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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 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.

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.

One of the most difficult parts of my healing journey is that I’m not exactly sure what is ‘my’ story. The sexual abuse of children is a routine part of my family, on both my mother’s and father’s sides. I was 13 when I learned that my grandfather had sexually abused my mother, her sisters, my sister and likely other girls in the community. My world really shattered that day. The way I felt about and connected to my family completely changed. I feel like I have been screaming for years, for anyone to notice, to care that this happened, for it not to be normalized. It was later in my adult life when I learned of abuse my cousins on my father’s side had endured. I could see this pain woven into the narrative of woman. For many years, I believed this was the “plight of womanhood” -that we must endure men’s every whim and behavior because they either know more or didn’t know better. The irony in growing up Southern Baptist is that men are somehow closer to God and thus holier and smarter than women, but also they cannot control themselves when it comes to women and sex. As I grew and reflected on this hypocrisy, I realized that I too had been sexually abused. I was in preschool when it started. We would visit my mom’s oldest sister’s house for Christmas every year. She had two sons that were in pre-teen and teenage years at this time. The younger son had many behavior issues, and I was convinced that I was an angel sent by God to help my family. My brother closest in age to me is disabled, and at this early age, his symptoms were just beginning and unexplained. I saw my parents under duress, and even at such a young age, I was trying to do everything I could to be perfect. So when my cousin identified me as his “special friend” and shared his unbelievable, immense collection of legos with me, I felt this was another use of my skills -a calling from God. I was blessed to be able to connect with and influence ‘the bad kid’. Now, in hindsight, I feel like any adult or even my teenage siblings should’ve questioned why a 13 year old would want to play with a 5 year old exclusively, but here we are. I’m lucky in a lot of ways. I never experienced penetration or any obvious violence. For a long time, I just thought it was a normal part of his sexual development. So it started when I was 5 and ended when I was in about fourth or fifth grade, so around age 10. At this point, he would have been 17/18. We would play “pretend”. I can remember specifically pretending to be Jack and Rose from Titanic. He would have me pose naked, kissed on me and humped me. This sort of “play” occurred over holidays, special events, graduations and such, at my house or his house. I can remember a specific instance where he and my aunt visited us. I think her and my mom were just hanging out which was rare. My mom desperately sought the approval of her sisters, so this visit was crucial. She and my aunt talked to me about how incredible it was that my cousin would behave better when I was around- they also used the term “special friend”. They seriously warned me about letting him play with my Barbie’s. He had been getting in trouble for sexual deviance and under no circumstances was I to let him touch my dolls. Well I was about 7/8 at the time and him 15/16 so you can imagine how that went. He mutilated my Barbies -cut their heads and faces, stripped them all, made a ‘naked Barbie van’, enacted sex acts between them. I remember trying so hard to redirect but he had the perfect tool to control me. I can still hear his voice, “The adults will be angry with you if you tell them about our special make believe. You’re such a mature girl for your age.” I knew I didn’t want my mom to know that I had been pretending to have sex. I was in trouble after the Barbie incident too. My mom was disappointed in me. I can’t remember the exact punishment, but I likely had more chores and wasn’t allowed computer time for some period. I could only imagine if she knew the extent of our “play”. Around the age of 10, we went for Christmas. I remember the feeling in my stomach, that sinking burn of guilt. (It’s still there to this day. Fighting waves of nausea and getting sick after almost every meal. Gotta love IBS) I was dreading having to play with him. That year, he exposed himself to me. He wanted me to touch it , but I think he knew he went too far. I was getting older, there was hair on my underarms, and my mom had talked immensely to me and my brother about our private parts because of her own experience. I don’t think she considered another child could harm us though. I was taught to be weary of adult men, strangers. So my birthday is in January, and I can remember this guilt eating me alive after that Christmas. He had doubled down on his intimidation tactics, and I knew I couldn’t go to an adult. I can remember thinking that I really wanted to feel better before my birthday came. So I had the idea to tell my brother; after all, he wasn’t an adult. He immediately told my mother who then called her sister. I can remember sitting at her feet in the kitchen floor as she argued with her sister. She didn’t say much or offer any sort of explanation. She made me swear to never tell my dad, and we stopped visiting my aunt as much after that. When I was in high school, my mom got cancer and died. She was really, really sick for about 9 months, and during her initial hospital stay, they wanted me to stay with this aunt. I was petrified. My cousin was home from college and would also be there. I remember just immediately tears started pouring out, and I’m begging my mom not to make me go there. My dad is in the room, so I can’t really explain myself. My mother scolded me for being selfish and told me I had to do this, to be easy on her and my dad. I can remember he very awkwardly touched my butt in an office supply store, and I surprisingly told him that he couldn’t touch me, that I wasn’t a child anymore. I have no idea where that autonomy came from, but I’m so proud of 15 year old me! My aunt offered for me to stay in a larger room downstairs during this time, but I made sure to stay in the guest suite adjacent to the master and locked my door every night. Here I am, 17 years later, and I had to see him for the first time since I graduated high school last year. My siblings, father and I have been mostly estranged from my mother’s family since her death. We were all shocked to see my aunt and her family attend the funeral of one of my siblings that passed. It was mortifying seeing him again. This electricity was buzzing through my entire body. My leg shook uncontrollably. I was sobbing so hard I had to leave the room. And yet again, I felt that disconnection from my family who continue this narrative that I’m selfish, a liar/exaggerator, overly emotional. Family is the hardest part of my healing journey. At this point, I’m not even sure I have a family. I end almost every call with my siblings shocked, worried, belittled and exhausted. I can’t have healthy relationships with my nieces and nephews no matter how hard I try. I am forever the deviant to them. Today, I live across the country from everyone and am establishing my own tribe. I want to be surrounded by people who understand unconditional love and want to protect children. My mother’s, sister’s, aunt’s, cousin’s stories are all mine. Just like my story is theirs. This abuse is passed on in our DNA, is shared amongst us despite the differences in our perpetrators and experiences. For the longest time, I downplayed what happened to me as normal sexual exploration of a young boy. And while I recognize that my abuser’s behavior was a sign of abuse he was experiencing, it doesn’t gloss over the impact of being exposed to sex and intimacy at age 5. I have struggled so much interpersonally and developing relationships. For the longest time, I didn’t think I was capable of or deserved to have healthy relationships. I thought my family was healthy. If there’s any big message I want to share with other survivors, it’s that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel! There are people out there that will believe you and protect you. There’s space for you. Acceptance is hard, and I’m not sure I’ve fully accepted what happened to me, to my family. But it helps to see so many others speak up. To feel like we finally have a platform, and maybe people aren’t quite listening like I’d like, but the conversation is happening. Even powerful men shouldn’t get away with this!!!!

Hi, I'm from South Africa, I'm a redhead. I feel its important to know that I was middle class, white and supposedly fairly protected. Yet this happened to me anyway. This was not some stranger who caused "one night of violence" but a far more sinister kind of abuse, that lasted four years, one that has messed with my head my entire life. It started when I was 14yo, I'm now 46, and I'm finally ready to speak up. Im still scared to do this, I am still afraid to put my name on it. I'm so conditioned to believe I'll be persecuted more, that no one will believe me or that I'll be villanized again. But its also the reason I feel I absolutely have to break that hold on me now and tell the truth of what happened, for the first time ever. I want to help girls find their voice faster than I did. I want them to not suffer for years, the way I have. If my story can help just one other person...then it was worth telling. I'm not ready for a blow by blow, we've all been there, we know how our minds leave when we cant deal with the rape. My mind blocked so much of it that my testimony would be disjointed, dates are gone, I'm left with images and feelings that resurfaced about 10 years later. They happened, but I couldn't accurately put it together in a timeline. So instead, a run down. My group of friends all hung out on a farm after school, horseriders. One girl's older brother took an interest in me. I was 14yo, socially awkward and pretty quiet. It was nice having the attention, my mom thought it was cute and melted at the idea of young love. I remember not feeling much of anything really, my heart didnt skip a beat when I thought of him, but everyone else seemed to think it was a great idea and I was getting included a lot more, so we started dating. I remember the beginning was pretty text book, he treated me well, and I actually cant pin point when it started to change. We had sex before I turned 15, I can say I was not particularly blown away by it, it was messy and uncomfortable, and not something I wanted to do again. I think that was probably the start of issues going forward. But though coerced, I wouldn't have used the term rape there. What came after was him wanting more, when I didnt. What started as coercion got more intense over time. On one hand I was getting status from friends for having had sex, but on the other, it was not something I looked forward to, but I didnt want to lose my friends, status, invites to parties, approval from my family and his, etc, so I didnt want to lose the relationship necessarily. But I remember that it actually started to hurt, probably because I was not invested at all, and having it hurt made me even less keen, I'd try to say no, but he'd wear me down with things like 'but you love me, dont you? When that stopped working, he started hitting himself, until I caved. And when that stopped working, the violence came my way. Now it was full blown rape. But seemingly endorsed by family and friends. Like no, I didnt speak up about it, I didnt have close friends I could confide in and my family seemed fine with the pairing, seemed like no one particularly cared what I thought. Bear in mind, I had no idea at the time that this was 'rape', I was most definitely under the impression that this was a normal healthy relationship as I had nothing to compare it to. I did however, start to get angry that I was not being heard, I'd said no, and he was ignoring me. He made me bleed down there. And I'd had enough of it. I was 17yo now and had realised my friends weren't my friends because they were ok with this. My parents approval felt like betrayal. I finally decided the supposed perks were not worth this. Of course getting away would not be easy, he was now central in my life. I remember particular things, like I said no sleeping over on Friday, so he asked my parents and they organized. He could drive now, so Igot home from school and guess who was already staying for dinner. I went out with the group of friends and he was there. When I kept ignoring him, he pushed me down a flight of stairs in front of everyone. He decided to go for a walk to cool down. When I got home, guess who was already in my bed. At this point I was truly confused, no way could people not have seen I was in trouble. The bruises, the outbursts, these were not confined to the bedroom anymore. I know I would have seen it in someone else, but no one came to my rescue, no one defended me from him, I was on my own to fight this. I tried to set boundaries, I would not go to group events if he was there. So he organized a day at the park and got everyone to say he wouldn't go. When I got there, he had a picnic basket and a blanket and insisted I sit with him while everyone else went to play soccer. This was his attempt to win me back. To have everyone lie and to isolate me further. I thought I did a good job of making it clear that we were over, that I didnt want to see him ever again. That I was prepared to lose my 'friends' over this. He had one more trick up his sleeve. A Dinner for the yard. Everyone was going as a group to a restaurant, parents kids, everyone. I tried telling my parents I didnt want to go but they said I didnt have a choice. I couldn't make them look bad. I asked my more trusted friends to please not let him sit next to me. They tried but he literally pushed them out the way. He whispered to me at the table that he would kill himself if I left him. That was the moment I remember so clearly, no one was coming to save me, I had to decide my own worth right there. I first thought about suicide, if I took my life, this nightmare would end, I could be free. Then I thought what made his life worth more than mine? And why should I stay because of a threat like that? Like what were the chances that he'd actually do it? And would I care? Part of me did think that he should, because what he was doing to me was so unfair. I just wanted to be allowed to walk away. But it seemed those were my choices, stay and die, or fight. Him or me. This was now life or death. Fight or die. I turned to him and called his bluff. "Do it then, because Im not your property anymore" I could write essays on what I meant in that moment, but the shift was clear to him too. I was now prepared to fight, no matter the cost. I flat out ignored him, so much so that I do not recall the things he said to me at all. I know someone must have heard bits, they were all there, but I'd never felt so isolated. So he could not deal with being ignored, he grabbed my arm and bit me. The searing pain jolted me from my mental castle and I did something I'd never done before, I made a first and swung the back of my hand into his temple as hard as I fucking could. And chaos erupted. Everyone jumped up and grabbed him and I and separated us. The girls took me to the bathroom. To be honest, I was surprised, like what's all the fuss about, they'd never cared before. (Yes, maybe they didnt know till then, though in my mind, I still cant understand how that was possible). Turns out they all saw the punch and wanted to know why I'd done that, I asked if they saw the bite...no one had seen it....wtf. I lifted my sleeve and exposed the already bruising and bleeding bite mark on my arm, with his actual teeth marking my skin, I have never seen such a bad bite from a human being in my life ever again. It was vicious. I said I was not going near him again. The boys had taken him to the other bathroom. I dont know what was said or discussed that side, but they were taking him home, and would come back. I even checked, his home, not mine again. I made it very clear this time. So the night finished, and finally we were home, I had a friend sleeping over, but I cant really recall what we talked about whilst getting ready for bed, I just know I felt so relieved that now I could break away from him. I'd done it, I'd stood up to him. But then my mom knocked on my door, get dressed, we need to go to the hospital, he hurt himself. Mom took my friend aside but did not give me details. I just remember being completely crestfallen, how could this not be over? Now everyone would take his side again, how dare he do this, why cant he just leave me alone. When we got there, everyone was crying, except me. Only then did I find out that he had taken his dad's gun and shot himself, but he was still alive. I was very shocked and stuck in my own head, I dont recall much of what was said, I was fighting my own internal war, I felt angry and cheated. News came that he died on the table. Everyone ugly cried, except me. I think already this was being noted. I fell into depression, not because he was dead, but because he had robbed me of my victory. The months afterwards were a blur, but a few highlights stood out. My friends blamed me of killing him because he had told them too that if I left, he'd kill himself, and of my harsh reply. When I tried to talk about the abuse, I was called a liar and accused of speaking ill of the dead. They said I made it up for attention. No one could look at me anymore. My own parents couldn't just talk to me about it, they kept taking me to strangers (phycologists), but I didnt know them and talk about what??? My mind had hidden so much of it that I couldn't explain if I tried. That group of friends continued to attack me for years afterwards and they are why I still feel I cant talk about what happened without retribution. I tried to fake sadness, but how could I? I didnt pull the trigger, that was his choice. And I feel he did it out of guilt and revenge, because he knew I'd found my voice and was going to tell everyone what he had been doing to me. I also cant help thinking its better that he is dead because if not me, he was definitely going to do it to someone else. He didnt deserve to live (very unpopular opinion) I just wanted to be allowed to walk away. Instead he still silenced me from the grave. And this is the part I need to say most.... the not being believed caused more damage than the actual rape and abuse. In the end, not one person believed me, except my younger brother, who was also powerless to do anything to help me. I dropped out of my matric year, I was failing everything anyway, like after a fight to the death, school just seemed pretty silly. I think there was like 3 months I just didnt get out of bed, I stopped showering, I just didnt care. I'd systematically been told that I dont matter by every single person who was supposed to protect me, so what was the point of trying? I did eventually get up, but I was a teenager full of angst and anger, I disrespected my parents, drank heavily, tried drugs and did a lot of stupid shit. And often was blamed even more for it. People would sympathize with my mother, or with 'his' family. I was a bad seed with a bad attitude. And I still cant understand how no one could see how much pain I was in. I pulled myself together and have tried my best to have a good life, but the feelings of not being worthy of love, of not being able to trust and assuming that I'll never be believed anyway, those feelings have never left. I still dont know how to undo them. This programming happened at such a crucial stage of my development that my whole world view is tainted with trauma. No one should ever have to go through this. That man took my innocence and self worth. Everyone else took my trust and confidence. Things you just cant get back with a snap of the fingers. Im broken, and most likely always will be, by something that happened when I was a child. Something that was never my fault. I know evil exists. But....I became very good with helping problem horses, because I know tantrums and outbursts hide pain. Ive helped a lot of young girls through to adulthood, because I know the signs of abuse. I have dedicated my life to trying to help those with no voice, because I know exactly how that feels. I hope thats enough to counter all my brokenness. My reason for telling this story is to is to highlight the damage done after the fact. In a lot of ways I think I could have stayed strong despite the abuse, its the not being heard after that broke me. Not being believed hurt the most, and being accused of murder is ridiculous, I was just a young girl with no skills, who found herself in a nightmare, fighting for her life. I know that if I'd been there at his house, which could have been a plausable thing, he'd have killed me. But instead, the way it played out, his suicide robbed me of my victory. So fuck him, Ill say it, I won. Unfortunately what I won was a lifetime of feeling isolated and worthless. To anyone stuck in an abusive relationship, you life is 100% on the line, you fight!!!! But know that the real battle will come afterwards, when you try tell your story. Keep trying, find the people like me who will believe you, like I'm trying to do again right now. Because it is important. If just one person had stepped up to protect me, it would have made a massive difference that would have changed my life. We still need more awareness of the signs of abuse, because I still cant understand how no one knew what I was going through. There is no way there weren't signs, its impossible to comprehend. We need to be aware, we need to be prepared to stick up for those with no voice, see them, hear them, help them and defend them. Believe them. No 14yo makes up shit like that for attention, thats the dumbest thing I've e ever heard. And for me, even now at 46yo, still telling the same story, please believe me, I need it more than air

It started as sexual harassment. And I let it happen. Do not let it happen to you! I was a college intern working on my supply-chain management major. In business school you know you don’t just get a degree and POOF! A job is magically waiting for you. Unless you already have connections. I was a single woman on financial aid and had squat for family connections. I needed to make some connections while still in school that I could use to climb the ladder. It is a very competitive world. A time when we don’t care so much where we work as long as it has prospects of advancement and making money. I was interning at the corporate offices for a rental car company. I got my first choice for a class in which we had to intern at a real company. My group of four was in their logistics offices and we had no clear job at the time but my school had sent students for a while so we had a contact person and some loose idea of a project that my group of four had to put together and execute for our grade. Well that was kind of of dud and I went along with the bad idea of planning more efficient distribution routes for their cars entering the fleet. It was naive because the company had real pros who designed the system. But, because of my feminine wiles, I got invited to come in and help in my free time by a top manager. Just me. I jumped at the opportunity and on my available days I showed up early in the morning and tried to be like part of the team. It was a very masculine environment. I tried to hang in spite of the pretenses for my special treatment. “You’re not one of those feminist types who go crying to HR if a man gives you a compliment or a pat on the backside, are you?” The man who first invited me had asked. We’ll call him XX. I assured him I was not, anticipating his expected answer. “Work hard, play hard,” was something I said in my denial of values he was obviously opposed to. So the couple times XX introduced me as his mistress I went along with the joke. Another stupid mistake. As an example of my environment, after a male Y in the department first showed me how to use part of a program that calculates stock outages, he had me sit and try it and gave me a massage I did not ask for early in the morning. Well XX came up and made a joke about Y getting his hands of his girl. They had some bro moment where the male Y asked him if he was serious, saying something about XX’s wife, to which XX backed down and said something like “It’s just a joke. I’d love to in my fantasies, but she’s company property, brother.” Company property??! I was sitting right there! I tensed up but tried to pretend I was so absorbed in the computer training as XX left and male Y went back to massaging me, but this time more boldly. He got down my lower back and upper buttock then went down the arms to my thighs, stopping me from doing any work as he blatantly brushed his forearms and hands against my chest. I felt so weak and almost paralyzed by the time I forced myself to stand up to go use the restroom, stopping it. I could have just done that at the beginning but did not. Later hat same day, XX had me go to lunch with him and have a beer at a bar and grill with a pool table. I was 20 but they did not ask for my ID because I was with XX. I hardly ever played pool and while we waited for our food he “showed” me how to play. He made fun of the cliché on movies and television where a man has a woman bend over the pool table to shoot just so he can push his crotch against her backside in a suggestive manger and lean over her with his arms on each side of her to show her how to slide the stick. But while he joked about it he actually did those things to me! That was a good day for my two main molesters and an awful day for me. XX hugged me as we stood up giggling and apparently his hands now had a license to molest my body whenever he wanted. I got numb to it in some ways, but emotionally more on edge. My butt was grabbed or spanked playfully in the department, even by male Y. A few other men were very flirtatious. My shoulders were rubbed, hugs on even minor greetings with XX and finally I was supposed to get used to little pecks on the lips too. I felt like I was in a constant state of mental anguish and defensiveness. My body could be attacked anytime. But I did not defend myself! I would say clearly to XX and some others that I wanted to be respected and considered one of the guys and have a job there when I graduated and they affirmed it. Both main abusers encouraged me, but still sexually harassed me. With my moronic blessing! The semester ended and I kept going in daily during summer break. It was my only lifeline to a possible job after I graduated in a year. I was so groomed that it was not a big leap at all when XX pressured me to give him head in his office. I refused with a smile and head shake and he came back with some rationalization about how I owed him and he really needed it just then. He would not take no for an answer. The first time I lowered myself to kneeling before his desk and took him in my mouth my hands were shaking and I teared up and had to sniffle snot back up. I was the one who was embarrassed! It was like an out of body experience and my mouth dried up to where I had to ask him to drink some of his energy drink. Internally there was a huge change immediately. I was gutted of all pride and self-worth. I was like a zombie. Hardly eating. Lots of coffee. Showing up and doing the reports that had become my responsibility and mechanically giving XX his daily BJ in the afternoon in his small stale office with a small window. I started to have migraines during that summer. I drove home for 4th of July and got so inebriated I ended up sleeping with my much older sister’s ex-husband in the back of his truck. That was a terrible wake up call. I knew I couldn’t pretend much longer without a breakdown so I put my two week in at the rental car place where I was working for free. To secure my future I made sure to keep it all friendly and “you know I’ll be back working here next year”. The idea of all the time and humiliation I had put in being lost to nothing was a major fear. I put myself through two last weeks of it. I had quickie sex with XX twice on and over his desk. I gave into extreme pressure and gave male Y a BJ too when he explicitly made it about a letter of recommendation. He knew about me doing it for XX. He did not even have his own office and we had to use the stairwell. During my final year of school I became aware that I was too traumatized to ever go back there anyway. The extent to which I had been used and abused became obvious to me, where before it had not. As if I had been living in a denial haze. It was a painful time. I was a bit reckless. I got a C in the high level economics elective I took. I said yes to several dates to avoid being alone and either slept with them or freaked out in anger at them. Seeing that I needed the car rental faux-internship on my resume I did email both abusers for letters of recommendation and got a good one from Male Y, but a very impersonal, generic one from XX. I was so dejected and angry. Finally, I told my sister, the one who confronted me about her ex-husband. I TOLD HER EVERYTHING AND THAT WAS MY FIRST STEP TO RECOVERY. To letting out the pain, screaming at myself in the mirror, punching the heavy bag at a boxing gym I joined, and to seeing my first psychologist and psychiatrist. The therapy helped more than the Celexa and antipsych. The support group helped even more. I met two friends for life who have my back in times of sorrow. I have to repeat that it is not my fault that I was abused, even though it kind of was. Don’t let it happen to you! They will take as much as they can from you. Plan your boundaries now and be assertive! Report harassment immediately. Doing so you are being a hero and protecting other women and yourself. If you have already been abused, GET OUT of the situation and talk to someone about it ASAP. There is nothing to be gained by letting the abuse continue! Talking to someone makes it real and lets you start the process of hating less and starting on the path to learning to love yourself again. You deserve real love.

I was with my ex and I had just started some new tablets that made me sleepy. I tell my ex that I’m going to sleep and he continues to play his video game. I wake in a daze around an hour later and he is raping me and enjoying it. I react by making noises out of fear and wait for him to finish up the act , I just froze in fear. Once it was over I was mad he never got consent but he told me that he thought I wanted it. It’s been nearly a year and I’m still not over it

I have recently decided to write a book on surviving abuse I spent four years in a various sexual physical and mental abusive relationship i've already wrote in that memoir on my experience itself and I'm willing to let anyone read it I would like to write a book that should help everybody I would be putting in my own experience and would appreciate if there's anybody here that would like to help me share their experience with me to add to my book to reach those people that don't understand what they're going through yet I promise your name will never be used Just your experience

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.

Im still trying to heal through all of my issues, I stay isolated and quiet and find it hard to make friends sometimes. my story started years ago as a lil boy my my older cousin always kept touching on me and laughed it off until he took me upstairs and told me how good it would feel to me. I later cried and told family in front of him he laughed and they laughed but at least it stopped . other cousins would tell what happened to me to there friends making it awkward to be around people. but with time people forgot. fast forward 3 or so years i'm nine at least I think ,and my older female cousin tells me im pretty I should stop being shy she would show me how to have sex and be a ladies man. well she did but it didn't end there her and a friend of hers set me up with a girl my age and watched me have sex a few times with her until I got old enough to stay home by myself . today I much older but very hyper sexual and long story short my past has caused a lot of my problems. it feels good to finally tell somebody.

I'm a sexual assault survivor. About four years ago during my sophomore year of high school | went to a halloween party and met a guy. At this party we talked and talked and he seemed kind so l continued to hangout with him after the party. One day we were at his house in his room and things escalated. I was comfortable with kissing and cuddling but shortly after that started, he wanted more-he asked me to have sex and I said no. He continued to ask me and I kept saying no and I wasn't sure until | finally gave up and just gave in and said sure. I was so confused at the time because I knew I said yes at one point so I thought that meant it was okay. Shortly after I learned about coercion and I realized that's what happened to me. Even though it's been four years, I haven't been able to fully heal, but l am healing.

Being a girl is not fair I am a 32 year old woman abused more that once when I was younger. It was the first abuse that had the butterfly affect of leading me to the rest. When I was twelve I wanted to earn money. My parents did not believe in allowance for doing chores. I could not work legally until I was fourteen unless it was a newspaper route waking up before dawn. My Uncle--my Dad’s brother--hired me to work at his appliance repair shop. He was the only one we knew who had a business. Soon after I started, part of the job was letting him give me massages. He molested me a little more each time until he was using his mouth on my privates. He would masturbate while he did. I let him do this for weeks while he changed me and distorted me. Then he made me use my mouth on him. I did it ONE time. I vomited after. I reported him to my parents. The were caring and supportive, and angry at him. But not angry enough to do anything but let me stop working there. He apologized to me in the kitchen with my parents there. Me floating adrift in lava while the Gods decided my fate. I barely remember it. He stayed in our lives with almost no change. I went back to normal. On the surface. But I was not the same, and become more afraid of things. The dark, being alone, silence. In the coming years I fooled around with boys in ways I might not have. I may not have been that type of girl but felt compelled. I was fifteen when I had a boyfriend my age that I secretly had sex with almost daily. I loved him. He dumped me. More issues. Age seventeen. High school senior. Dyed blue-streaked hair down to my butt. Emo. Skinny. Flat chest. Was drinking and smoking put by then. But not THAT NIGHT. I Walked out of a Pink concert I had gone to with my cousin and her friends. Something upset me and I left. Night time. Part of the city I don’t know. No plans. Maybe go back to the concert after getting my head together. Walking past a strip mall a group of four guys came out of place, not sure what it was. I had seen that two of them were black. That scared me. I’m sorry. I hurried and turned right. So did they. It was something like an alley behind the strip mall and a big wall on the one side. Back doors of business, dumpsters, a few cars. Not well lit. Maybe I could have just kept walking and been fine but it was dark on the far side and seemed so far away. The guys were talking and laughing and behind me. I grew terrified of being raped or hurt or killed. I think I heard one of them say the words, “nice ass” in their chatter. Panic attack. I think I was trying to save my own life. Preemptive strike? I stopped, turned and said. “You guys can F--- me if want.” I remember the pause while some of them stopped but one kept coming. They laughed, maybe nervous. The one that kept coming put his arms around me and pressed his body to me. I forgot what he said but he pulled me in close, grinding on me. They took me to a dark area off to the side between two buildings. I did oral for the first one and the other black one, but not all the way. A show for them. Laughing. Shooshing each other when they got too loud. I tried but they got rough and I gagged a lot. Take you clothes off. Jacket, tank, jeans, panties. Onto my back. Asphalt. Legs spread. Trying to stay on top of my clothes to not get cut and scraped. All four of them took turns. With the first one it was a show they watched. With the rest they were turned around, talking to each other, trying to block me from view. I think someone walked by but not sure. Alcohol and cigarette breath. Guys probably in their thirties. Friends having fun. Boys being boys. Just pumping into me. Telling me I’m tight. My body a vessel. Legs spread. No resistance. My arms around them. Eye contact I don’t remember. I always looked at my boyfriend in the eyes. I always look in eyes during it, searching for a connection. I saw their eyes but not their faces. They just used me for friction. Quick and get it down. Except for the second to last. He wanted to talk. I told him my name. I told him about the concert. I told him I liked to be on top because he asked. I remember his face. The only one who was white. Crooked nose. Cauliflower ears. Blue eyes. A sense of hurry from the others. He blurs into the last one in my mind. The Arab/Persian? “Thanks a lot.” I know one of them said. They thanked me while I got dressed quickly and kept walking the direction they had been going before. By the time I walked back out they were gone. I went back the direction I had come from. I got back in the concert and spent the whole time finding my cousin. Sore and dripping. Back scratched up. I felt gross. I started crying but stopped when I drew too much attention. I found them. The final song was “Get the Party Started” We left together. The ones who were not driving drank wine but I was not allowed any because I was too young. I told nobody. Told my mom it was cool. Right away I became the girlfriend of a guy who had a locker near mine who had been persistent but I had always rejected. He was tall and no more than “okay”. I did not want to be alone. He fell in love. I did not. Prom and stuff. I broke up with him the last week of school. He was leaving for college anyway. I did not want to go with him. I cheated on him because I needed more sex that he could give. Then came the days of being passed around. I went to community college and dated my chem lab partner, got kind of raped by his brother in the shower and became the brother’s girlfriend. He got me into heavy drinking, party drugs, the club scene and I dropped school. I was an EDM/Metal/Trance princess and had so many “friends” in the scene that knew me as Sapphire. Sapphire was a nymphomaniac. People loved that about me. Some good, some bad. Quickies in dark spots in the clubs. Backstage. Back office. Cars. Secrets. Woke up in different beds. My boyfriend kind of “gave” me to his drug dealer and I lived with him until an older guy talked me into running away with him to Location. He was 39 (40 for a month) when I was 20 and we lived together for more than a year. It was a very sexual relationship but he cared about me. His house was a quick walk to the beach and I loved it. It was healthier. I started CC classes again and got my AA. He helped me through my panic attacks and I hid my depression from him. My parents met him, and accepted him eventually. We talked about marriage. But he was gone all day weekdays, I did not have a job, and I had a second life to feed my big hollow emptiness that had started after my uncle used me. Also, he liked to role play that he was my father. Just one of his kinks. The sickest part is that just like the eye contact thing, saying “F me daddy” became something I just do automatically. I cheated on him many times when he was with guys from the beach crowd he only knew slightly from our weekend beach trips. Girls too. I fell for a surfer and wanted to have his baby and even quit birth control. It all ended badly and I moved back with my parents. I was finally diagnosed with manic depression and talked to my mom about all the sexual encounters and abuse and started going to group. Five years after THAT NIGHT my mom was the first person I told about the four guys after the concert. That one still rips a hole in my sense of life and love and loving myself. I wonder if good guys don’t want to be with me because my breasts are small I take medication and I am functional. Like I said; BEING A GIRL IS NOT FAIR

Hello. I am a woman and a survivor of prolonged childhood rape by a very close relative. He was someone very loved by the rest of the family, someone who was "loving" with me, and that's why when everything came to light, almost no one believed me. I wasn't the only victim, and yet they still treat him as if he were untouchable. That scarred me deeply. Today I am a mother. I love my children deeply and I am very protective. But for some time now, I've been having intrusive thoughts that fill me with fear and disgust. They aren't desires; I don't want to hurt them, on the contrary: just thinking about it distresses me. It's harder with my daughters, even when bathing them, and that makes me question myself and feel guilty. I never crossed any boundaries, nor would I, but my mind sometimes attacks me with the "what if?" I would like to know if anyone else has experienced something similar: this fear of becoming what I suffered. Thank you for reading.

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.

Dear Strangers, I’m writing this letter because I’ve carried a lifetime of pain in silence for too long, and I’m ready to speak it plainly—not to dwell in the darkness, but to show that even the deepest shadows can give way to light. If my words reach even one person who feels buried under their own story, then they’ve done what I hope they can do: remind you that survival is not the end of the road. It’s the beginning of something stronger. I was three when my mother left me with my father. She walked away from the responsibility. He was a small-town jock, still angry from losing his own mother young, and he poured that anger into parties, fights, and me. I was supposed to be his little football player, but I never quite fit the mold. A few years later I was molested by someone connected to his family. They covered it up. The person never faced consequences. Then another family member—the one everyone adored—tricked me into sexual acts that went on for years. I developed a twisted loyalty to him, what I now know was Stockholm syndrome. I broke free later, but those years stole my childhood before I even knew what childhood was supposed to feel like. My father beat me with a belt until my skin welted. I hid seashells in my pants to soften the blows—my trauma made me fidget, made me “bad,” made the belt come faster. When he discovered the shells, the punishment doubled. My stepmother would eventually call him off, but the marks were already deep. School offered no safety. The principal screamed in my face and locked me in a closet. It turned out my dad had dated her daughter years earlier. Small towns remember everything except mercy. I fell in with troubled kids and got into trouble with the law. My dad blamed me for his failing marriage and threatened to send me away. I loved my half-brother—my stepmother’s son—despite being taught to hate him. At the end of elementary school I moved to my mom’s. I couldn’t brush my teeth properly, couldn’t make a bed, could barely read. My mom worked hard to teach me habits, and she succeeded, but her new husband—a cop—was cruel. He wiped pepper spray on my face as a joke, watched porn in the living room, cheated on my pregnant mother. The neighborhood was mostly Black; as a lonely white kid I was an easy target for violence. I came home with black eyes. My mom still denies it happened. Loneliness became chronic—not just depression, but the kind that makes you question whether existing is worth it. My dad kidnapped me back once, embarrassed by his own choices. More beatings, more isolation in new towns, more bullying. When he planned another move, I chose my mom’s again. That town felt closest to home. I made real friends there, but I remained the outsider most days. A close friend died in a car crash; his family treated me like a replacement, saying I looked just like him. It was strange and painful. I had a girlfriend. We were both survivors of molestation. We messed around lightly—nothing more than touching—and I felt a real connection for the first time. One night her mother invited us over. My girlfriend wasn’t there. Her mom looked at my mother and said, “Did you know your son raped my daughter?” My body froze in a way my father’s belt never achieved. I couldn’t speak. My head shook no. I looked at my mom—the only protector I’d ever trusted—and her face said she believed it. My heart shattered. They threatened charges but refused medical proof. Her parents later tried to lure my mom into an alley to beat her. My mom’s boyfriend turned out to be a meth addict and stole everything. My girlfriend spread changing stories around school. That humiliation broke something deep inside me. I became sharper, more self-aware than ever, but all I carried was anger and pain. High school was a mask: friendly, easy-going, pretending to be stupid so no one expected too much. Athletic but never fully accepted by teammates. Popular with girls, never the right ones. I wrestled—found something I truly loved in combat sports. I went to prom as a freshman with a senior, dated another senior until my dad moved us again. She broke up with me, hinted at cheating to hurt me. She took my virginity. In the new state I fought my dad for real—stood up, fought back, felt years of rage flood through me. I wanted to end him. My stepmom’s touch on my shoulder stopped me. I thought of my little brother in the next room and walked away. My dad shoved me over chairs afterward. I left planning to walk halfway across the country. I blacked out in the night. He picked me up later and talked trash for weeks. I didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. Back at my mom’s, she focused on herself and treated me like a burden. My stepdad kicked me out for smoking weed. I was homeless for a month during brutal blizzards, living in a friend’s sister’s garage. I moved back to my dad’s as an adult. I worked 70-hour weeks at a factory—became the youngest assistant manager. I could talk to ex-convicts without losing respect. I lived without heat. COVID hit. Panic attacks began. Isolation became addiction. I slept with the wrong women, stole a friend’s girlfriend (she came on to me; I fell). Guilt crushed me. I moved back to my dad’s, broke and barely eating. Trauma peaked. I opened up to my dad about needing help; he yelled that my issues didn’t matter. I worked in healthcare during COVID’s height—COVID ICU, 5–6 deaths a day. I did CPR, post-mortem care when nurses couldn’t. Nurses hit on me; I stayed cold, self-isolating. No friends, no family, no home—just work. A doctor offered to pay for my schooling because of my compassion. Then I took LSD and saw myself in the mirror for the first time—with empathy and sadness. Right before I broke completely, I met my wife pushing a corpse to the morgue. We fell in love. I quit, moved into her house. I drowned in agony, leaching off her income. Grocery shopping felt impossible. Eyes everywhere. Panic attacks stopped my breathing. I froze. It was PTSD. Close calls with guns, hostile intent—I should be dead multiple times. But it wasn’t the guns that almost killed me. It was existing. When I married my wife, I gave my dad one last chance. He no-showed the wedding. I promised her I’d be better than the day before. I haven’t broken that promise. I found God truly then. After years of fighting, I’m finally standing on my own feet—going to school, mastering trauma, getting back in shape, being a pillar for my family. I’m not the boy who hid seashells anymore. I’m not the teenager who shattered under false accusations. I’m not the man who almost snapped his father’s neck or drowned in guilt and substances. I’m the one who stayed standing when others fell in that church room. I was just a child, nervous and curious, standing in front of a chair while grown men placed their hands on me and prayed. Everyone around me collapsed under the weight of whatever power moved through that space. I felt it too—a rush, a presence—but my legs held. I didn’t fall. The men looked at me with wide eyes and said I had a very strong spirit. I didn’t understand it then, but I carried those words like a promise I didn’t yet know I’d need. That moment wasn’t magic or coincidence. It was the first quiet proof that something in me refused to break, even when everything else did. That same spirit is what kept me alive through every beating, every betrayal, every night I thought I wouldn’t wake up. It’s what let me choose restraint when rage begged me to destroy. It’s what lets me stand today. I carried brutality in my mind for decades, but my soul kept concluding the same thing: keep choosing light. Keep rebuilding. Never give up. The pain is still there, but it no longer owns me. It forged me. And now I’m using what it taught me—to defend the scared, to rebuild from ruins, to show others that even in a harsh world, the soul can still choose hope. If you’re reading this and you feel buried under your own story—know this: You are still here. You are still choosing. And that choice, every single day, is proof that you are stronger than the darkness ever believed you could be. There is light on the other side. I’m walking toward it. You can too. With hope that refuses to quit, A survivor finding his way

When I was four years old, my cousin X groped me. The first time: I was playing with my cousins, who were close to my age. It suddenly started raining, so we all hid under a tree, but one by one, we went home to use the bathroom. Finally, it was me and my cousin X's younger brother who stayed behind. The younger brother went home because he was cold, and I, being close to the younger boy, tried to go home with him. At that moment, he grabbed me by the arm and told me to stay. I was really scared. He suddenly grabbed me from behind, put his hand under my skirt, and groped me. He held my mouth, so I couldn't call for help from anyone he could see through the trees. I don't know if it was because of the age difference, but he only groped me. The second time, it was at my cousin X's house. I was close to his younger brother (A), and his parents liked him. I was four years old the second time too. We went to play games. Cousin X put me on his lap and groped me so our parents wouldn't see. I didn't want A, who was sitting next to me, to find out. I tried my best not to make a sound. Even though there were people around, I thought he was doing something wrong, so I couldn't say anything. I was too scared to run away. There was no way I could win by force, and I didn't know what he was doing. All I could think about was that he was doing something wrong. I still meet up with that person. But only twice. But it drove me crazy. I've been interested in sexual things since I was little, and sometimes I feel disgusted by myself as a woman. Not being able to talk to anyone about it makes it even harder, and I wonder why he seems to be living a happy life. But even so, I can't tell my parents about him. Even though I really hate him to death.

Pretty much everything about me is apologetic, but especially the opening passages of my writing. I start with why I’m here, why I’m not somewhere else, why I’m thinking about this, why I’m not thinking about something else, why I think about it in the way I do. I always swear that this time its different, and it never is, and I keep trying. I’m here to talk about something I call my bed statistics. Since my moral watchdog is a Rottweiler that was abused, starved, and neglected as a puppy, it tells me that I’m seeking pity, secretly I love the role of the victim, and I’m no better than the people I’m planning to speak about. It feels damaging to say those words, and I said them anyways. See how I always explain? See how my explanations are apologies? On my childhood bed at home, my childhood best friend and neighbor name came onto me while I was blackout drunk. Premeditated, drunken, horny, and careless. Worse than careless. He put his hands down my yoga pants, pulled them down, ate me between the legs, fingered me too urgently. It was painful at times, uncomfortable most of the time, disorienting all the time, and at times even neutral. I didn’t say yes, and I eventually said no. I’m not sure to what degree I participated, and I interrogate myself about this all the time. But I since I can’t remember because of the time and the alcohol, I don’t think I was capable of much. I remember that he asked me to suck his dick and I declined. He went home. I thought it was my fault. I thought I should have done more to stop it. I wondered why I didn’t do more to stop it. I thought since I didn’t do more to stop it that meant I had given my approval. I didn’t know that how I felt about the situation mattered at all, I was only after facts and I didn’t have many. All this happened on my childhood bed. There’s no concise way to explain what happened afterwards. I kept his secret for months. I finally came forward because I couldn’t bear lying to His Girlfriend (who was a close friend and in the same friend group) about it. The safe unlocked and the feelings came out. I let him talk to her first. He lied to her about how it happened and when. Or at least he told her how he saw it, maybe it didn’t feel like lying to him. My opinion about whose fault it was had changed by then, but I was terrified to own this. I knew intuitively what he did to me. He used alcohol and isolated me to make sure I wasn’t coherent enough to refuse him, but it took awhile to come to this consciously. He was my best friend after all. What kind of person had I been friends with all this time? It was easier to think it was a mistake both of us made. Now I want as much distance as possible between the kind of person he is and the person I am. What kind of person is he? Perhaps he wasn’t coherent either, but I don’t make moves on my friends and cheat on my significant other when I’m incoherent. At least I hope I won’t. In my dreams I do, and my moral watchdog still tells me I’m no better. The Rottweiler says I’m the same, a liar, a cheater, and a coward. In weaker moments my mind rots, and I agree that I’m awful and to blame. But by the time I could bring myself to tell The Girlfriend, my opinion about whose fault it was had changed, and I was terrified to own it. My persistent nightmares confirmed my new opinion, but every waking moment there was someone telling me it was equally my fault. A Close Friend, name himself, The Girlfriend, and most frequently, myself. My sister was the only person who told me it might not be my fault. I clung to that. It was a train wreck when I tried to defend my thesis to The Girlfriend in the coffee lounge of a bookstore. I didn’t have the strength to convince her of something I was still convincing myself, let alone figure out how to apologize for what I was willing to accept. She didn’t believe my thesis and this shattered me. I shudder thinking about what my mind was like during that time. With time and distance it doesn’t matter as much to me that she doesn’t agree. It matters less to me now that my moral compass and perception of people wasn’t enough to accurately interpret name’s actions for what they were in the immediate aftermath. I wish I could have seen, but I guess this is how I had to learn to see the bad in people. It matters less to me that name doesn’t acknowledge the truth about his intentions. It matters less to me that after he texted me “I’m sorry Lik I’m so sorry” the morning after, and then around the time we separately told The Girlfriend he said that I always lie and try to get out of situations blame-free. Those words are less damaging to me now, even though they are still the most damaging things that anyone has ever said to me. My watchdog uses that same idea as fuel; it catches me in small lies and equates them to name’s actions. It doesn’t matter that much that name strikes up friendly conversations with me to save face in front of our families and his New Girlfriend. It matters less to me that he called me a bitch and a liar to my brother. Thankfully my brother punched him for that. It matters less to me that A Close Friend told me I was equally to blame the first time I opened up about that situation to anyone. She apologized for that when I asked her to, and I forgave her. It matters less to me that I couldn’t apologize better to The Girlfriend (now ex-girlfriend). It matters less to me that I avoid connecting with the village I grew up in and people from high school because of their proximity to this situation. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t matter to me at all. All this, because of something that happened on my childhood bed. On a different bed in my childhood home, the guest room bed, I told This Highschool Asshole I Dated while making out I didn’t want to have sex. He said verbatim: “If you don’t want to have sex with me, then get off me.” I let him cuddle me and apologize instead of kicking him out. Apparently kissing means you want to have sex, and if you don’t want sex then kissing is indecent and misleading. I really internalized this message at the time since I was having my first sexual experiences. I was a virgin when I met This Highschool Asshole I Dated and he was much more experienced than me, so he put a lot of pressure on me to move very quickly to things I wasn't comfortable with. I tried other sexual stuff that was new to me on that same guest room bed with That Same Highschool Asshole I Dated. I told him to stop moving because it hurt and he heard me and continued. His excuse was something like, “I’m sorry it just feels so good.” Eventually I had sex for my first time ever with him, but I don't even remember how it happened at all. It''s like a blank wall when I try to recall. I told him I wasn't ready clearly and verbally many times. He told me if I didn't want to then I must be scared, implying that no other reasons for not wanting to were valid even when I told him not being ready wasn't the same thing as fear. He constantly pushed my clearly communicated boundaries in "the heat of the moment," and broke my hymen in one of these occasions. When I bled we stopped and he said that "he just got psyched out about the whole pregnancy thing." He never asked how I felt about it. I always felt like he was trying to do things he knew I didn't want just to see if he could get away with it, and simultaneously he acted like it was the most normal thing ever that he was so insistent and manipulative. Eventually we got to the point where we were having sex. Not on a bed, but in the back of That Same Highschool Asshole I Dated’s car, he got angry when I told him he had to use a condom because by his reasoning, it should be okay since we had done it without a condom before. He asked for one quick raw stroke, which once I relented turned into three and four. I didn’t say anything to see what would happen. It just continued until he decided he had had enough or maybe he thought he couldn’t possibly get away with more. We never talked about this. On my parents’ bed while no one was home (I know I’m a sick bitch), That Same Highschool Asshole I Dated pulled my cotton shorts that be bought me from his travels abroad and my underwear to the side and plunged his raw dick into me. I’m not sure to what degree I participated, and I interrogate myself about this all the time. I’m sure I kissed him and rubbed myself on him, but when it came to sex, he didn’t ask. We never talked about this. I wonder what went through his mind when he did this, and I honestly think that nothing did. I wonder what went through my mind when he did this, and I honestly think that nothing did. It feels weird to wake up from numbness. I doubt he has thought twice about this. On my freshman dorm room bed, I had sex with a virgin boy I was dating named name. I was nervous and dry but did it anyways. It hurt, but I didn’t tell him that. At least we used a condom. At least it was consensual. I had more painful sex with name on several dorm room beds over almost 2 years, and I still didn’t say anything, until eventually I did. He didn’t like to hurt me and told me to speak up more. I thought it hurt because I was doing something wrong, but it turns out I wasn’t. A year later in the bed in my apartment that I go to sleep in every night, name raped me. I thought he was different. We had built trust. I didn’t have to pretend to enjoy sex with him. He detested name and That Highschool Asshole I Dated, but he hated when I talked about them. He preferred not to hear about it. He wanted my present not my past, and he didn’t want my present if I was too upset. He didn’t understand “what about my past was still holding me back.” We had both been drinking. He was choking me consensually and anxious to start having sex. I told him he could have one stroke, which has a scary common thread with another situation with That Highschool Asshole I Dated. At least he was wearing a condom. He had his stroke, and after that he just continued until he decided he had had enough or maybe he thought he couldn’t possibly get away with more. Except this time I was also being choked, so I really couldn’t say anything. After the rape, I was confused and slightly panicked and in disbelief, but my main focus was sadly on finishing the job. I wanted to be finished with my obligations. My screwed up face revealed my hurt, and he said I could stop. I was relieved and I put on my pajamas and rolled over to sleep. I told him I would do anything to help him finish so I could still fulfill those pesky obligations that came with kissing and consenting to sex. I felt very much like I had failed him for needing to stop and be alone. He tried looking at pictures of me, but when those weren’t enough, I offered and performed other tasks for him. He still couldn’t finish, and because of my reassurances that I would still do anything for him, he asked me to pull down my pajama pants and let him “fuck me slowly.” Those pesky obligations. I said sure. After he orgasmed, I rolled over to finally be alone. As I fell asleep he whispered to me, “You’re so strong. I love you. You’re so strong. I love you.” It took me most of the next day to realize what happened. Why did name break such a clear boundary? Did he hear me what I said to him so clearly? Why did I feel obligations after that? Why did name let me feel those obligations? What kind of person is he? The next day, I asked him if he heard me tell him just once, and he said that he heard me and offered no explanation for why he didn’t listen. I realized the truth about what name did more quickly (in a day instead of months) because I wasn’t going to give someone I loved, and who I thought loved me, the benefit of doubt like I once did. After I brought it up, name told me he wanted to “work through this until we become the ultimate couple.” He didn’t apologize until I asked him to. He said I should have told him that what he was doing was rape, to help him realize the level he fucked up. I broke up with him. He told me to wave, smile, and say hi if I saw him around. At least he acknowledged it? At least he apologized? And those are my bed statistics: my current bed in my apartment that I fall asleep on every night, an array of dorm room beds that many other 18 year olds will inhabit over time, my parents bed that I open stockings from Santa on every Christmas morning, the guest room bed where all the guests in my childhood home stay, the back of a car, and my childhood bed, the place I stay whenever I go back home for the weekend.

Hi - After 67 years of living, I realized that I need counseling or therapy to process my life. After 25 years of being married to a malignant narcissist/psychopath, I have PTSD or complex PTSD What contributed greatly to my situation was that my mom was also narcissist/psychopath and my ex used her and my whole extended family (5 brothers and sisters) to gaslight, demean, degrade, and humiliate me. It was hard for me to recognize that not only did my ex not love me, but my family did not either. This is why I need therapy to recover from my PTSD symptoms. Often I think I was in a literal war defending myself persistently from 1993 to 1999, even earlier than 1993. I am still defending myself to my two older sons (44 & 30) and my extended family. My mom died in 2018 and it is time for me to get better.

I met my abuser Month, Year at a indinginous pipe ceremony. The community met often. I would speak to him and his wife on occasion. I realized later that he was there to recruit people for his medicine retreats, his tantra events and he would search out his victims. What a better place where there are impressionable people wanting to heal, looking for something to help. He would tell me I needed to try mushrooms, to help with my depression and anxiety. I did stop taking my antidepressants on Date cause another person of “good standing” in our community was offering iboga and also was promising that would help me. I never did an iboga ceremony with that group but in Month, Year, I could not go to a retreat that my abuser and his wife were offering. the retreat was out in City, State and they thought they would include me by offering me my own private journey. my abuser offered to come to my house and he would hold a mushroom ceremony for me.. 4 people including my abuser showed up at my house one Friday night. I remember I was so excited cause these people who seemed so knowledgeable and respected were singling me out and I felt special. Except when they showed up it felt weird. I took a small amount of chocolate and a couple of hours in I still did not feel much. He offered me more. The night was uncomfortable but I kept thinking, these people know what they are doing, they have my best interest in their hearts. I’m not sure they really did. They left me around midnight that night. The medicine hit me just as they were all leaving. I was completely alone, tripping out. It was a long night. The next day, no one texted or phoned to check in with me. I just went through the next few days feeling pretty lost. My abuser, his wife and I continued to do indigenous ceremonies together, Hapey, pipe ceremonies, sweat lodges. By 2018, we had been hanging out socially a lot. My abuser started to offer psychedelic meetups at his house. I could not go to the first few because of work but my work schedule changed in the spring. I could go to the meet ups. I started to learn about the psychedelic movement and all these medicines had to offer. Name of Organization was steamed into one of our meetings, he had this vision and I wanted to be part of it. I found out my abuser was teaching Tantra. What’s that? I was curious. Another way for me to explore who I was. I started to go to his tantra events. It was fun, I was hanging out with the abuser and his wife and they knew how to have fun. It became my life. My abuser started coming out to my town. Asked if I wanted to meet for beers. He was paying lots of attention to me. I heard about the struggles he was going through with his marriage and how psychedelics and the lifestyle, being polyamourus was helping my abuser and his wife. I’m not sure where the offer came from but My abuser was telling me how he help break me open sexually and we could do private sessions. The first meeting, We met for super and a beer. He came to my house. We undressed and I sat, facing him. We hugged and did circular breathing exercise together to calm down. We talked about our desires, boundaries and fears. I remember him telling me he didnt want to get an erection because in the teaching he should not have one but he did already. I laid down and he did a youni massage on me. All the attention on me. I could not believe someone wanted to give me all this attention. I must be pretty special. We had been meeting every other week for a few months for sessions. He came for a session one night. He asked me if I wanted to be involved in his business of selling microdose online. Hell yes I did. Out of the all the people in the community, he picked me to help him. I felt special. That night when we did our session it was different. Up till that time he only massaged me, no penis vagina contact. That night I felt him insert himself. We did not discuss this. I froze for a bit but I continued to let him do what he wanted. If I said no I lost what he was offering. I remember thinking I’m selling my soul to the devil! I remember feeling confused. I was excited cause I was going to be part of something big but I felt violated. We continued our sessions but they just turned into sex. He wanted to have a relationship with me but not be a couple. I was so entwined in his life. I did everything with my abuser and his wife. Month, Year, My abuser and his wife were going on vacation and they needed me to do the mailing and keep the microdose business going, he was letting me into his very secret life. I killed that job will they were gone. I showed my abuser that I could handle his business. That was his baby and he was proud of it. It was one of the 3 most successful microdose businesses online at that time in Country. Abuser Name, my abuser was one of the companies selling the stamets stack that Abuser Name would eventually send a legal letter to to stop selling the stamets stack And you continued to support him through speaking at his conferences and I see you are coming to his conference in may in City along with Name. The site was Website. It’s been taken down in the last year. We continued to hangout, sell drugs together. I realized that I was helping to support him and his wife’s life. She was a tantric(sex worker) And between her And I, I'm sure we paid the bills. I helped over years with the psychedelics meetups, retreats, helped start and run his conference and did lots of work to make that happen, did medicine with him in group settings and in private and helped start his business plus many other things. I helped at the community events that he created. He was from a very religious background and had since left the church and claimed he needed community. He started these communities to find his victims. He picks people who are vulnerable and uses their skills or their connections. He then drops them especially if they do not agree with him. Over the years he would sometimes treat me very special as long as I conformed to his rules, he needed me. He would one minute be very attentive to me and then next he would punish me for talking to someone about us or speaking out of line. He would take away sex, medicine, eventually he took the microdose business. He was starting to gain moumentum in the legal psychedelic world. He started a businesss in Year that trains therapist to hold psychedelic space here in City . Then he stared to get exemptions from the Country government to give people psilocybin for their end of life distress. Now he is being given clinical trails to give front line care givers medicine. His dream was coming true. He wants to run retreat Centers. He found an investor to buy a resort in Country. That was short lived as business went bankrupt and he had a incident down there with a shibo hitting on clients. During the time of his start up he started to really distance himself from me. He only contacted me when he needed help and tried to keep me just involved enough. I ran Facebook pages for him and still had the microdose business. In Year, he asked me to take a bigger part in the microdose business because he had to distance himself from the ilagel business. That changed. He came out to my place one day and said he sold it and I was done. I called bullshit. That was his pride and joy. He sold it to his son. I was a threat. He still talked to me and we met for beers once in awhile. I was even invited to some social events at his house. Date Year, I went to a party at his house. It was a bit of a weird feeling going on. He dropped his wife while dancing. She hit her head pretty hard. An hour later I was looking for him as it was almost midnight. I walked in on him and his newest victim finishing having sex. He ran out the room. I looked at her and told her she should run from him. He’s dangerous. She is part of the community he started. She has money, is indigenous and has connections in that community, he needs her to get with the indigenous community. Midnight hit that night, he was still friendly, even tried to kiss me. We were suppose to go out in the new year. One day he sent a message that he could not meet and blocked me on all social media. He never did give me an answer why. Probably cause I found out about him and the other women. This is when the universe started to show me who I was involved in. Actually the universe was talking to me all along but I was not listening. I would have mushroom journeys facilitated bu my abuser and his wife. In those journeys, I would get messages from the medicine. The medicine was yelling at me to get away from him. I even I had a journey where I had snake coming out of me and then later actually seeing him as a rapist. That journey I sat up on my mat and he was sitting in front of me and I was freaking out but could confide in no one. No one was safe. I started to open my eyes after that. What has unfolded over the last 11 months. I was going to integrations circles with a lady. She would travel with me. We talked. I found out one day, she wanted to end her life because of a relationship she had with My abuser in the summer of Year. She had heard stories of a lady who caused him lots of stress.She did not know it was me until I shared my story one night with her. That was the first lightbulb moment. I heard another story about more emotional abuse from another lady, who pointed out he’s a predator. He likes to find women in vulnerable positions in communities he develops and then he takes them sexually and mentally. vStories kept showing up to me. I wasn’t looking for the stories. He contacted me in Month to have a mediation meeting. The mediator was a lady who is a therapist and knew both of us. I did not feel comfortable so I asked my support person to come. I’m glad I did as I will tell you some info about the therapist in a minute. We had the meeting. I did well speaking for myself. He eventually admitted the meeting was not to apologize but make sure that I stay silent. Nothing was solved. I find out he recorded the meeting. Next came a letter of cease and disest. It was a threat. He had his conference coming up in City, Province, and he was going to the government to talk about clinical trials. he did not want me speaking, cause I know to much. That proved to me my story is worth sharing. I have recently found out that the therapist that mediated the talk we had in Month has had sexual relations with him in the same way as me, through tantra sessions.. I used her as a therapist 2 years ago. I could not go deep enough with her for some reason, I did not understand at the time. She also writes for his therapist training program. That one hurt deep. Over the years of being involved with my abuser. I have suffered. I lost about 70lbs in a short time, my anxiety was so high as I never knew from one minute to the next if he was going be hot or cold to me. I did not know who to trust as people in the community would go back and tell him what I said. He always seemed to know what I was doing, what I was saying. He would talk to me and then ignore me for periods of time. This is a common thing with the other women I have talked to. They felt like he was following them, watching them. He always knew what we were doing I was vulnerable with trauma. He made promises to heal. He used that promise as a position of power and exploited it to get me into a sexual relationship. He broke me down and got into my psyche, he used substances to heal me to break me open and worm inside every aspect of me: body, mind, heart, soul, even financial survival. He is sneaky and manipulative and good at it. Name's desire to develop acronym stems from personal experiences with psychedelics that “brought him to his knees” and forced him to face his ego. He aligns himself with people such as Name,who wrote some material for his company. microdose, and a few others. I never understood why he picked me. Maybe cause I was well liked and respected in the community. I showed up. I lost my self. Hard to trust anyone when everyone’s connected in the community. 10 minutes is not long enough to share this story but it is a start. It took a lot to get here. I’m grateful that I found somewhere to share my story and I feel like I’m just beginning to share. I struggle with relationships. As soon as one little red flag comes up, I sabotage, it’s hard. Update. I told my story publicly, Month, Year at the Conference Name conference. Since then I recorded a podcast, took part in a documentary, to be released next year, and had two articles written about my abuser and his company. My story got some attention and in Month, Year he was arrested for sexual assault. The trial will be in Month, Year. He stepped down from his company as CEO and Company Name does not exist anymore.

Back on April 6th 2019 (yesterday was 2 years) i was dog/house sitting for a family member of mine when on of their family friend came over. He kept having me try a bunch of different alcoholic drinks until eventually I was drunk. Without going into too much detail he took advantage of me. The next morning I woke up feeling so numb and stuck. I eventually told my mom later that night when I was picked up and they kept trying to contact the guy. My mom hadn’t heard back until the next day when she told me he took his life. The wave of guilt and sadness that hit me in that moment felt so unbearable. For the next few weeks after I remember not leaving my bed unless it was to use the bathroom. Then (thankfully) my mom was able to get me put in therapy. Where I was put with the most amazing therapist. After a few months of one on one I was put into group therapy as well. Where i got to meet the most incredible and strong women. Therapy had taught me so much and helped me so much. It taught me (and this goes for everyone who has gone through something like this) that it was not my fault. It taught me that healing isn’t linear. That you’re gonna have bad days months and maybe even years after but that’s okay because that’s still healing. Therapy taught me that I’m strong, but its okay to not always be because we are human. To anyone who reads this I want you to know you are not alone and you’re doing amazing. I’m proud of you. You got this :)