Community

I was a 7 year old girl with a lot of confidence, maybe that's why or just luck happened but the truth doesn't matter in this story, I grew up with only cousins and vafones brothers in a very close family, everyone knew everything it's quite surprising that they didn't know until I spoke what happened, during a vacation I don't remember the year or the place but I do remember that I was playing a hulk play 2 game, it was very late like 4 or 5 in the morning and my cousin was taking care of me he was older than 10 years old and he told me to sit on his lap, I remember how he took the game controller from me and then everything is confusing I don't remember anything until the following year, I matured quickly everyone said it was because I was an intelligent and agile girl, I was the next time that cousin tried to put a hand on me when I was 8 almost 9 I broke his nose.

I was SA when I was 10 years old approximately, and my cousin 13 approximately (he is 3 years older than me). My depression start at that age approximately too, so know that im thinking about it that was maybe the reason. This week i told my mom about it, im 18, so my trauma happen 8 years later, i feel guilty because she want to talk with my family, not all, but yes some people of my family about what happen, i dont want ruin his life, even if he ruin mine, if he get some consequences i will feel guilty because this happen 8 years ago. My mom dont understand why i worry so much about it, i dont understand eather. I know that maybe he was conscious about that what he do was SA, because he was 13 approximately, not 7, not 8, not 9, not even 10. He meet his girlfriend when she was 17 and he was 19, and sometimes is a asshole, but i cant stop feeling guilty about it, even when i dont understand, because no one give me sexual education at 10, and im autistic, and when i was a kid it was more dificult undertand things. Sorry for my broken english, English is not my first language, i just want know why is not my fault, because its feel like it is.

I don't know in which moment started. It was my father. I was a child. I was the favorite one between all of our brother and sisters. It was always subtle. The contact when I lay down on his bed, the slaps on the butt, or the comments that "you are so pretty that if I were your age and you weren't my daughter I would be with you.", added to the touch when I climbed onto his legs. It took me many years to understand that this, added to the fact that he did not see me as a normal father sees a daughter, hurt me tremendously. I felt like a trophy, like an extension of his body. I discovered that all this was abuse more than a year and a half ago. When I realized it in therapy I cried a lot. I felt very guilty about what happened, and even to this day I question whether I am not inventing everything, since everything is plausible and existed in reality, I just didn't want to see it as abuse. My older brother also abused my sisters and me, however, I have never been able to tell my family about my father. Seeing the pain they have felt with the news about my brother (relieved by one of my sisters), I see that it would only generate inconvenience and pain in my family. And being pragmatic, I couldn't achieve anything by revealing the news to my family other than complications. I know that if my sisters knew, they would want to talk to my father, and my father knowing would be able to stop paying my and my younger sister's alimony. And considering we're in college, it's something I can't afford. But I'm not going to lie, I feel disgusted every time I talk to him, I wish i would never have to talk to him.

Disclaimer: This post refers to DSM and ICD diagnostic classifications mostly unquestioningly, not because of a lack of personal engagement with critical discussions on this topic, but simply for pragmatic reasons, since I am trying to explain something which is currently affecting and debilitating for me. CW: includes descriptions of severe, complex and childhood sexual, trauma. Severe bullying. I haven’t written for a while. I haven’t had the cognitive energy, nor has my mind possessed a state of functioning that would allow me to get the words down in print. Every survivor living with complex dissociative forms of post-traumatic stress knows the exhaustion of living with the inner chaos that accompanies survival - no matter our attempts to bring ourselves closer to thriving, closer to being more than the sum of what happened to us. This year, I got a lion tattooed on my upper arm. It is a motif that has been with me since I was only three years old; the first time I can recall sitting alone on my bedroom floor, trying to figure out how to stretch my mouth wide enough to roar. I remember my father walking in to find me and asking what on earth I was doing, his only response being to laugh at my attempt and to tell me something else I could do with my mouth for him instead. There was nothing I could do, so the lion withdrew, but he stayed with me. He resurfaced again - as far as I can recall - only at two specific moments in my life, possibly two of the worst, in different ways, when my consciousness was so overwhelmed by the horror of what was happening that it likely would have shattered into pieces if he hadn’t stepped in. The first of these moments was just two years later. I was only five years old, already living in circumstances unbearable enough to produce a variety of delusional experiences which functioned to keep my little mind going: talking trees, talking teddy bears, and spirits from the world unknown beyond - each of whom became compassionate witnesses to the pain I was enduring. This memory originally returned to me through a recurring nightmare. At the time, I rationalised it away as symbolic, for I could not then bring myself to admit that the scene I was remembering had been literal. That my mother had in fact stood by and watched as my father r****d me on the floor in plain sight. It wasn’t a symbolic representation for how it felt to be living in a house where one caregiver abused me and the other pretended she knew nothing about it. My mother had witnessed it happening, and then walked right away. I fought with myself and defended against this interpretation in my therapy sessions, not wanting the wall of denial that was protecting the innocent version of my mother to break. It was one I had constructed to survive and maintain a relationship with her, and if it broke, I knew I would be even more alone than I already was. Unfortunately, as more and more details resurfaced, enabling me to piece together in full what really happened that day, my mind and body only had more heartbreak to prepare for. The fullness of my being wanted the fragile love of at least one of my negligent parents to have been real, albeit even if insufficient. But my parts? They knew the truth. At least, some of them did. Some of them knew the terror of what it felt like to be abused and degraded, and treated with a total lack of empathy by those who were meant to protect them. Some of them knew that the testimonies given by each of my parents would never be credible. In order to explain what I mean by that, I am going to have to tell you about one book I have managed to slowly begin making my way through over the last couple of weeks - if only by listening to the audio version, going over and over the same paragraphs multiple times in attempt to process at least some of the information. It is called The Haunted Self: Structural Dissociation and The Treatment of Chronic Traumatization, by Onno Van der Hart et al. It has been helping me (finally) to make some actual sense out of the bewildering symptoms I’ve been experiencing for some time, and the often-unsettling experiences I encountered during Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy towards the end of last year. How to escape when you cannot For those who are not familiar with IFS or structural dissociation, there are two things I should first make clear: IFS is a model of therapy which focuses on working collaboratively with various ‘parts’ within each person, which the theory explains have developed through the internalisation of certain specific roles and functions in childhood in response to family dynamics (these are known as firefighters, exiles, and managers). In contrast, the clinical literature on structural dissociation outlines what happens to the personalities of those exposed to chronic and prolonged trauma in the developmental period: how it effectively fragments into component parts to survive, instead of becoming whole. The authors of the book define the personality as ‘a system comprised of various psychobiological states or subsystems that function in a coordinated manner’, which in healthy subjects function together cohesively: ‘An integrated personality is a developmental achievement’, not a given, the authors helpfully note. In cases of structural dissociation, however, what happens is that instead of developing towards integration, these subsystems become adaptively organized around the traumatic environment in such a way that a division occurs between two categories of subsystems: Those which support the individual in efforts to adapt to daily life Those built for detection of, and defense from, threats These are the action-systems which characterise an individual’s interoceptive (awareness of internal bodily signals) and exteroceptive (awareness of external) worlds, comprising their propensity to act in accordance with certain types of basic motivations. They are always shaped in order to best adaptively respond to their environment. Effectively, the more that prolonged exposure to trauma makes integration between the various goal-directed actions (i.e., those oriented toward exploration, caretaking, and attachment, vs. those oriented towards defence, hypervigilance, and fight/flight responses) unfeasible, the more rigidified and hardened these subsystems can become, leading to the emergence of dissociative ‘parts’. These parts are not like those postulated by IFS, though their functions can overlap: “Dissociative parts together constitute the whole personality, yet are self-conscious, have rudimentary senses of self, and are more complex than a single psychobiological state.” These parts can possess varying degrees of elaboration - referring to how differentiated and distinct they are with regard to characteristics such as names, age, gender, etc - and emancipation - referring to how much separation and autonomy they have from the trauma itself. This variation depends significantly upon the severity and complexity of trauma, and how chronic it is. Most people are aware of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). In cases of PTSD, structural dissociation exists, but it is not as complex as those seen in cases where secondary, or even tertiary forms are present. The key difference between them has to do with the presence of one or more of different types of parts: Apparently Normal Parts (ANP’s): which are dominated by the action systems which are oriented towards exploration, caretaking and attachment and Emotional Parts (EP’s): which are dominated by defence systems These parts are not reducible to these action-systems, but they are mediated by them. This is why a person can consist of parts which are in conflict with one another. For example, an emotional part can contain the raw sensory trauma and all its accompanying feelings of fear, shame, and guilt, while another ‘apparently normal’ part goes about its business of focusing on the avoidance of those feelings through engagements in various activities which compensate for them and bring them esteem; not just because the raw feeling is in itself overwhelming - the authors refer to these emotions as ‘vehement’ because of just how overwhelming they can be, and how they can lead to maladaptive coping mechanisms when the person lacks the resources to cope effectively - but also because those action-systems we outlined are structured around meeting our need for attachment to others, and regulating our social position. If the vehement emotions the trauma instilled feel like they pose a threat to our most significant relationships, or even our social standing, EP’s are forced to contain them, and often banished from vision - both others and our own. In cases of primary dissociation, like PTSD, it has only been adaptively necessary for a single ANP and a single EP to develop. In secondary dissociation, as is often seen in cases of C-PTSD and those which more frequently invite the diagnosis of ‘borderline personality disorder’ (don’t get me started on that), further fragmentation has led to the development of multiple EP’s, each containing different fragments of the traumatic experience: moments of terror, raw emotions, and a variety of defensive responses. Tertiary dissociation is where things get really complicated. Most people are broadly aware of something known as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) - inaccurately popularised as ‘split personality disorder’ - mostly as a result of horribly stigmatising portrayals in the media. In reality, DID is itself far more complicated, and individual experiences far more varying, than is commonly thought. The key thing which differentiates it from the other dissociative disorders already mentioned is that there is evidence for tertiary structural dissociation: which not only involves multiple EP’s, but also more than one ANP. Contrary to belief, however, these ANP’s do not necessarily possess the most extreme degrees of elaboration and emancipation. It is not always the case that a person can be seen to shift between completely distinct identities whose ages, memories and personalities are themselves entirely different. There are a range of Other and unspecified Dissociative Disorders (OSDD) listed in the DSM-5 - whatever you think of its validity - which point to these variations. For me personally, this has manifested differently at different times in my life. Let’s go back to the memory I started describing, when the lion motif first tried to reappear, to unpack some of them. The first of the worst I was just five years old and something awful was happening to me. Not only was the act itself something so painful, so gut-wrenchingly horrifying it could traumatise even an adult, but it was being perpetrated by one primary caregiver while the other stood by and did nothing. This is a profound form of betrayal and neglect, and ultimately, abandonment. In that moment, my dependence on my caregivers to survive meant that I had limited options to process what was happening to me if I wanted to live. On the one hand, I could accept that neither of my parents were capable of providing me with the care and nurture I needed. I could accept that no one was coming to save me, that no one was going to defend me from either of them, but then I would have to face a reality with no hope of ever being safe, or being loved, or being protected. Not only was I smaller than small - let’s be clear, I was tiny - there was no chance in hell I was ever going to muster up the strength to protect myself. I just didn’t have it. I don’t quite know how to clinically describe what happened in my consciousness after that. It wasn’t the dramatic dissociative break that came seven years later when the lion reappeared once again (more on that later) - it was subtler than that. I simply gathered whatever crumbs of evidence I could to construct a narrative in which help would be coming in the end. And if it didn’t? Then I would become something that could defend and protect itself instead. After my mother walked away from me, somehow, I dragged myself up from the floor and went running in the direction I saw straight ahead: to the closed door of my brother’s bedroom. I burst in unannounced and declared my new reality to him: “Name Everything is going to be okay.” I said. Whatever had just happened didn’t matter. The fact that I had not even felt it didn’t matter to me either; that part of me had already been buried while another took over through numbness and desensitization. If my body had been burned, I had left it. My father of course followed me into the room and wasn’t having any of it. He told me to back away from his son, referring to me again as a little slut, having only moments before branded both my mother and I filthy whores. But my body didn’t shake. “I was just telling him that everything is going to be okay.” I repeated. In that moment, whichever part of my father had been incensed to violate me so grossly immediately left him, I saw the flicker in his eyes. “What?” He asked gently, half-smiling. “What are you saying, my dear? What do you mean everything is going to be okay? Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He laughed again. As he lowered himself to me to pick me up onto his lap, I continued. “Everything is going to be okay because I know that it isn’t my fault when you get angry with me” I elaborated plainly. Actually, I had told myself that everything was going to be okay because I thought the look in my mother’s eyes when she stared blankly into the distance had told me that what she was seeing was enough to finally shift her into leaving him - which she eventually did. “Have I been angry with you today?” He asked. I rolled my eyes and decided to change the conversation. “I’m going to be a lion when I grow up.” I explained proudly to him. But of course, he just laughed. “You’re not a lion! You’re a little girl, a ballerina…” I continued to educate him on imposing limitations on what I could be. I’m well aware that there is something in this very real sequence of events which sounds almost artificial. How does a child of five years endure such trauma, only to emerge as if untarnished, even heroic, just a few seconds after? That is dissociation. Instead of shattering under the weight of cruel circumstances, my psyche reached for two things to keep itself alive instead: 1. A rationalisation which meant that the abandonment and betrayal I had just experienced wasn’t really abandonment at all: “Mummy knows now. Now, she knows how bad it is for me, and she is going to do something about it.” 2. An identification with a future-promise of transcendence from my own limitations “I am going to be a lion one day.” Not only did I need to hold onto the attachment I still had to my mother, I needed something to gestate within myself that could one day be birthed to contain, and even transmute, the experience of absolute vulnerability. While the part of me that held all the pain got pushed further down into a space I could not access, not even if I wanted, another stood tall in its place, clinging to its own source of esteem. The truth was that my mother had already known before this how bad the abuse was for me already. She had seen the blood-stained sheets in the aftermath of r*** and complained about having to clean them, this was no revelation. The reason I thought that she had not understood was because of what had been happening moments earlier, before my father had entered the room to see it, and become violently enraged. The descent into… Instead of taking you back to those moments, I want to take you forwards in time, to the second reappearance of the lion. This was a far more dramatic occurrence than the first, when the lion became somewhat real for me, not just an idea. Around seven years had passed, and in that time my mother had left my father, taking my older brother and I with her. By then, the court investigation had concluded that my father was innocent of the allegations made against him. Some of these allegations had been my own, but the original witness allegations were made by a friend of my brother’s about what he had seen for himself my father was doing to him. “I couldn’t understand why she didn’t leave him immediately” a distant aunt of mine explained to me recently, over the phone. “She kept saying innocent until proven guilty, I kept telling her children don’t lie about these things”. This aunt had grown up with my father - though she was fifteen years younger than him - and it seems had known very well that he was capable of real darkness. She and her sibling - my uncle, my father’s half-brother - had seen how he was controlling and manipulative. They had witnessed him go from the disgrace of living in absolute poverty as an immigrant child to a high-achiever in elite universities and official church positions. She knew the tell-tale signs of my father’s deflection from painstaking questions. I don’t quite know how or why it is that she eventually lost contact with my mother, living all the way over in the States was obviously a part of it, but I do know that she didn’t hesitate to drop him immediately out of her own life when she heard about how he was refusing to cooperate with the process, or talk honestly about things. My aunt saw my father’s darkness and used the light of truth and discernment to deal with it. Meanwhile, my mother stared his darkness right in the face and adorned it with grace. The other aunts on my mother’s side of the family were instructed to stay out of the situation; not to attempt to even talk to us about it, not to risk contamination. My American aunt told me that my uncle, had he still been alive, would have handled things differently. “He’d have been on the first plane over there to beat it out of him.” My aunt lovingly explained to me. “He was that sort of man.” Somehow, I myself had understood that about him from the few times we had visited him in America, before he passed away. Whether real or hallucinatory like the other experiences I was having, I had been experiencing visitations from his spirit ever since I had learned of his death. I spoke to him - and my teddy bears - about everything that was happening to me. They became my closest friends. It was the involvement of social services that eventually triggered my mother to leave almost a year after that, probably sometime soon after they explained to her that if my father was eventually found to be guilty, she could herself potentially be found to have been complicit as well. Again, the truth contradicts my mother’s claims about how this all went. Her version conveniently forgets the many times I tried to speak up on my own for myself before she finally allowed me to say the minimal things that I did, at eight years of age. My brother stayed silent throughout, choked by the fear of what would happen if he dare betray his kin. The outcome of all of this was that I was forced into contact with my father throughout the investigation with varying degrees of supervision, and thereafter none. This meant that every other week, I was to be collected by him from school, in full view of the public. This might not have been so bad had my father’s name not been printed in the papers, or televised on the local news for all to see, and given that his name was Polish and therefore very uncommon, the dots were not hard to connect. We had been moved by the council to a relatively deprived area, none of the other mother’s spoke or behaved in the way my own mother did, and all of them knew each other. Gossip easily spread. Having dropped down the social ladder already in the move from my town of birth - the time spent at the women’s refuge and the school we attended there being particularly difficult - I had already become accustomed to bullying. But the cruelty I experienced from older children who knew about my father took things to a whole new level. Sadism is apparently more common than we would like to admit. One girl in particular went out of her way to make my life a misery. “It’s no wonder you’re daddy rapes you” she used to tell me plainly as she towered over me. “You’re the vilest thing I’ve ever seen.” I have no doubt that this particular bully was going through the worst of it herself in her own home looking back on it now, the conditions were right for it, but that didn’t make it easier. And the actions of her peers - whose disgust towards me paralleled her own - unfortunately went further in their bullying. By the time I reached twelve, I had already experienced repeated sexual assaults and abuses from other lads in the area who knew about my vulnerability and ‘openness to experience’. Some of these incidents were sadly the result of my own active propositioning - or at least, a specific dissociative part of myself who applied all the lessons she had learned about how to appease males (more on that another day). I had been reminded over and over again by the aforementioned group of bullies that my dad was a paedophile. I knew very well that I was dirty, gross, not okay. What I had not yet experienced was the humiliation of being targeted specifically because of the abuse, like I was some sort of prey. The second worst memory A predator does not hunt immediately; first, he surveys. If I wanted to give the lads I mentioned the benefit of the doubt - to show them their own grace - I’d spend these next few lines telling you all about how that dissociative part acted like a little slut, how she got herself into it, and how their ignorance about my history of abuse was its own kind of bliss. They didn’t really know about daddy, I’d tell you, they thought I was just sexually mature for my tiny little age. They didn’t know about his friends. Actually, in their own words - thanks to how daddy’s friends had trained me to act - they thought I ‘must have been born gagging for it’. So who can really blame them? These bullies were different. They might not have known about the full extent of sexual exploitation my father had put me through in those earliest years, but they knew about him. And for years they had seen that I was helpless, without a defender, even after I’d escaped living with him. My older brother, they also knew very well, was himself his own target. Everyone knew who he was and considered him a freak. Perhaps they even knew that without another person to unleash his anger onto about everything, even that came spilling out onto me. Either way, they knew that they could cross him in the street and make jokes about these encounters - without so much as risking a punch in the face. “Oi oi, I know your sister, wink wink.” By this point, thanks to the extent of my dissociative capacities, these people knew far more than I did. I didn’t know about the girl that came out in the night when nobody was watching, or about all the things that had never really happened, because that’s what they kept saying. “That sounds like an awful nightmare” my godmother (an enabler) once told me. “I wouldn’t say that to anybody else if I were you, they might think worse of you than me.” They did think worse of me. When I retracted my allegations, I had been forced - even convinced - to tell them that it had all been a lie: the product of imagination. That’s what my father told me, that I was just sick in the head. “I’m sorry for causing all the problems and telling lies mummy”, I wrote to her in a card that year. This was my ANP running full-steam ahead, taking the lead in the show, keeping it all stitched together. As long as it could do well enough to cover up the many little cracks; the other parts holding all the trauma, including the gaslighting, could fade into the distance. “Whose going to believe you?” Is what my mother herself had actually said to me, the time I finally threatened to speak out about her own abuse. “You and whose army?” She continued. “Everyone knows you’re the girl who cried wolf. It will be unfortunate if one day you really are in trouble, no one will be coming to save you.” My bullies knew this well. They had seen me through primary and, now, I was beneath them in secondary. It would not surprise me if they had heard rumours from the other lads in their year and above about all the other incidents. They certainly knew that I was fair game, and that the secrets which passed quietly between them would never be allowed to reach a soul who would step in and do something. I guess they followed me home one time to determine the exact house that I lived in, because one evening, late in the night, one of them came to pay me a visit. It was another girl I had known since primary, who hung out with the group of older boys who used to watch me as I walked away from school with my father - throwing pebbles in our direction as they chanted over and over again ‘PAEDO’. This wasn’t the one who had towered over me those times to tell me I was vile. It was another who had punched me in the face when I was only eight or nine. She fractured my nose, or at least seriously bruised it - I can’t tell you the real damage, although my septum is still deviated; my mother refused to take me to the doctors to have it examined. She just laughed at me instead and told me about how she had been bullied for her appearance when she was a kid, so I should get over it. But it wasn’t my appearance this girl was targeting me for, at least not that I could tell. Whatever the reason, I knew that she wasn’t my friend. So when she pulled up to my house on her bike and called up to me in the window asking me to ‘come out’, I didn’t exactly smile. “Why?” I asked. “To have some fun!” she said. We exchanged various arguments for and against my trusting her sudden display of kindness. “You’re not my friend, you’re never nice to me in school!” I barked. Eventually she managed to coax me out. I can’t tell you why a young girl in my position would be so foolishly easy to manipulate, except what is already obvious: these relationships had quite literally shaped my entire life, and my nervous system. They were the food to my existence. Those action-systems I mentioned? The push-pull threads which weaved together my longing for safety and belonging - well, they were twisted to fuck. When the girl gave me reason to think I had a chance to impress her, to have a little fun, to ‘have a laugh’; the little girl in me choked up. I sat on the back of her bike and we rode into the dark. By the time we reached the park, my consciousness had already been flickering in and out of the moment - going back to times lived before which mimicked the power dynamic I was suddenly frozen in: the taking of my hand by an older person leading me into a situation I had no control in, the promises of ‘games’ we were going to play, the trust that was about to be broken. The lads themselves were already drunk and more than willing to do it. What followed begs not to be spoken. All I can repeat for you now are the words that continued to ring in my ear as I collapsed on the floor that night, soon after I got home: “Isn’t she gross?” “Isn’t she vile?” “Oh my god, the sick little bitch - do you think that she actually liked it?” The last question was of course referring to the act of being r***d by my father. In their own sick little fantasies - the very ones which I had been accused of having by my father myself - they envisioned me actually enjoying being assaulted in childhood. Together, they mocked me in sync as they groaned, and they moaned, and they yelled: “Yeah daddy. F*ck me harder.” I can’t tell you exactly what happened. The moment the older girl turned her face from me and left me alone - apparently shocked at the scene that was unfolding precisely as they told her it was going to, convinced that they must have been joking - this was the moment I blacked out of consciousness completely and saw the lion take over. While my body was most likely limp and unable to move, something in me escaped. This makes sense in the context of structural dissociation. The full scale of betrayal and abandonment - across communities, institutions, families, entire systems - should have been enough to break me altogether. I don’t know how to make sense of what I experienced in that moment: all I know is that if my body could not fight its way to freedom, then some part of my psyche had to try. Had to find some kind of strength. When I first accessed this memory, the image I saw I can only describe as a spirit rising out from my body in the shape of a lion, this time roaring; set free from everything which bound him and cast him down as prey, without dignity or respect. The rest is mostly black. I don’t know if I screamed, I don’t know if I attempted to fight back, or if my mind simply vanished, leaving my face looking empty, blank. Perhaps I never will. All I know is that the apparently normal part of me banished it from memory, until I was ready to remember. A reckoning Unfortunately, this wasn’t the last time my sexual abuse history was weaponised by males as a pretext to take what they wanted. This memory was brought forward intentionally, along with others, by my parts during a session of trauma-informed hypnosis. The night before the session I went to bed in extreme agony, feeling like the pain I knew I was going to be forced to face the next day might actually be enough to kill me. Remembering what I did in that session went against everything the script my therapist was reading to me was meant to evoke: it was a standard protocol, the first of six sessions. Everything in it had been about calming my mind and evoking a sense of complete safety; it was setting the scene for my parts to come forward to release all the emotions and dysfunctional behaviours they were still clinging to, which supposedly kept holding the adult part of me back from moving forward from the past, and into a better future. I knew for myself that this wasn’t what my parts had in mind: that they had new information to share with me. Crucial information they refused to leave hidden in the dark, in any thinly-veiled attempt at ‘recovery’. There was no way they were going to allow me to move forward without reaching this part of my consciousness. But why is that? My parts know that what happened to them happens to others. While much of my abuse was experienced in isolation, it involved witnessing the abuse of other children, not only my brother - who these parts felt abandon them for years as he defaulted to identifying with and defending my parents, instead of joining hands with them to fight back - but also other children. And just as they held onto the truth of what happened so that I did not have to hold it myself, these parts watched as other ‘Apparently Normal Parts’ took over in other children just the same, to keep them alive. Both of my parents relied upon my brother’s silence to isolate me. While they abused him in their own way, they made perfectly sure he had a vested interest in playing their game, in taking their sides. Not only did my brother have parts of himself split off to keep him functioning, parts which knew the truth for themselves and had their own memories of deep pain inflicted by my parents, but he also had parts of himself that just wanted to belong, to have some power, to feel safe. Beyond the bullying he faced, the abuse we both witnessed involving other children had happened across multiple contexts: in the teddy-bears picnics my father held, organised through his role as a vicar and enabled by church members who owned significant land and wealth; and then again in his position as a vicar overseeing young children’s first communions, which allowed him to have access to them without the presence of their parents, for twelve whole private sessions. Eventually, my brother found a way to become more like the big friendly giant my uncle had been. He put aside the misogynistic, homophobic and other-phobic bullshit he’d internalised to defend against his shame. But for a long time, in both childhood and adolescence, my brother had learned that nowhere else could bring him that safety. And he had learned that there was always someone beneath him he could redirect his anger and violence about it onto, without facing accountability. There are other things which happened in other contexts we were exposed to, some of which only further inflamed my mother’s own capacity to abuse, knowing that no one spoke up about these things when they themselves witnessed them. The more my mother saw others turn a blind eye and herself got away with it, the more she slipped from passive victim into enabler, and perpetrator. The details I will not go into here, and I admit my theory about her own process here is somewhat speculation. I have no way of knowing if my mother had abused what little power she had managed to hold over other children before in her relatively low-status occupations. The important point is that my parts know very well what it means to be powerless and small in a system that is built on coercion in the place of autonomy, on oppression, and on exploitation. They know that where accountability fails, evil thrives, and that dwindling reserves of empathy can bring out the worst in everyone. They know the darkness of shadows cast by people parading as the light; and they know the pain of being marginalised by a system that centres might as right. And what about me? I know that none of this is inevitable. Thanks to the higher-functioning parts of me who got me through higher education, I know that men aren’t born rapists and children aren’t born into cruelty. I know that hierarchies are not fixed in nature, and that neither is patriarchy. But that’s for another essay. I also know that (unfortunately) I am not a lion, nor will I ever be. But the archetypal traits that humans associate with them are ones which we, too, can possess: leadership, courage, protection, the instinct to defend. I got the lion tattooed on my arm to remind me of this. That those parts of myself whose raw and primal urges were suppressed could be harnessed again. The parts which tried to fight back, which said no, which protested. The parts which often tried to protect vulnerable others, even at their own expense. This, too, is part of our mammalian legacy. Part of our DNA. There is another part of me which was exiled for quite some time, banished into its own hiding. It was a part who had wanted to know for itself why the abusers were doing what they did: a part who tried to re-enact what she had witnessed to try to make sense of it, but only traumatised itself. She had learned that that was what people did: took turns in taking the baton, and going crazy wielding it, as soon as they had the opportunity. But for every part which fawned and folded itself into whatever they wanted - the good girl, the slut, the follower - there was a part who fought to preserve dignity, empathy, and truth, parts which always threatened them. None of my parts want me to forget or let go of the past. They want healing, they want witnesses. In fact, more than that, they want a collective reckoning. They also want to hear that their abusers were wrong when they drilled it into them that no one would ever believe them. As the person now sitting in the driver’s seat, in charge of this system - it is my job to get those younger parts what they are telling me they need. At least, to finally try.

In my original shared story, IT STARTED WITH MY BROTHER, I talked about my abuse from a bird’s eye view. It was my abuse life as I was able to share it at the time. I have been working up to sharing 3 instances of rapes that I only avoided by allowing the men to take what they wanted instead of fighting. The most traumatic of the three incidents I mentioned involved a police officer. This is that account. I was pulled over on my way home from a study group as junior at the university on a week night. We had shared two drinks toward the end. I DO NOT condone driving and drinking but I was not drunk, as the breathalyzer later confirmed. I was pulled over and already had the nerves associated with that, amplified by the fact that I was under the legal drinking age for another three weeks. That is when I first met the cop I will just call SIK. He gave me a creepy vibe when I first saw him and that never stopped. Still, I flirted with him to an extent desperate to not get it huge trouble. He had me get out of the car, take of my hoodie, under which I only had a basic sports bra. It was only sixty degrees or so that night. I was cold and shivering from fear and the temperature. I saw him look at my body with no filter. Another cop car pulled up with two officers while I was doing the field sobriety tests. He had already searched me in an uncomfortable way. One of the officers who arrived was female and also searched me after he had said I had some problems with the sobriety tests. Walking backwards on an imaginary line heel to toe was the only thing I had trouble with. It is hard! The female cop brought out the breath test I had asked for. I blew 0.035. That is less than half the legal limit. At that point SIK said he was just going to follow me home, rather than arrest me, and the other car left. The whole stop took maybe an hour. Cars drove by on the side street I had pulled onto. Headlights and tail lights in the dark. After the other car left SIK talked to me more harshly and threatening than ever. He said a girl like me is probably used to getting away with everything. He asserted that he could still take me to jail anytime he decides as as he takes me home and makes sure I am safe everything I do is still a test. He could bust me for possession of alcohol and I would lose my license. I was scared. I told him my roommate was home. She was a student too and was supposed to be there. After following me inside my apartment I called out for my roommate. Then I checked her room. She was not there! SIK then accused me of lying to a police officer and locked the deadbolt from the inside. He made me stand with my hands on my own dining room wall with my legs spread. I wanted to call her so he could talk to her and confirm she was usually there, but he stopped me and made me just text her to see when she would be home. He gave instruction not to ask or say anything more and checked before I sent it. She was at her sisters and would not be back until late. At that point he took off his utility belt and put it on my kitchen counter. He told me after all he had done for me was no longer free, since I lied to him. His gun was right there next to us. He made sure I saw it and he even twisted it so it was pointed toward me. I was scared and pleading with him. I really was willing to do anything. I am not sure but I think I told him that. He radioed from his shoulder thing that he was taking a “lunch” break. What I definitely remember was when he said he was going to do a proper strip search this time, down to full nudity and asked if I agreed to that. At that point I no longer had a doubt what was happening. I made the mental adjustment but what he did was more than I had prepared for. He gave me vulgar compliments about my body as he blatantly molested me. He kneaded my breasts like dough. He fingered me as asked if you could use a special appendage he had that went farther in. I knew what he meant. I was repulsed but I agreed. After the initial eager sex with me still having my hands on the wall leaning forward he slowed down. I had been hoping it was almost over but he decided to prolong it. He commanded me to my bedroom. He took off all his clothes besides his socks. He complemented his own anatomy and made me agree. His member was well above average in size but I doubt, if he had not had a wedding band on, that he would ever get to use it. He was half bald, had a prominent eyebrow like a neanderthal, and a pale beer belly with lots of moles all over his body. He had a mustache and goatee that did not completely hide his poor complexion that looked like he had scars from severe acne. Almost all men all taller than me but he was short and only towered over me by a few inches. Never had I lied bigger than when I told him what he wanted to hear about being sexy and wanting him. The only truth was about his large penis. SIK spoke a lot, mostly degrading me and confirming that I agree with him. Cliche stuff, like me being a whore, slut, dirty, and liking what he made me do to him, but also asked about my sex life and abuse history. He wanted me to say that my dad and coaches abused me, but I would not lie about that. Instead I told him some of the truth about my brother abusing me. That was probably the worst part. Saying out loud to SIK what I never used to admit to anyone, for his great pleasure, harmed me. That was worse that the physical stuff. Worse than making me kiss him during parts of it. He was also cruel. He tried to gag me and push all the way down my throat while he made him do oral. He pushed my ankles behind my head while he pounded me with his abusing thrusts. I could see the cruel lust in his eyes. I could see his wicked smile. He slapped my face many times, just not very hard. He did spank me hard. He realized he had me captive and vulnerable to his whim and he was finally living his darkest fantasies. I was doing anything he wanted and encouraging it because I wanted it to stop. So many times he stopped himself right before he was going to climax! He did not want it to end. SIK tried to have anal sex with me and I was accommodating him but he was just too big to fit. I was crying during most of this out of pain but trying to act like an eager partner to make it end. I later thought that might have prolonged it. SIK was probably the time that would prefer I suffer more, like I was being raped instead of hiding my pain. It was not much longer than twenty minutes but it was so bad and I relived it so many times in my mind before I got smashed drunk and high the next night after work. So the memory lived much more prominently in my head than a simple 25 minute encounter. I do reach climax easily, but I never had one orgasm from him because of his preference for causing sexual pain. When he suddenly released inside me he got quiet and barely said another word as he dressed, gun belt and all, and left quietly. I have no idea what that meant. It scared me. I was afraid while driving for a while, and avoided sleeping at home as much as I could, which sometimes meant sleeping with men and even male friends just to not go home. It was the main reason I did not renew my lease and moved it to a smaller apartment by myself. This was the same roommate whose father had already slept with me without my initial blessing. I did tell my roommate a short version of it and she reacted like it was cool story. I did kind of tell it that way, as a way of dealing with it. The easy path of least resistance. To not admit it may have been the worse sexual thing to happen to me. The true worst things that happened to me in my college years were broken hearts from losing men I loved. But those are stories for a different forum. I don’t put my heart out there to be trampled anymore. This incident was one of the wake up calls that stood out as an omen for me to change my whole lifestyle and try to salvage myself. It was also one of the things that took me the longest to mention to my therapist even though I thought about it during sessions.

• Brief biography (upbringing, etc.): While living at home, I suffered physical and mental abuse from my father, neglect from my mother (a continuation of the abuse from my maternal grandparents), violence from my older sister, and had to care for my younger sisters. On the other hand, from a young age, I enjoyed reading academic books, and I had a strong desire to receive higher education and contribute to society by making the most of the educational environment available to me, so I spent all my free time studying... However, at the age of 17, I reached my limit, and my physical and mental health deteriorated, resulting in eight chronic illnesses (taking 10 different medications), and I spent two years resting. (I also dropped out of high school ) Afterwards, because my funds were limited (I earned them myself), I took the entrance exam for a university that I could take while living in Prefecture Name , and I enrolled in University . Along with enrolling in university, Leaving my hometown , and while receiving treatment for my chronic illnesses, I energetically engaged in volunteer work and activities with NPO organizations (NPO organizations for people with Down syndrome).

In my story, IT STARTED WITH MY BROTHER, I briefly mentioned 3 instances of avoiding being raped by letting men just have me when it seemed like they were going to do me whether or not I consented. I do think I avoided emotional and physical trauma at the time, but the anger, self resentment, and feelings of being wronged and about it did snowball after. I never shared or released those stories. Please read my original story for context. In this instance the sex was already happening when I awoke, and my reflex was to take the non-confrontational path. The easy way, not the right way. I had gotten home from work as a server at my bar and grill restaurant and my female roommate had her father staying with us for the weekend. I had already met him since they drove straight from the airport to the sports bar I worked at. That’s were he told me, “Just call me, ‘Dad’”. They sat in my section, ate, and left. No issues. Then, back at our 2 bedroom apartment there was a small party for his benefit with a couple of our friends. I had a couple hard ciders and chatted about college and my roommate and heard stores of when she was a kid from. I flirted and humored “Dad”’s sexual innuendos directed at me, and ignored his eyes all up and down me. I was used to it. I played the good hostess and waited until it was all dying down probably around 2 or 3 am, before I showered and went to bed. It had been a long day with both class and work. I was stirred out of my sleep a few hours later with "Dad" already inside of me, thrusting in and out between my legs! By the light streaming in through my dark blinds I could tell it was day. But WTF was happening?! My panties were off but my T-shirt was on. Underneath it the dark figure who I quickly was able to identify as "Dad" was caressing my breasts with one hand while holding me down with the other. Still dazed and confused, I guess I put my arms around him and responded like a willing partner. He soon finished and then it got awkward.  He told me "That really hit the spot". He started to make conversation! The longer I had to think, the more I realized what happened. That he had just helped himself as I lay sleeping. I was 19 and dating a hot university baseball player at the time and would not have gone for this fifty or so year old guy on purpose. He was sure drinking that night but I had only had a few ciders. So there I was, realizing I had been kind of raped but held hostage by a sense of politeness! Not to mention as I was 5'3'' 110 pounds, so there was the physical intimidation from a much taller man with a dad bod.  I always pee right after sex but felt captive by "Dad"'s ramblings as he propped himself up on one elbow hovering over me while he ran his fingers over me and stroked my hair sporadically.  I shared his cold can of beer with him that he must have opened right before he came in to rape me because I remember drinking deeply the cold liquid soothing my dry throat. I suffered through some dad jokes and stories I did not care about, as well as answering some personal questions about myself and my sexuality. I was looking for momentary pause to get up and away from “Dad” when he said, "I'm ready to go again, baby." NO! He moved on top of me! Instead of fighting him off me or even saying "no", I spread my legs to accommodate him! WTF! The second time did not have the desperate eagerness of the first, unfortunately. As he even said, he wanted to teach me a lesson this time. I guess about how good he was is bed. A definite case of ‘whiskey dick’. So I let this man I had never wanted or considered sex with jostle me into several positions. He was large man and so much stronger than me it was a joke. After the missionary he picked me up to prove some point and did me against the wall right next to my window. I remember seeing through cracks in the blinds and knowing it was early because the parking lot was full and nothing was moving. Then SLAM onto the bed. We did 69 with me lying on him where I sucked him with all my might wanting to END IT while he was licking me. I failed! He had me being on top riding him at one point. I was on my hands and knees with him ramming behind me when I collapsed under his weight to flat on my face. He enjoyed never letting up on the thrusts as I was completely pinned down by him. I let him give me two or more orgasms in hopes he would just finish. I was so loud I was embarrassed my roommate would come rushing in my room any second. She was passed out drunk. He finally left as soon as he finished. I am sure his ego was massively inflated and the terrible man still thinks of me today! I lie there in my bed catching my breath and getting more anxious. I got up, pulled on some sweats, and B-lined straight out the door to my gym. I wanted to get away so bad. I drank water like I had just walked out of a desert. I showered for so long at the empty Saturday morning gym without any products but hand soap. Then I started to work out like crazy, on three hours sleep and exhaustion. I was trying to sweat him out of my system, to scream and thrash through my exercise. I showered again then went out and fell asleep in my car in the back of the lot. The rest of the weekend I only went to my apartment for minutes at a time to pick up things I needed. I sure as Hell did not sleep there! When he was gone I answered my roommates questions that I had been blowing off with lies and short answers. I told her the truth. She shrugged and looked at me skeptically, like it was just one of those things. I was promiscuous in college and she knew it. We sort of made a joke out of it and moved on. The easy way, not the right way. I still have big time guilt at how I was back then. At the time my things was not that "I wish I had fought him." What I wished was that I had been too drunk to remember!!! So that was that. Something I kept inside, festering. Other things added to it and it got swept under the rug of my damaged psyche. Not one of the worst skeletons in my closet but what I was willing to share for now. I am working up to the others. My first story I shared helped a lot. I hope it helped somebody else too. I thank all of you and I empathize. I will read your stories and support you in my thoughts and prayers.

I was 18. In college I was part of a ladies team on in college sports team. There were also male teams. There was a inter college tournament that our college was hosting for other male college teams within Ireland. We all had nights out planned and a 'play hard, play hard' attitude. It was great to be part of something - I genuinely loved playing and being part of the club. On one of the nights I was drinking and got to talking with a guy from another college mens team. It was fun and we ended up back at his hotel room, where we had consensual sex. After, I remember feeling groggy and then being suddenly awoken to all these lads barging in. They ripped the bed cover off us and I remember phone flashes going off. It was year so, not exactly amazing phones back them. Slagging of various types ensued but then I remember being held down. At least 2 different men. I remember saying no, please stop. Flashes in and out while I just stared at the corner of the bedside table, thinking how similar it was to the one in my parents room. Weird. I must have slept at some point because I woke up. I got dressed. I remembered nothing. Nothing but the sex with the lad I kissed. Naturally, the next morning is always awkward so I wanted to get out of there. Just as the hotel room door clicked shut I realised I had left my shoes. I knocked back and had to do so loudly as everyone was deep asleep. As I was doing that one of the other team members opened a door across the hall, he stared at me. I said sorry for waking him but I needed my shoes. He just said he was so sorry. I was confused, having no memory of what he was actually talking about, so I said I'm sorry I left my shoes. Eventually someone opened the door and I got my shoes. Leaving the hotel and walking to the nearest bus stop, I felt appropriately hung over but sore. Down there. I'd never been sore before. Guess we must have really gone for it, I thought. Fast forward to lockdown 3 during Covid, I began experiencing severe nightmares that weren't nightmares. The missing memories came back over 2/3 months and I realised that I had been rated multiple times. That my brain had protected me until now. My SA, unknowingly, had a huge impact on my formative years - I came out as bisexual just 2 years ago. I feel I would have had a very different 20's but I met a decent guy, stuck with him like glue and am now married with a child. Due to the memory block, I have no recourse. No sense of justice so I just hope those boys, now grown men, are better than they were.

This story is not easy to read but it's harder to live. I am a survivor of narcissistic abuse, sexual assault, and systemic failure. I share this not for pity, but for truth. For every woman who's been silenced, dismissed, or retraumatized by the very systems meant to protect her. I write this to reclaim my voice and to help others find theirs. It took me until my fifties to realize my worth. I’d spent decades carrying the weight of a childhood that stripped me of confidence and self-worth. That was heavily influenced by a nefarious dictator who called himself Dad. The physical abuse was bad enough but he managed to see to it that his children sailed into adulthood without knowing our own value, and no self-esteem whatsoever. I still managed to marry, raise children, and hold good jobs. I’m intelligent, I carry myself well. But until recently, no one knew how little I thought of myself—even me. Then came the man who would nearly destroy me. He was younger, persistent, and now I understand: he was conditioning me for narcissistic abuse. What followed was three years of daily trauma. I ugly-cried every single day. That’s over 1,095 days of emotional devastation. By the end, my energy, my vivaciousness, and my tenacity were barely hanging on. He did the most heinous things. He killed my cat. He threatened my life and my children’s lives. He kept me tethered with fear. He destroyed everything I owned—including my 2009 Tahoe, which I used for work and to care for my kids. He blew it up shortly after he sent me to the ICU, fighting for my life. I had refused to give him the name of the hospital or my doctors. I was there for 18 days. It was touch and go every single day. A chaplain visited me daily. Because it was a very Merry Covid Christmas, my teenage sons weren’t allowed to say goodbye. Looking back, I realize that was a blessing—no one spoke death into my children’s lives. God is good. The infection that nearly killed me, and almost costed me my right leg, came from a sexual assault. I went home on a PICC line, receiving grapefruit-sized balls of antibiotics daily, for 6 weeks. My kids administered them. I had four surgeries in three months and a blood transfusion. Two days after I got home, my truck exploded. I was one of those cars you see on the freeway engulfed in flames. After I got out of the hospital and my truck blew up, I knew I had to fight for justice. I had proof—medical records, pictures, witnesses. I had been choked, stabbed, assaulted, and received death threats in writing and on video. I waited a year to file because I was mentally and physically broken. I had nothing left in me. But when I finally did, I thought someone would help me. I thought the system would protect me. It didn’t. The DA never contacted me. Not once. I had to rely on VINE alerts just to know when he was in court. No one told me anything. A judge denied my protective order and called him “honey” and “baby” in the courtroom. I had a strong legal team from a nonprofit, and even they were shocked. They wanted to move the case to another county, but I was scared. I didn’t want to poke the bear. He was still stalking me. Still watching. I was re-victimized by the very people who were supposed to help me. The police ignored my reports. The advocates mocked me. One even made fun of me for asking about a Christmas meal after I had all my teeth pulled from the damage he caused. I had a minor child at home and no food. And they laughed. The Attorney General’s Victims Compensation Office helped with the hospital bill for my teeth removal, but not with replacing them. They wouldn’t relocate me because we didn’t live together—even though he saw me almost every day. They had help, but not for me. He got six days in the county jail. That’s it. No restitution. No accountability. He still knows where I am. He still stalks me on social media as a way of eminding me that someday he will make good on his threat to come after me when I least expect it. I don’t know where he is. And I live with that fear every single day. After the justice system failed me, I had nowhere to turn but inward. I went through three different women’s centers and maxed out every therapy program they offered. I showed up for every session, I showed up for me, and for my two sons who had seen the whole drama play out—even when I could barely speak through the grief. I wasn’t just healing from physical trauma. I was healing from being ignored, dismissed, and re-victimized by the very institutions that were supposed to protect me. And when the therapy ran out, I didn’t stop. I found free entrepreneurship training through Memorial Assistance Ministries, and I poured myself into it—not because I had a business plan, but because I needed something to remind me I still had value. I enrolled in the Navigator program and just being at a feedback meeting at United Way I was able to tap into some education through some of the country's most prestigious universities. I earned certificates from the University of Maryland, the University of Valencia, and even Harvard. I got my graphic design certification and used it to create empowerment products, journals, and visual storytelling pieces that spoke to the pain I couldn’t always say out loud. I earned 17 certificates through the Texas Advocacy Project, becoming a trauma-informed, lived experience advocate. I did all of this while still healing, still growing and approaching my 60th birthday. Now here I am, still unable to find a job. I have all this knowledge, all this training, and nowhere to apply it. I’m still standing. Still creating. Still trying. But the silence from the world around me is deafening. I didn’t just survive—I transformed. And yet, I’m still waiting for a door to open. I’m going to keep writing. Keep pushing. Keep showing up for my health, even when the systems around me make it feel like survival is a full-time job. I haven’t been able to resolve the dental issues yet, and that alone has impacted my confidence, my comfort, and my ability to fully engage in the world. There’s a very real possibility that I’ll be facing a housing crisis in the coming months. Living on disability isn’t sustainable, and the math doesn’t add up no matter how many ways I try to stretch it. But I’m not giving up. I’ve come too far, learned too much, and built too many bridges to stop now. I’m looking for a miracle—not because I’m helpless, but because I’ve done everything I can on my own. I’m ready for a door to open. Ready for someone to see the value in what I’ve built, in what I know, in who I am. I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for a chance to turn all this lived experience into impact. Into legacy. Into something that finally feels like justice.

It's sad trusting someone and being hurt by them. I invited him to the zoo. We liked each other. When we came home did I want to take that extra step? No. Did I say no? No. I was young and scared. It was assault. It wasn't rape. But it hurt. Being hurt by someone I trusted in that way was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. It happened twice by that same person. Second time worse. Was that time rape? Maybe, I blocked it out. I was stalked in the dark on church grounds being chased like prey. Weird how it happens in a church. I'm healing though, and I trust my male friends. If they were ever to say something or do something to me, I don't know what I'd do. But I know that I'm stronger now. And I hope that maybe someone will see this. It's not your fault. It's a no if you don't say a clear yes. And "No" is a complete sentence.

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

He planted spyware on my phone and computer that gave him full access to my life - calls, texts, contacts, photos, browsing activities, location. He couldn’t stand not having power over me and my life when I broke up with him. As if he thought I was an object he owned by doing kind things that he gradually bought and paid for. The kindness was never real, it was just him justifying his eventual perceived ownership of me. He used to tell me his favorite person is Robert Greene. I would later learn he is the author of 48 Laws of Power, a book about obtaining total power over people by manipulating them. When I saw how he became a completely different person around his friends it was honestly terrifying. As if the person I had spent 3 months getting to know was never actually the real person. It was scary. After dumping him he went scorched earth: sabotaging my job search, harassing me and my family after a sibling died, sabotaging my education, and eventually sabotaging my career. Literally 6 years later and he has still went through my new phone after getting another one, having no social media and no life to get away from him. This weekend I went on a day trip 3 hours away from where he lives with someone new I was seeing. Sure enough I see him driving up there on our way back. Apparently he did the same to the partner he had before me he claimed he “found” with someone else (he was actually stalking her). He can’t handle the thought of being unable to control me to compensate for his complete lack of control he has over himself. Below are my personal thoughts on the past 6 years of being tortured by this person (from me to him, since he has hacked multiple of my phones he is likely reading this anyway): I am sorry that when my family member died you thought it was more important to have attention from me and supply instead of letting me heal. To the point you destroyed my computer with spyware, lied about our breakup, and ran a smear campaign against me. I am sorry I went to a better university than you (even though you harassed me and sabotaged my education the whole time I was there to the point I had to get an attorney). I am sorry I got into a real CS program and you didn’t so you had to minor in IT and major in something else. Or worse that you were so bothered by it you couldn’t handle me being able to independently pursue my education in it without you harassing me the entire time. I am sorry your mom left when you were younger and instead of seeking therapy you take your anger out on me, sabotaging my healing and success. Apparently childhood abandonment is the catalyst for narcissistic personality disorder. I am sorry you blame your drug and alcohol addictions on me instead of seeking treatment and going to rehab. I am sorry you were fired for incompetence at your first real programming job so you think its acceptable to be jealous of my tech career and sabotage it. I am sorry the only way you are able to feel anything is by trying to control people and have power over them. To the point you are willing to crush the good in life just to mean something, anything, to anyone. What will you do when you can’t access my life anymore? What will you do when I leave and you can’t find me again? Will you turn back to hurting people, destroying everything around you and drinking or finally wake up and get it? No one thinks you are a sophisticated hacker, a genius, an intellectual, or that you have any substance. Underneath it all you are an angry man who can’t get over the fact that multiple women including your own mother left you. It will keep happening and you will never be satisfied until you change. You are in your 40s so this is what the rest of your life will be like until you wake up. You want power? Stop thinking about how everyone around you owes you this or that and what will benefit you. You will never be full and you will continue draining people your whole life. Move on, go to rehab, and think about the people you hurt while you are there so you don’t do it anymore.

On the Date i got sexually assaulted by my cousin (this was in somalia) I was in my room then needed the bathroom when i was going to the bathroom my cousin stopped me to talk to him then he forces a kiss on my lips then i pushed him away and my auntie came and said ”sabrin doesn’t know somali leave her alone” then he said okay and walked away. Then when my cousin went home my other cousin came in and forced himself on me.

While I was a Collge Student; I met The Most Precious Lady. She is so Beautful, Elegant and Refined. I was unable to buy Her a meal due to demands of expenses. She has been through unspeakble pain in Her Lifetime. Although I bought Her pizza and gave Her transporation; I wish that I could have taken Her to the finest Restaurant. This Lady is a Hero (Heroine). She has known the vile temperatures of Winter and scalding Hot Days of Summer in City, State. She gets dehydrated, hungry, damp, chapped lips, Her Braids have gotten frozen together, She trudges through slush in strong winds. She has been abused by Slumlords. Name is African American. From My travels to East Africa; I believe that She is Tribe. I am 56 years of age. She is over 35 years of age. In certain Cultures: She would be treated as a Queen; protected, kept safe, insults would not be allowed. Of Course She is a Human Being Who makes mistakes, but She has been severely discriminated against because of the color of Her skin. When I held Her hand, I knew that I was with Royalty. To All of Those Who Care about Ladies not being mistreated; Please vote for strong laws against abuse of Females. This Lady has been close to homelessness. Promised many great rewards by people who take advantage of Her; I hope that One good Day She is living so comfortable. She is could probably be considered "anorexic"; as She likes to look Perfect (Which She Is). There is great Sexual Exploitation in U.S.A. and throughout The World. Males make all sorts of obscene gestures to Females and think that there is no consequences. Actions have consequences, words have consequences. Victims of Sexual Harassment such as Name need just recompense. Myself, I took a Male who had abused Her and put Him on The Ground. It is probably wrong to take the Law into One's Own "Hands", but can We believe that a better day is coming? When Female Victims are protected. Bail Reform has allowed many Predators to be in Society. I am not a "vigalante", but it causes Me great sadness that Male Oppressors are not put in Prison for a long time. There has been magnitudes of Victimization. Name is A Victim. I'm sure that She does not want to be viewed as weak or made an example of. But She broke My Heart with Her tender voice, kindess, smile, strength, Spirit, Inner Joy and ablity to Survive. People of Wealth, Stature, Affluenza, etc... think that They can "Buy" a Female's respect. It is heinous, deviant and depraved. So Many Ladies like Precious Name deserve so much Better. Please have Honor in Your Heart, Mind, Soul, Words and Actions.

You never think it would happen to her, but it did. Name was raped. She didn't tell us. When I learned about it, I was shocked. Who would rape a woman in intellectual/developmental disabilities? I write this narrative as my sister's co-conservator. I write this because justice has not been served and healing is a journey. Name has high support needs for her daily care. She relies on a tribe to keep her safe, healthy and happy. A man at her day program raped her when he was changing her adult underwear. The police report states that men were allowed to be alone her. One of them took advantage of her and gave her gonnorhea. She was in pain for months. We didn't know until an urgent care doctor did an STD panel. Other doctors didn't think to do this because "It doesn't happen in that populaiton." Little do they know that people with IDD have the highest rate of sexual asasult- 7x more than those without disabilities, per NPR's "Abused and Betrayed" investigative series. The facility still operates, the criminal case is still open and he is still out there- most likely caring for others. The family carries the trauma. As her sister, I have done so much over the past decade to raise the awareness, but I need help. We need more support. Link.

I was sexually assaulted between the ages of 18 and 19 by my then-boyfriend. I remember when it first started, I didn't even think of it as sexual assault, only that I knew I didn't want to and always felt upset after it happened. There was one specific event that made me realise what I was experiencing was not normal. I remember repeating "no" to the point of almost yelling and trying to push him off me with all my strength. He had a grip of my jumper which ripped when I eventually broke free. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. I went to dinner with his family that evening and cried in the bathroom. To this day, I still haven't told anyone and I wonder if he even understands the gravity of what he had done.

I can safely say here that last year I have been sexually assaulted by my boyfriend at the time. I was a virgin and wanted him to kindly lead me to make love but he took it from me and so til this date I am working through that. I have been introduced to this platform by a girl who reads my blog and so I am ever so grateful to be able to share these and to follow you on Instagram I am forever grateful Regards with much love, g.

I have lived through many battles, some visible and some invisible. Chronic pain has been a constant companion, and alongside it came experiences of assault, grief, bullying, and being overlooked or targeted in the workplace. Each of these left scars that ran deeper than I could admit at the time. For years, I tried to hold it all in — the pressure, the pain, the silence through alcohol and substances. But it built until I couldn’t contain it anymore, and I crashed hard. My mental health episode was frightening, for me and for those around me. What has made it harder is the culture I grew up in. In South Asian communities, mental health is often brushed aside, stigmatized, or seen as weakness. Instead of compassion, I felt shame. Instead of understanding, I carried guilt. I believed I had let down the people I loved most. But I am learning that what happened was not my fault. Trauma is not a choice. Crashes are not punishments. They are the body and mind crying out for care. I am still here. I am learning to see my sensitivity and survival not as flaws, but as proof of resilience. Sharing my story is part of releasing the shame and reclaiming my voice. My hope is that others who have lived through pain and silence — especially in communities where mental health is hidden — can know they are not alone. Our stories matter. Our survival matters.

The summer before fifth grade, me and my brothers decided to have a sleepover in the living room. I always had the hardest time falling asleep, so I was the last one up. Or at least I thought I was. My oldest brother, who is 15 months older, came and sat by my feet. He somehow brought up his genitals, I honestly don’t remember the conversation, I just remember being uncomfortable. Then, he pulled down his pants and started touching himself. He then started touching my genitals too. I didn’t know what to do. So I just sat there. I still don’t know why. Everyday I wish I had just slept in my bed that night. Afterwards, he went back to his spot on the ground and fell asleep. I walked back to my room after he fell asleep and cried all night. I was so disgusted with myself. I felt so dirty. I couldn’t get myself to tell my mom and dad though. I stayed up all night waiting for the confidence that never came. For about a year after, this continued and progressed. I’ve never spoken about this to anybody. I don’t think anybody knows but me and him. I will never tell my parents.