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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 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.

It was my yoga teacher. He said that he wanted to try this form of yoga that was very intimate, but it wasn’t sexual, apparently. But as it went on, he asked if it would feel better if I take my top off. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do anything, but I said yes to that. I feel like I betrayed myself in doing so. And then he started taking my yoga pants off, and started fingering me. The entire time I was just so confused, I was like, is this supposed to be yoga? Or sex? When he took his dick out and put it in, that’s when I realized it was sex sex, said no. And tried to leave as soon as I could. Thing is, to this day I’m still not sure if this counts as rape. I didn’t say no, did I? But he didn’t ask for explicit consent either. It was just so murky. And the result is that I felt like I wasn’t able to make a conscious choice in what I wanted to do with my body. I trusted him because he was a yoga teacher. I lost trust in myself, in my judgment. I started hating myself for not standing up for myself earlier despite the overwhelming discomfort that I felt. He must have known I was uncomfortable. I told him a few times, actually. I distinctly remember just wanting it to be over so I can leave. After I said no, he asked if it’s cuz I was too ‘sore’. He DOESNT KNOW WHAT HES DONE. i called him afterwards being like, I didn’t expect that. I’ve never had sexual encounters without any explicit communication about it. He said he was just following what felt natural, and I can’t believe I tried to justify his reasonings too. I couldn’t stop crying the day after and I couldn’t understand why. I thought it was cuz I thought I’d lose my first time to someone special. Later on when I got high with my cousins that’s when I realized that it was not exactly consensual. But still to this day I get so confused. I know that ideas of consent differ in different countries, and the fact that this occurred when I was in Hong Kong made it all the more confusing.

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.

My mom was Lily Bloom and I’m her Emerson but sadly it did not end there . I wish I could have not fallen for the charm or been blinded by the red flags but like my mom nobody saw the signs . My mom wasn’t able to leave and she wasn’t able to tell her story. But after sharing with her the trauma I endured from these past two insanely manipulating, toxic , abusive relationships . She was finally able to tell me I wasn’t alone , and my father was her Ryle , and like all Ryles they say they can change . But they won’t . Thankfully my mom and I both left our Ryles and found comfort in being each others safe place .

It started with First Name. My first date, my first kiss, my first disapointment. As a shy teen i spent many hours on chat sites and messenger. First Name spent the night with me in my university dorm but thankfully we didnt get past some heavy petting and a kiss or 2. I think after thst he just wanted to get rid of me so the next day he added his friend, Name 2, into our messenger chat. Name 2 didn't hide the fact he was 42, he sent me a picture of himself and at first our chats were friendly and lighthearted. He showed interest in me which i wasnt used to but i enjoyed it, despite only being 17. He liked to dare me to walk to my dorm fridge in my underwear, go to the bar alone and order a drink, then it turned into him wanting to 'perform' on camera for people of his choosing. I did it a few times but knew it wasnt going to yeild the money inititally promised. Soon our chats got steamier and he started talking about visiting me from a few provinces over once i turned 18. He came on the greyhound and we escaped to a hotel room for the night. I was denied the sparkly first time every girl remembers.. i wish i could forget being punched in the stomach afterwards. it didnt take him long to convince me to lieto my parents and move from Location 1 to Location 2 to live with him in city. I arrived on the greyhound with my RESP money, enough to afford a room at a sleazy hotel where we spent the next few weeks having sex, smoking pot and walking around city. It wouldve been fun, had it not been so taboo; sometimes we felt like a real couple, going to the bar and feeding ducks at Location 3. He loved showing me around the city and parks and then trying to get me to pose for topless pictures when nobody was around. Name 2 would spend countless hours on the internet, looking for porn films that 'i might like' then made me watch them for hours before finally having sex and going to sleep. He would have mood swings where he would start yelling at me, he would throw whatever liquid was in his cup on me and say terribley lewd things about me, including threatening to send my parents the nude pictures of me he had taken. We bummed around the city for a while until our new landlord took a liking to us and Name 2 became the handy man for the apartment we found and i cleaned out apartments for extra cash after tenants left. I felt like i was always walking on eggshells, never knowing what might trigger Name 2 into a rage. I still consider myself lucky though. I weighed 100 lbs soaking wet and the fact i lived with this bi polar man weighing about 300 lbs and standing 6' 5 and made it out alive still amazes me. I recieved a bloody nose or 2 in that time but all things considered, he couldve done me worse. Though i did some things i am not proud of under his control i feel like he cared enough to respect my wishes. My parents found us. They hired a detective then showed up at our appartment. Me and Name 2 tried to show them a good time but afterwards Name 2 tried to make me think they didnt want me back. He told me my Dad had called me a dummy but i did not believe him. Despite trying to turn me against them, he didnt argue about me going home for christmas and i returned a few weeks later. It didnt last long after that though. A fight led to me calling my mom, crying at midnight and my dad was on the next flight to fetch me and my cat. Ill never know what his intentions with me were, did he someday intend to prostitute me out to his friends? Was he just taking advantage of the opportunity First Name had placed in his hands? Are there more girls out there with a similar story involving this man? I'll never know for sure but i can always consider this mistake to have a miraculous outcome as many others in my situation do not get to go home, they dont have their parents support, and they dont leave a relationship like that with only a sore nose and a wounded pride.

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 was 6 years old when my bsf held me down in the bathroom at school and 3 people raped me and it kept happening till i was 10 yet it was still happening by one of girls till i was 13. i’ve never spoken up about it before but it happened everywhere i went they would find me and rape me i see them every once and a while in my neighbourhood but they haven’t raped me since then and i am now 18

I was around 6 years old, I close my eyes and it's as if I were reliving the memory in my own flesh, I remember the noise of the television, the smell of the breakfast I was eating, I was only watching cartoons. He, a man around 50 years old, picked me up and placed me on his legs, and slid his hand under my panties, I WAS 6 YEARS OLD and that's where my story of sexual abuse began, a story that I wish I had not had to experience. I spoke up because my mom had always taught me that no one could touch my personal parts but at that time my mom didn't have the resources, we lived at a cousin's house (the daughter of my abuser) and no one believed me, they said it was my imagination. Other events happened committed by the same person, he took away my innocence and broke me into pieces... despite the fact that I spoke the first time, the other times I remained silent because no one believed me, no one protected me and no one listened to me more than my mother but at that time she was struggling with an alcoholism problem and the whole family turned their backs on us. After a while I stopped seeing my abuser but at 8 years old it happened to me again but this time because of my aunt's husband (my mother's sister) they have been married since my aunt was 16 until now. We went to visit my aunt's house, it was December so my mom went out with my aunt to buy things for Christmas, me, my brother and my cousin (my aunt's son) stayed in the care of my aunt's husband, he at that time was a police officer. I was playing with my cousin and my brother when he called me, he was sitting in the rocking chair watching the news when he sat me on his lap and I immediately froze since the last time someone sat me on their lap they groped me, this time was different, he only caressed my legs and I only felt something hard brush against my buttocks, I froze and didn't know what to do, until I found the strength and got off. I never spoke about my second abuser and I never have, I no longer live in Colombia but when I go I have to act as if nothing happened even though inside I feel so many things. For a long time I repressed everything that happened to me, I always said that it didn't affect me and now at 22 years old it is tormenting me. I'm engaged to the love of my life. I feel like it's been a gift that God and life gave me after so much torment, but there are times when we're going to be intimate and he touches me, I feel rage inside me, that kind of rage that makes you want to punch that person in the face, and I don't understand. Hasn't he done anything to me? He has only helped me and treated me with love and has shown me how much he respects me and loves me, I always wanted to avoid the subject and repress it, not talk about it and pretend like it didn't affect me but I've reached a point where I get fits of rage that I don't even recognize, where I end up hurting myself or taking that anger out on my fiancé, a few nights ago finally in the middle of a fit of rage where I ended up banging my head against the wall I just kept repeating "he won't leave me alone, he stalks me, get him out of my head" I was in a state of crisis and my fiancé could only hold me in his arms while he asked me who was stalking me and it was the first time I said his name out loud, "Name, the man who raped me and stole my innocence won't leave my head" I couldn't speak, the tears and screams of desperation were more than words, at that moment I realized that no matter how much I have grown, that 6 year old girl is still inside me, She is angry, sad, and broken. My partner is a lawyer, so he was the one who told me about the Me Too movement. He told me to get justice and report him, but if I didn't feel ready out of fear, I should explore the options that Me Too offers and that maybe I should start by telling my story. For a few days I would open the page and just feel paralyzed, but today I took the plunge. I no longer deserve to be a prisoner of pain that wasn't my fault, even though for a long time I've felt that it is. I feel lost and I don't want my past to define my present. Life is giving me beautiful opportunities, but my sexual abuse isn't letting me move forward. How do I get rid of this anger that I feel inside? Why did I become such a bitter and sour person? Why do I get angry about everything? Why can't I enjoy intimacy with my partner if he is delicate with me? It seems that the more delicate he is, the more anger I feel inside. I feel very alone and lost.

I'm 58 years old. I had a dream of my first serious boyfriend the other night. In the dream, he was very nice, wanted to give me chocolate cheesecake, then forced me to have oral sex with him. The day after the dream, I was sick all day (headache, nausea, fever) and I couldn't stop sobbing. I didn't understand why, until I started to analyze my dream. Troubling memories came back to me. When I started dating him I was only 18 years old. A kid really. I'd grown up in a violent home where my parents neglected our affective needs. After a couple of months of going out, he told me that if I wouldn't have sex with him he'd have to break up with me. I remember arguing about this in his car, and he said he would dump me if I didn't have sex with him. So my first time was in his car, behind my parents' garage! It was painful, I asked him to stop because it hurt, but he kept going. I was humiliated and ashamed. Another time, he drove to a deserted field during the night and told me he wouldn't take me home until I had sex with him. So I did. The police showed up, flashed a light in my face and asked me if I was okay. I lied, said yes, I was okay. Again, I was humiliated and ashamed. Yet another time, I thought I was pregnant and told him about it. He was very sympathetic at first, then said I'd have to get an abortion and I'd have to figure out ON MY OWN how to get that done! This was the early 80's and abortion was not readily in my country. On top of that, I was raised in a strict Catholic family. Luckily, it turned out I was not pregnant, but I was ashamed. We dated for three years. When I'd broken up with him, he told me he wanted to see me again just to talk. I accepted. We drove around and at one point, he opened the console and showed me a knife. He told me that he was ready to use it if I didn't continue seeing him. I told him that I accepted. He drove me home (I was living with a friend then) and I never saw him again. I don't know if this story fits in this forum, but after the dream I had two nights ago, I felt compelled to look up the movement website and tell my story. Maybe it isn't dramatic enough, but I'm shaking as I write this, realizing that this first boyfriend forced me to have sex with him, he plied me with charm and patience, then took advantage of me.

Date Dear Inner Self, I could see a dim lamp in the distance, I wanted to get closer so I floated closer and closer. The freezing air cutting into my cheeks this time, my ears screamed in pain. I needed to be there but the pain became too much, I had to stop and retreat a little, floating back away from the dim light in the distance that I so badly wanted, no needed. But i just couldn’t handle getting to close this time. This time everything felt different. Since Name was gone, the pain felt more intense, I can’t block anything out anymore. But I knew I needed to see what this light was so I embraced the searing pain in my ears and cheeks, even my toes and feet ached with agony from the cold and snow. The pain got so intense as the house came into sight, I was screaming in agony but I ignored myself just so I could see what this was, it was different and that scared me. BOOOF Suddenly, I crashed my body flailing as my right knee collided with the same roof as before. As my knee hit my body clasped onto the Inner self’s roof. I just laid there for a few minutes trying to process what just happened. You see I thought this light looked different and safe so I decided to float down, not knowing what I just released, not knowing what waited for me on the other side. I slowly raised my hands up to my face to see why they were eating away at me with a dull ache. Blood, crimson blood dripped from my hands. My eyes grew big. My palms were sliced up pretty savagely , intersecting little cuts joining into one big web of slices as blood oozed like a new ketchup bottle that was just opened and you added too much pressure causing it to spill over. As Outer Self was observing my deranged web of cuts on my hands a voice broke through my intense focus but as it spoke the other nipping pains of the cold came back to my cheeks, ears and toes. Like a sharp stinging dull ache. “Hey!” It was Inner self he was jogging over to the satellite that acted as a ladder down. He seemed terrified but seemed like he wanted to be helpful. “Climb down, I need to speak to you, right now!” He calmly stated the first part yet screamed aggressively “right now!” Outer self grunted in agony. “I can’t, my hands ruined” he said through gritted teeth “Just come down, fall if you have to, I need you right now, I know I was outraged yesterday but today…Oh just come down I don’t care how it happens!” “I want Name back but I understand what she was doing but this, this just feels is too different” “Judge and Monster are suffocating inside, there’s a different Monster now and I don’t know who he is yet, I don’t want to go alone or get too close, I don’t know what’s happening anymore” Inner self added his voice slowly painting with uneasiness. Outer Self’s eyes went wide with apprehension. He tried to speak but nothing came out, only choking on several one word questions at one all fighting to get out all at the same time. But suddenly, Outer Self lost his grip on the jagged icy roof and crashed into the ground with a violent deep yet dull thud. His body flailing in mid air just before he hit the cold snowy ground of reality. THUD “Outer self! No, I need you alive!” Outer self realized yes the crash into reality hurt but it was necessary to now see who this monster is, Bloody intricately sliced hands or not. 2 blotches of crimson blood were left into the snow as he slowly yet unsuccessfully tried to get up. “Get up” Inner self spoke in a gruff inpatient matter Now there was no time to process anything as the world now demanded me to move even if I really shouldn’t. Suddenly, I felt 2 hands reaching under my arm pits pulling me up in a slow awkward motion as Inner Self wasn’t strong enough to fully pick me up. He just haltingly dragged me toward the impending door. Only so i could deal with this new monster for him without any of my choice in the matter. “No-o P-please, P-please do-n’t” outer self slowly choked out as he was haltingly dragged across the snow. Then he was dragged up one step onto the deck just before the door inside his feet dragging like a fork pressing into mash potatoes. Outer self could see the dim light in the living room just off the kitchen getting brighter, his dread intensified but there was nothing he could do, he was now broken by his Inner Self. As he got closer and closer inching toward outside the door his stomach dropped out of his body along with his intestines. They stayed as his body moved on. That Monster wasn’t himself, it was another Man. Someone he recognized. His intestines and stomach didn’t move as they were dragged further from his body. Yet everything snapped back into his body as he somehow got to his feet in a quick calculated manner. His eyes immediately went wild darting rapidly as his breath sped up so fast it threatened to choke him out and kill him on the spot. He recognized this man, it was, Outer self hated this term, Rapist. Suddenly, Outer Self screamed in torment as he looked down, his hands gushed with new blood. Then, there was a sharp twinge in his groin and inside himself “down there”. He felt that deep-seated panic that he’s felt only twice before in his entire life. A primal fear he couldn’t explain ever if he tried. Outer Self wanted to grab the knob but he literally couldn't. Not with his hand the way they were. “Go ahead, what are you waiting for?” Inner self callously yet mildly stated As Outer Self began to come up to the door half tripping up the long wooden 2 steps to the door, The new monster slowly turned his attention and head towards outer self with a cold vacant, empty look, steel. This monster had no Name, no he wasn’t even human he just looked that way, it was deeply disturbing to Outer self. THOOK Suddenly, from Outer Self’s left side something tackled him taking both himself and this mysterious being down with him. His body stiffly descended, he turned his head last second as they both hit the deck below them. Wait It was Monster who just tackled him as the new monster looked on from inside. How did monster even get outside Outer self thought?

When I was a little girl, somewhere between the age of 6 and 10, my cousin who was 5 years older, locked us up in the bathroom and forced me to put his penis in my mouth. I was afraid, I thought it was not a fun game and I wanted to get out as fast as I could. But he said that I had to do it, that it would be fun and that he wouldn't tell anyone. So I did. I remember the smell, I remember the shame and I remember knowing it was wrong and that I should tell an adult in my family. Weeks later, I told my godmother who told my aunt. They decided to keep it to themselves and made sure I was never left alone with that cousin again. Nobody talked to him, noone told him that it was wrong, no one asked why he did that, they did not ask me if I was OK and they did not alert my parents. Everyone was afraid of talking about it. So silence was key to everyone forgetting about it. Later in life, when I was 17 or 18, I was staying at that same cousin's place. he was now in his 20's, and he tooked me in his arms and rubbed his clothed body against my clothed body in a way that resembled sexual foreplay. I was stunned and didn't have the strength to say no. He let go of me eventually and went into another room. I was afraid to move. A similar feeling of wrongness and shame came over me and around that time I decided to start a therapy. I didn't know who to turn to but I was recommended a female therapist in her 40's by my OB/GYN. When I told her the first story, she said that it was just kids playing bathroom bambam. About the second story, she said that it was curious that I did not find the strength to say no. I agreed. It was curious. But that did not make me feel validated. If my own family didn't address this as an issue, and a professional therapist didn't think it was a bid deal as a kid and told me that as a grown up woman, I should just be able to say no, than maybe I had been giving too much importance to these experiences. Maybe they were not that bad. I could always think about way worse things that had happened to other people. Mine did not matter as much. I did not matter as much. In my late 30's, I finally told my mother what had happened. She was furious, sad and angry for a couple of days. She has never mentioned it again in the last 6 years. The worst is definitely not what actually happened. The worst is the silence and taboo around it that grew thicker every year. And yet it has shaped my sexual life, my relationships with partners and with family members. What has helped me for the last 15 years is to have the full validation from an amazing partner who is always ready to listen, allow me space to feel and reflect on what I consider now sexual trauma, for lack of better term. I feel understood and seen by him. Sharing this here I find also very helpful. Thank you for this space.

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.

A man named name didn't take my no on a date. He pushed himself on me and did things to me I didn't want. I was so in shock because I had known him for years and always felt safe with him. I ended up seeing him a second time because I thought somehow I misunderstood or exaggerated the incident in my mind. The second time only served to prove it was exactly what I thought it was. Sometimes I think about making it public but I couldn't handle the embarrassment for even agreeing to hang out with him and that is flirted with him. I was naive, I was in a rough place in life. But I don't think anyone would get that. I hate him. He almost killed himself once and called me totally out of it. I reached out to a friend of his who got him to the hospital. Sometimes I wish I hadn't.

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.

The dark parts don’t trigger me anymore. I know I’m safe now—in myself, my mind, body, soul, home, relationships, and life. It wasn’t always that way. I can talk about it if I choose to. Not everyone gets to hear my sacred story, and that’s how it should be. I’m no less worthy, and neither are you. Naturally, it took time to recover. The past could be unsettling during the healing process, often in unexpected ways. One day, I opened a social media account, and an acquaintance from my soccer community posted a team picture of his latest league victory. There, kneeling in the front row, was the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I once lived through. Seeing him smiling while standing dangerously close to others I knew was unnerving and reminded me how effortless it was for Hyde to convince people he was something he wasn’t. I left that relationship. More accurately, I secured my safety and Hyde’s departure, changed the locks, and blocked any way of contacting me. I thought I had to do it that way, on my own, but that wasn’t true. I painted the walls, but it would always be a trauma environment. Despite my efforts to see past the wreckage, open up, and have conversations, I often felt criticized and painfully alone. If you are unaware of the long list of reasons why it’s difficult for women to speak up, inform yourself. It wasn’t until much later that I experienced solidarity's power in such matters. We scrutinize and scowl at these stories from afar, my former self included, with an air of separateness and superiority until we experience them ourselves. For, of course, this could never be our story. But then it is, and now it is. Other women sharing their sacred stories were the most significant to me in the healing years - confidants who embraced me with the most profound empathy and stood and breathed in front of me with their scars that were once wounds. And my mentor of many years who held hope when I couldn’t and taught me how to give that to myself. Over the years, I have often asked myself if I would ever be free - truly free - from the psychological, emotional, physical, and spiritual damage that had occurred. Would my wounds heal? Would I always have some adaptation in my body from holding my emotions in a protective posture? Or could I get it out and be released? Would my stress response and anxiety always be easily heightened? Would my PTSD symptoms ever go away? Would I ever trust myself again? Trust another again? Would I always be startled by loud noises and glass shattering? Would “normal” ever be normal again after being exposed to such severe abnormalities? Would I ever forgive myself for how small I became during that time? Would the anger, confusion, disorientation, sadness, and grief abate? Would the dark nights ever end? Would I ever be held again, be myself again, or was I changed forever? The thing about liberation is that it can seek justice that doesn’t arrive. I was in a relationship with Dr. Jekyll, who hid the evil Edward Hyde, his intimidation tactics, wildly premeditated orchestration of lies, manipulation, and gaslighting. A part of me wanted clarity until the truth was true, and my mind could unfuck the mindfuck and rest again. Don’t wait for clarity that is never coming. Some of us must live big lessons to break patterns and cycles of this magnitude, even to believe again that it’s possible. But let me be clear—no woman, no person, wants to live these types of lessons. If you understand nothing else from this essay, understand that. If you are one of the lucky, privileged ones to sit on your throne of judgment when hearing these stories, you don’t understand. You don’t understand that what you’re misunderstanding is not the woman or victim in the story, but it is yourself. That’s the harshest, blindest truth. Another truth about this all-too-common story is that the parts of the victim stuck in that situation do not belong to the public to dissect. That’s her burden to bear. And it will be. In actuality, each individual walking through abuse is trying to stand up and say, “This happened. It is real. I am alive. Please breathe with me. Please stand there near enough so I can see what it looks like to stand in a reality I am rebuilding, in a self I am reconstructing, in a world I am reimagining. Because if I hear you breathing, I might breathe too. And if I see you standing, I might pull myself up, too. And, eventually, I’ll be in my body again—I’ll be able to feel again. Not surviving, but piercing through my life again.” For the victims, I’m going to be honest with you: the meandering process of recovery is ultimately up to you. It’s your responsibility. Therapists, books, podcasts, and support groups can help but can’t heal you. You have to heal yourself. You have to accept the victim's role to let it go. You have to feel—to struggle through the feelings. It’s daunting and scary. You’ll want to give up. If you have people in your life who are stuck in their shallowness while you’re trying to go to your depths, let them go and let them be. Pivot and seek the sources and people to show you how to stand and breathe. You have to start thinking for yourself now, caring for yourself now, and loving yourself now. But trust me, you’ll need people, and you’ll need to find them. You don’t have to be strong; you can be gentle with yourself. Often, the intelligent, empathetic, and enlightened part of a person gives Henry Jekyll a second chance to work on himself and make things right. I must acknowledge a narrow and perilous line between the resolvable, troubled soul and the soul that spills over into malice, rigidity, maladaptiveness, and steadfast personality. Most people never encounter evil and retain their naivety, while victims lose this innocent vantage point of the world. It’s not the victim’s job to rehabilitate or reintegrate anyone but herself. Our stories are pervasive, and we come from all walks of life. On March 9th, 2021, The World Health Organization published data collected from 158 countries reporting almost one in three women globally have suffered intimate partner violence or sexual violence. That’s nearly 736 million women around the world. We need more voices of survivors—more voices of the human conditions we let hide in the shadows for fear of discovering it in ourselves. I lost parts of myself during that time with Hyde. The destructive consequences of this style of person are astounding, and the impact on my connection to myself and others was among the most challenging aspects to overcome. The rage that boiled in Hyde resulted in outrageous displays of public humiliation, screaming, and, on one drunken occasion, physical violence. If Hyde had called me a stupid bitch before grabbing my neck, throwing my head against a stone wall, and my body across a room to smash into a bedpost and break my ribs while we were in the United States, I would have been able to call the authorities. And I would have. But because we were in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country, vindication occurred through the fog of shocking circumstances I didn’t deserve. After years, Hyde popped up in a picture on social media. He plays soccer on the same fields I used to play on with joy in the absence of hypervigilance. It’s that disparity in fairness that can grip us in bewilderment. I’m on another path now—one where my trust and love are respected. I remain open and available for peaceful, constructive ways of being, relating, participating, and having a voice. I hope you’ll embrace my sacred story with sensitivity and compassion as I offer it to those in need so we may come together and let her stand up and live.

Well I guess you could say that it all started for me at the tender age of 16 . I started dating this guy when I was 15 . We weren't dating very long when I found out that I was pregnant . Yes I found out I was pregnant at 15 and he was 18 . I turned 16 in June and by that October he and I were married. Not something I had planned on but it was a marriage I was forced into because of his parents . They didn't want any "bastard" children born out of wedlock and 2 months later our daughter was born . This is where all the mayhem starts. I wasn't allowed to leave the house unless I took the baby with me , even if I was just going to the little convenience store that was basically right behind our house. It didn't matter where I was going I always had to take the baby with me . The mental , verbal , and emotional abuse I endured for the next 4 years would have been enough to put any vulnerable 16 year old in the Nut House or 6 feet under . It doesn't help the fact that I grew up in a household were my mom was physically, mentally, verbally, and emotionally abused for many years . I'm now 50 years old and I'm just learning how to Love Myself again . I've suffered with zero self esteem , zero confidence, constantly body shaming myself , you know ALL those horrible things that us woman do to ourselves when we hit that all time low in our lives .

I grew up with an alcoholic, violent father and a mother who, to this day, can’t even remember most of the things he did. Eventually, my brother turned into an even worse version and was also abusive towards me, he even beat my ex boyfriend and was extremely jealous and overprotective of me when it came to guys who would try to approach me, I started feeling that having a boyfriend and falling in love was a “bad thing”. Eventually I started a relationship with a guy who lived in a different country, he seemed perfect but my mom was for some reason concerned. I ended up moving to his country and we got married, after we got married his behavior changed completely. I felt like I was basically living under his roof and like he was living like a single guy. He was doing drugs behind my back, he was cheating a verbally abusive. I would try to confront him about the things he was doing and he made me feel like I was the crazy person, he would also call my parents and sister to tell them I was very immature. He knew I would never tell them everything he was doing to me, and I felt like I didnt have anybody to talk to about what was really happening. One day he forced me on the floor, I can literally still fell the texture of the carpet against my chin. He would travel a lot, so one day I just packed my bags and left him. He eventually filed for divorce and I was served on valentine’s day at work in front of my team. It took me a week to read the papers, for some reason I just couldn’t. The papers stated I made him marry me because I wanted the residency and he was also trying to take my dog from me, my dog is my biggest support and he obviously knew that. It took years for the divorce to finalize. Everything started back in 2018, I still struggle. I haven’t been able to start a new relationship and I am sabotaging myself with everything, including my professional life and that was the one thing I was really great at. For the first time I realize that I need to find my support system, that there is hope. I don’t when I’m going to stop blaming myself and punishing myself for my decisions, but I am eager to do the work to get there. To start putting myself first. I have Justin Baldoni to thank for. Thank you for spreading awareness. Thank you for being brave enough to share your stories. We are all worthy of a healthy love.