, very long time. I felt betrayed and manipulated, and there was a lot of shame towards myself as I felt it was my fault for not seeing the signs or for somehow finding a way to make it work, or for staying as long as I did. I felt like I couldn't trust my judgment anymore. It's been two years now, and I am finally feeling closer to my old self. I struggled for a year and a half with my grief and learning that what I had gone through was abuse. I experienced survivor's guilt, hypervigilance, nightmares, depression, and panic attacks for months. I would start to feel better with the support of my therapist and the domestic violence specialist that I was working with, and a new trigger would happen or another development in my story would occur and I would be back at square one. I felt like I had no hope in finding myself again. I missed the person I used to be and it seemed impossible to ever shake these feelings. But even when I felt the most stuck, I still pressed forward. Even if that meant just making it to work that day, then staying in bed for the rest of the weekend. Or eating a piece of toast before bed if nothing else. Or attending the therapy appointment even if I didn't have the words. There would be weeks of darkness, but then I would have one day where I would cry and felt a little bit lighter. I would visit my family and a genuine laugh would escape my lips. It took very, very small steps, but I do believe I am finally at a place where I am surrounded by the light. I know there is still so much more work to be done, but once I started allowing myself to feel the anger, feel the hurt, feel the pain without shaming myself for it, things started getting better. Keep going - after everything you have survived, I know you can survive this.

HOW I STARTED MY HEALING JOURNEY by Name My healing journey began after I spent five years in a narcissistically abusive relationship. It was a constant cycle of hot and cold, back and forth, until I finally got sick of the bullshit and chose to walk away for good. In the beginning, I simply sat with my feelings. I reflected on everything I’d endured and allowed my emotions to flow naturally. It’s easily one of the hardest parts of the process, but you have to let those feelings out for the healing to begin. I then moved on to one of the scariest tasks: breaking down my past. When we look at our trauma as one giant mountain, it just feels like a jumbled mess of chaos. By identifying each experience as its own separate event, it becomes much easier to process. To get these thoughts out of my head, I put them on paper. If you’re starting this journey, get a notebook and write down everything as it comes up. Use it as your primary tool. I began with my most recent experience of narcissistic abuse. I dove into podcasts and articles, desperate to understand what had happened to me and how it was affecting my mental health. Once I understood the 'what,' I started researching the 'how'—as in, how do I heal from this? That’s when I discovered the connection to childhood trauma. It’s a major key to the puzzle because we carry those early experiences into our adult lives. There is so much information available; you just have to find the pieces that fit your life. Healing is deeply individual, and you get to choose the path that works best for you."

I was 17, he was 26. It was my first boyfriend and I was head over heels excited that I had my first boyfriend and that he was older. First year felt normal and I felt so happy. After I turned 18 there was a big shift. The following years were filled with coercion, manipulation and grooming. He hurt me for the first time while my friend was sleeping next to us at a house party. I had to stay silent while I was wincing in pain. When we got back home that night he hit even worse and it hurt to walk the next day. He cried and said it was my fault and said I made him do that. Manipulation continued, coercion got worse with threats like not letting me back into his apartment till I gave him what he wanted, another time he punched me in the arm out of anger and gaslighted me into thinking he never punched me after a bruise was visible. 4 years into the relationship, I always say to myself now it’s like a lightbulb turned on in my brain and told me this isn’t right I need to leave, I could have a better life than this. So I did, I opened up to those around me and found support in them. It was hard, I still had emotions to let go of and he tried so hard to keep me around by being extra sweet with me, but to this day I am so happy I didn’t fall for it again. Memories of him still haunt me, but I remember I am free now. People always ask DV survivors “well why didn’t you just leave?” It’s more than that. Once you’re in that cycle of abuse it’s hard to get out of. I pray to everyone experiencing this one day too has a lightbulb turn on in their head. I see you, i hear you and i wish you all the freedom

A few nights ago I went out clubbing with friends. I got way drunker than I had expected to, and when we arrived at the club I ran to the dancefloor while my friends finished checking their coats. A man started to try to dance with me and grab me, and before I had time to realize what was happening, I was being kissed. I was able to push him away and go find my friends but didn’t really process what had happened. The morning after, I felt really uneasy and unsettled by this experience. I don’t know if I would call it assault, but I think I still feel really violated that it happened. I was clearly way too drunk to have consented to the encounter and I’m upset that I now have this on my mind. I feel like I was taken advantage of by a stranger because I was too drunk to say no or resist. I just want to get over it and stop thinking about the experience but I feel like I’m burdened by the fact that this happened now.

I'm hesitant to call it what it was because I'm not ready to admit that someone who I love and trust so much did that to me. I don't know why I didn't stop him. I never said yes to my best friend touching me while we were sharing a bed, but I never said no either. If someone else told me my story, I'd tell them it's not their fault and that they're so strong. Yet, I just feel weak and I've lost trust in myself more than anything.

It’s been 2 years since my ex-husband and I separated. We have two children together a girl, age 8 and a boy, age 5. After our relationship ended, I began to tell various third-parties about our relationship’s dynamic and what our sex life was like. With this, I started to reflect on the relationship and soon realized how abusive it was. My ex-husband would force me to have sex with him at every 2-3 days and if I didn’t he would treat me terrible, getting angry at me, giving me the silent treatment, acting like a pouty child and excluding me from dinner conversations with my children (speaking only Danish, a language I don’t understand with them.) It was horrible and I feel like whoever I tell this story to minimizing my experience, victim blaming or straight out takes his side. It’s been incredibly isolating and I feel so alone. I can’t get out of bed on the days I have the kids. I just sit on the couch and watch tv or scroll social media on my phone. I don’t know how to move on from this without going to the police but I truly don’t believe that would be good for my children because he’s a good dad for the most part. I feel so stuck, sad, broken and hopeless.

I was 12. He was 31. He was my step father. I was supposed to be his daughter. I've known him since I was born. He became a father figure for me when my real father wasn't present. I started calling him "dad" at age 8. In all ways except biological he was my father. Even though he beat me and then bullied me into staying quiet. I never ever thought he'd be capable of this. It happened 2 weeks before I turned 13. On the morning of my younger siblings 4th birthday. We had decided to watch a movie downstairs in my room because it was so early, no one else was awake. At first it was fine. Then after a bit, he started getting a little touchy. Always wanting to hold and cuddle me. I found it weird, but didn't want to say anything for fear of him getting mad and hurting me. So I allowed it to continue even after I was uncomfortable. I kept trying to move and get away but I couldn't. He just kept telling me "that this was my special spot". Eventually he allowed me to move away a bit and lay on my back, as long as I was still close to him. A few minutes later he put his hand on my stomach.. and started working his way down to the waist of my sweatpants. Then eventually he trailed down further and stuck his fingers inside of me. It wasn't for very long, I'm assuming because he didn't want to get caught because of the other people in the room (children). I don't know much about what happened after that, I just remember being scared and hurt. I didn't know what to do or if it had even happened at all. It was so quick that I almost assumed I imagined it. Which is why it made it so easy for me to be manipulated into saying nothing happened. That night I went to a trusted friends house and told her that earlier that day I had been molested by my step father. She and her parents were horrified at what I had just said, they called the police and they were there in minutes. I stayed inside of the house, I didn't want to see them arrest him. I couldn't stand to look at him. Eventually the police officers brought me into the car to take my statement. I told them everything that had happened. After sometime I started thinking about what had happened and still after days, weeks I just couldn't wrap my head around it. Then one night my mother comes into my room and tells me that I have to recant my statement because he's in a lot of trouble and she was scared that he'd be killed when they found out what he had done. I was being pressured by everyone to recant. His family were saying and calling me horrible things. I was 12-13 years old and I was getting blamed and called a "slut", "whore" and my favourite that I had "seduced him, and that it was my fault". Everyday I had people who I thought had loved and would protect me, telling me how awful I was and "how dare I do that and ruin an innocent man's life". It was one of the most horrific things i've ever experienced. I thought that being taken advantage of was the worst, but that didn't even scratch the surface compared to having "my family" either not believe me or tell me that its my fault. It was like I was being assaulted all over again.