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When I was between 4 and 5 years old, I was sexually abused by two uncles (10 to 12 years older than me). These memories remained hidden for about 10 years. Now, many years have passed since I first remembered what had happened, and everything feels distant and confusing (I've never really had clear memories of what happened, and this has made me doubt myself and my story a lot). I think they taught me how to touch myself. I also had a childhood heavily exposed to sexual content: I have memories of my parents having sex in the same bed (I had started sleeping with them), and also later, around 8 years old, the same thing happened with my mom and stepfather (they had sex next to me). Once, when I was 8, I put on a CD and it was a porn movie; there was also a TV channel that showed porn. When I was 5 or 6, I would rub my cousin (a year older than me) and my private parts together. I don't have clear memories of this either. Now I'm afraid that I was the one who persuaded my cousin to do it. I also remember that there was a Kama Sutra book at her house, and I think we sometimes played at imitating what we saw in it. I'm afraid that I was the one who provoked everything, that I imitated what my uncles did to me. I'm afraid of being like them.

This year I managed to talk out loud for the first time about what happened to me as a "something", I always knew it but I kept it in the back of my head without giving it much thought because I knew if I did it was going to hurt, something in me knew it was wrong. When I was about 5/6 years old I had a friend a year or two older than me, I don't know how or when it started or why I "agreed", no matter how hard I try to remember I can't. This girl touched me and I touched her etc, I don't remember resisting or refusing and that makes it worse, I even think I liked it. Since then and as I grew older (similar situations happened to me at the hands of other girls) I began to feel shame and regret, in some ways it makes me feel dirty, as if I had never had innocence. Now I have a complicated relationship with sexuality, it hurts and makes me uncomfortable, I also can't feel good about myself, I feel like I'm guilty of this.

My story is a bit long. When I was 15 or 16, I was reminded of things that had happened when I was between 4 and 5. Two uncles abused me. My memories of this have never been clear, and now, many years later, everything has become more distant and confusing, and I've doubted myself and my story several times. There are other things that happened in my childhood that I do remember more clearly: when I was between 7 and 8, I saw my parents having sex next to me (that night I had slept with them in their bed). Some time later, the same thing happened again, but with my stepfather and my mother. Also, when I was between 7 and 8, I was looking through some CDs in the DVD library at home, trying to label them by genre or movie. One of the CDs was a pornographic film. As usual, I was alone at home, so I watched the whole thing. I don't remember if I masturbated. I know that from a very young age I rubbed myself with stuffed animals, dolls, and other objects, although without much awareness of what I was doing, but the fear of being seen was present. There's something that haunts me right now: when I was 6 or 7 years old, my cousin (a year older) and I played around imitating some positions from a Kama Sutra book she had at home. I also have faint memories of once, while we were bathing, rubbing our private parts together. I don't know if this happened out of mutual curiosity and because of the content of the book we'd been exposed to, or if I was the one who created the situation and persuaded her to do it, or if I manipulated her. I don't remember it happening, but I'm afraid it did. What if I imitated what my uncles did to me or what I saw in the content I was exposed to? I feel fear, guilt, and shame. Also, half a year ago, I remembered that when I was 10 years old and I carried my little sister (who was about a month old) on my lap, I felt a pleasurable stimulus in my intimate area from the contact. When this image came back to me (it wasn't clear either, like my other memories), I felt guilty, but it didn't escalate because I understood it was a physical reaction and nothing more. But then I couldn't stop thinking about it and I wondered if I had prolonged or intensified the contact, and I felt so much guilt, disgust, and shame. It was so strong that I had an episode of OCD, and I feel like I still haven't been able to get out of it, because now I'm flooded with doubts about what happened with my cousin.

Just words. You have trouble talking about these things. You realize you have trouble talking about a lot of things. You remember being excited about your first job at Company Name. One of your friends works there and you know a lot of people work there as a summer job. It’s the 1990’s and it’s been grandfathered in that they can pay you less than minimum wage because it’s like a part time training experience for students getting their first work experience. Like a newspaper route. Those are for boys. You got so excited after being nervous you asked for an application along with your friend. You don’t remember meeting him then. So many people want to get chosen for that crap job because for some reason it’s become a sought after thing among the cool kids. You do remember the phone call that you can come for an interview. Walking home you wonder if being cute and having larger breasts than most almost freshman girls had something to do with it. You met Name and remember him for sure this time. The way you look has been a curse far more than a blessing. One reason people would not feel that bad for you. 'God sure blessed you, honey." You have so many bad memories, blocked memories, repressed memories because of Name. You are having second thoughts as tears build up. You need a drink. You quit drinking years ago and today you have three months and eight days sober. Your record is nine months and two days. You are strong. Most of the time. You are hollow. All the time. Name wasn’t the last but he was the first. You change his name although you don’t want to. He is the symbol of your hatred of all that is wrong with men. You were tricked. Name got what he wanted from you. Too many times. Too many times before you stopped going back. Just stopped. You could have just stopped after the first time he held you close and caressed you before your mom picked you up that night. The first time. You still don’t understand or forgive yourself for that. You had let a boy at a party and a boy at an 8th grade dance put their hand up your shirt. You had liked it so much those times. It had been exciting and happy. Name did not make you happy. You went back. You want to talk about something else now. Not the other men who thought your body was their plaything. Not the time you went to Ireland with your Aunts and mom. You miss mom. That was a good trip. You got back to that a lot. You sat down to talk about things you don’t talk about. On a family trip to Adventureland you asked your cousin if was considered losing your virginity of a boy did it to your boobs. You pretended it was a cute boy, not Name. It was hard to breathe with him sitting on your torso thrusting. You sometimes break things and scream. Never when your son is around. You have two jobs and don’t really like the one that pays the most. Your college degree does not count much. How much life is wasted on despair and doubt and taking the wrong path? You feel relief when he finally finished. You hate when he finishes because you know he is stealing his ultimate pleasure from you when he has a wife. He acts like it was just another day at work to keep you on his leash. You are pathetic. His remnants are inside you every time you go home after closing with him. Just another miserable day in the life. You say nothing. You tell no one. You are worthless except as a vessel for him. Your parents say nice things to you, about you. They always have. They have to. They don’t know what you really are. A black shame is the times you felt pleasure in your body while he was doing it do you. At least while you remained quiet and motionless there was some dignity. Defiance. Insult to him. When your body and voice reacted like you liked it it was a betrayal. Like you liked that tub of disgusting man on top of you and inside of you, fucking you on that tile floor, kissing you like a lover. You befriended a group of guys by mid high school. Over a year after Name was more than thorn in your soul. A deep callous. The group figured out what you were. They played football. They were important and had strong will. They shared you and passed you around. They told you they loved you. That you were the coolest girl. They took what they wanted when they wanted. Why? Name 2 was you lab partner for biology. He was the first. He was the only one your age. You went in his car for lunch and met some others. They wanted you. You volunteered. It is all you are good for. Draining them of their juice so they can be happy and feel like men. So you can feel empty and dirty. Even after they graduated they got together for group fun, or had you sneak out at night to go for a ride. You headed far west after you graduated. A fresh start. An exodus. An escape. You went to one reunion. The ten year reunion. Name 2 came with his wife. He introduced you as his ex-girlfriend. You let hm take you to the disabled restroom and have his quickie. You went to the bars afterward and ditched your real friend and let Name 3 take you back to his hotel room to live his fantasies just because he claimed that he always loved you. They say attractive people have sex more frequently with more partners than normal people. The darkness behind that statement is that for females it is no always because they want it that way but because of the relentless pressure from men and how they will do anything if they get the opportunity. You are not a nice innocent girl. Would you have been if it had not been for Name like you want to think? Would you have let your much older cousin you barely know take you back into the woods with him behind their house to the shack where he smokes pot after a wedding. Then wait there for him to call his friends after he found out you were a bad girl and wait for them too. Swatting flies in your underwear while you waited for them. You did not drink because your mom did not allow it even though kids younger than you were. But your cousin and his local friends did. Four of them counting your cousin old enough to be your uncle. Still, you acted like you liked everything they did. They took it so far like you were the world's greatest toy. Porn star, they called you like it was the best thing you could be. The anal was excruciating. It was easier to just wash off all your makeup than to try to fix it after all the sweat and sticky. Smiles and complements followed by the deep hollow feeling of total isolation in the station wagon on the way back home from Kansas city. Hating Name and feeling like you betrayed your aunt because one of them was her fiancé. You got an infection and it was embarrassing when the doctor told you. At least it was a female doctor. The idea of a male gynecologist is unnerving. The one time you were examined by one was terrifying. You were in college. He was way too thorough and talkative like he was working up to asking you out on a date and you decided never again. The only one you ever had that did not wear gloves for the breast exam. The most sensual digital vaginal exam you ever had to check the cervix and ovaries for pain. Was his thumb supposed to be brushing your clitoris? You even wonder if he was recording it on his phone that you saw him adjust twice as it was peaking out of the breast pocket of his lab coat. His stupid November mustache he asked you if you liked. So some days you don’t eat. You exercise to maintain the body they want. It gives you value to them. You are nothing. People always say nice things. Hollow things. What if you had never met Name? What if you never got fucked on the floor for $3.45 an hour. On your back, on your hands and knees, sometimes even on top of him. Your first orgasm on that floor that smelled like stale milk and bleach. Having to tell your mom pick you up 45 minutes after the place closes for your cleaning duties. You used tampons just to keep from his semen leaking out on the way home. You pretended to be a virgin when you were far from it. He told you not to worry because he had a vasectomy. That part must have been true. You don't got on dates even though they always try to set you up. Not a chance. Your son is a good excuse. And a real reason. Real love. The Earth spins in space. Why can’t it just freeze and die like me? Your boss doesn’t go all the way with you because he won’t cheat on his wife. You give him oral because he doesn’t think that counts. Preserves his purity. He says he wants to so badly, like he can take whatever he wants from you but he is strong and valiant. You are nothing. He is handsome. You let him kiss you and fondle you. You long for his touch. He is not a great man but you long for him. The closest thing to a good man you have known. A father figure. Your son needs a father figure. He is everything. He deserves better. He loves you. He tells you are a good mom and that is worth enduring the world for as long as it takes. You put on a good face but he knows you are hollow, deep down. A wounded duck pretending to be a swan. Always pretending. Was there no pretending before Name? Maybe not. The days begin and your mind pretends and it is hard and the days end. Bad dreams on both ends. Will he be a good man? The funny thing is you want him to be a prince because he is your prince but even if he is like most men you want his total happiness. You want beautiful girls, good times, and strong friends for him. You exist to fake it and to have let those men enjoy you but mostly to give your son the best life possible beyond you. You are not worthless. It is not your fault. You are stronger than you know. Hollow words. They have to say it. They always have. No creativity. No insight. No truth. Just words.

A friend and I dated within the same friend group, and I used to hang out with the guys a lot--I considered them as my brothers. One night when we were altogether, I felt too drunk to take myself home and felt safe with my friends ex to get a cab and drop me off. He came in uninvited and kissed me, then all I remember are flashes of us being naked, him being inside of me, going down on me, etc., but I felt like I couldn't move. I woke up to shower, my bed was broken, and he was gone. I called him the next day to confront him about it, and that I don't even remember what happened. He said he thought "i enjoyed it" (I was unconscious half of the time), and only stopped because the bed broke. Although he apologized he had the audacity to tell me not to share this with anyone, and to this day only very few close friends know about this incident. It truly broke my trust even with platonic guy friendships.

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

A few years ago when I was a sophomore in high school I sort of remembered that I was touched by my brother (I was about 3 or 4 and he was about 12 or 13) and my mom had caught him and the only thing she did was force us to switch rooms. But I ignored it because I thought I was making it up for some reason. But I’m a junior in college and it’s finally hit me that, that I didn’t make it up. And I finally had the courage to ask my mom if he did anything and she said yes. And it really hurt and sucked because she was supposed to protect. She asked me if he had done anything else and I said no but after I said no it kind of hit me that I don’t really know if he did or not. We continued talking about it more but then she said she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. And now it’s really getting the way of our relationship because I see his daughter every Thursday at his place and I’m trying to tell my mom I don’t want to. Like I love my niece but idk. I feel almost jealous of her? Idk what I’m feeling. But I don’t really know what to do? I can’t afford therapy and I want to tell my sister but I don’t really know how to bring it up. So I could use some help?

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.

It was a cold snowy winter night just before the COVID shutdown spread across the country. I was attending the second-year graduate school class reception with a group of friends from the second-year graduate class. My "date" as my invitation to attend that class's event was really someone everyone knew was in a committed long-distance relationship and just using the extra ticket as a fun excuse to invite me as friend. It was a fun time to explore a historic mansion while having food and wine. An hour later, as it was about to conclude, one of the second-year's partners turns to me and tells me she would really like to meet me at a bar, and a group of people from that class are planning to go there. I turn to my "date" and we both agree to go. We drove to the vintage bar, one I never had been to before. I walk in through the snow and ice in my black high heels in a cocktail dress covered by my winter jacket, trying my best not to trip. A cocktail and a few conversations among classmates of my "date" later, I find myself in the corner chatting with the person who invited me to the bar from the reception. Something seemed off from the start of the conversation -- and it only got worse. The 30-something-appearing cis woman was a faculty member, yet seemed to serial date younger, new students at the same professional school -- a fact a classmate mentioned in passing with an eye-roll earlier. The one-to-one conversation with me appeared to go in circles, with her repeating the same stories over and over again without realizing that she was doing so. Awkward conversation, but it would just be a temporarily annoyance, my thought was. Yet it took an even more bizarre turn. She kept getting closer to closer to me as she was talking. At one point, she touched my shoulder, ostensibly to make a comment about how she liked my dress. She was mentioning her professional expertise and connections in the field I was, and still am, most interested in entering. She then started asking me awkward questions about how I was visibly trans, and then mentioned as a complete non-sequitur how she was the dominant "masculine" partner in her relationship. And then, to my horror, I noticed her abruptly lifting the bottom of my dress up and reaching underneath my dress to attempt to grope either my inner thigh...or worse. This wasn't just a slight motion; her hand was fully underneath my dress and moving fast upwards, from what I could clearly see from the brief glimpse I took. I immediately stepped backwards with a wide-eyed look on my face, in total disbelief of what just happened...and what did not happen that was mere seconds away from fully happening. She turned away in a hurry and walked back to her partner at the bar -- who was oblivious to what just happened -- grabbed him by the arm, and made an excuse to request to leave. This was not the first time I had experience attempted or completed sexual assault. Just like when I experienced rape the year of my college graduation, during a different cold winter night years earlier, I remember feeling puzzled, confused, and very much *not* wanting to put a label on what just happened to me. The events of each night leading up to the sexual assault always seem so random and not predictable as they are happening, but in retrospect, it is so easy to attempt to scrutinize every detail as a possible warning sign of what was to come. Yet I do not even want to think about the likely reality that the attempted sexual assault I experienced that night seemed to happen due to being visibly trans. When people think of post-traumatic stress disorder from an evolutionary perspective, it is typically thought of as an adaptive way to avoid situations of future danger. But when you're scared of social events and comments about personal identity, just think of how unpredictable the healing journey is.

At the end of my freshman year of college, I was at a house party. Towards the end of the night, after I had already been drinking, I said I wanted to go smoke and a guy who had been interested in me asked if he could come with me. We were friends at the time so I agreed. We went to the area in the back, which was an enclosed greenhouse-type porch and no one was back there. After we finished smoking, he leaned in and kissed me. I was shocked but went along with it at first. He proceeded to kiss me more intensely and started to touch me. Feeling uncomfortable, I stopped and told him I wanted to go inside. I sat at a table inside and he was next to me. I started feeling the high from smoking as I was having a conversation with my friends who were right across from me. Suddenly I felt his hand move up my thigh and he proceeded to rub me over my shorts. I was in frozen in shock thinking, "what the fuck is happening right now? This is really weird and i'm not enjoying this. Am I too high to do something right now? There are so many people around me. and no one knows what is happening. What is going on?" After a what felt like forever I felt him try to go in my shorts and that's when I snapped out of it and just looked at him. I didn't know what to say, and I don't really remember what happened at this point. I was just. in shock. He said something to me, I probably said something back, and then he just walked away. The day after I cried and had breakdowns in the bathrooms of the student center. I was confused and conflicted with myself trying to process what had happened. I felt like it was my fault because I googled things like "what constitutes as sexual assault/harassment?" because I wasn't sure if what i had gone through had "counted." I thought that since it was only touching it wasn't a big deal. I thought that because I was under the influence it was my fault. That I shouldn't have been that fucked up. That I shouldn't have been leading him on and making him think that I was into him. That I should protect him because he was friends with so many of my friends. But at the end of it all, HE WAS IN THE WRONG. I WAS PUT IN A SITUATION WHERE I WAS UNCOMFORTABLE AND HE HAD VIOLATED ME IN A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE. I'm here to say that no matter the action, no matter how small, if you were violated your feelings are VALID. If you did not give consent and you felt uncomfortable, it IS ASSAULT. It is still your story. YOUR trauma that you have to live with. Do not brush it off or belittle it because you don't feel like it's worthy of being labeled. You are worthy. You deserve to be heard.

It was a first date. It was my first first-date in years. A couple of drinks turned into a good conversation. A good conversation turned into me accepting an invitation to go meet his cousin. Meeting his cousin turned into another drink, and then the cousin disappeared. I tried to leave. He physically overpowered me. I struggled, literally begging him to stop. I threatened him that I had no contraception, and that I would ruin his life if I got pregnant. I said I would have the baby, thinking it would scare him. He wasn't scared. I covered my vagina with my hands, begging. He slapped me across the face. He forced himself into my mouth. Once he was finished with the assault, he just went to sleep. I laid there, starting out the tiny circular window he had in his room, seeing just the hue of a streetlight in the distance. I got home and showered it all off of me. Not thinking straight. Not thinking about how it would affect my ability to come forward. I just wanted to wash away the feeling of his hands. Physically, my face was bruised, my mouth cut open. Emotionally, I was ruined. I turned to alcohol to drown away any thoughts. I became distant from friends and family. I was angry. I went to therapy, they told me it wasn't my fault. I knew that. Logically, I knew that it is never the fault of the victim. Internally, I felt that it was my fault for going on the date and stupidly trusting him. I still feel guilt for not reporting him. I feel like I have let down other survivors, I feel weak. I don't know how to heal. I don't know how to be a survivor.

I was SA'd multiple times by my now ex boyfriend. He was 18 M and I 19 F. He also made some comment about how "no one will believe you because I'm the one who's younger/closer to the age of consent". I will be pursuing legal action once I go back to the state of where the crime happened. I will be traveling back for Thanksgiving. Trying to figure out if it technically counted as insertion as it was through clothes but that was obviously the intent. He also lied about being over his porn addiction which had allegedly been solved 2 years ago. He manipulated me into not telling my and his parents about said addition because he said that he hadn't told his parents. Later, he said that he'd told a mutual teacher (who is misogynistic and legitimately horrible). He'd force himself on me- he had about 50 pounds on me and about 6 in (15-16cm) on me. So the only way to remove him was to cobra wrap him with my legs and twist him off. I knew that this was my only way of escape because it was the only muscle region in which I was stronger than him (my max lift on adductors is 205 lbs/93 kgs). Just realised what it was- I broke up with him this past April and only realised the past few weeks. And now I'm having flashbacks and other PTSD seeming problems. And he thinks we're still friends even though I told him that I'd block him. He has no idea what he did or the damage he instilled. There's also some religious trauma because he said that I needed to "pray my anxiety away" when it's physically just a lack of serotonin. So I can't even go to a church because I'm so bitter. I know I can solve this for myself, but I don't want any other girl to get trapped by him. I felt asexual a little before all of this happened and now that feeling is stronger- am I still validated in that?

Hello, I am a victim of physical, mental, emotional, and verbal abuse. For the last for years my kids dad have been abusing me. I’ve tried so many times to escape but every time was not a success. When I have my son the abusing had for but then it started back. When I was pregnant with my daughter I remember me sitting in the couch and he can in the house mad about something somebody told him . I remember saying it’s wasn’t true but then he beat me. I couldn’t do anything but sit there and cover my face and stomach. Recently he broke bones in my face when he punched me. Which in this whole situation got my kids taken from me and also my car

“Why did you go?” “No one forced you to go.” “What were you wearing?” “What did you eat earlier that day?” “Are you sure you didn’t hallucinate?” “Why did you drink?” “Why?” “Why?” “Why?” Why is it always the victim being asked these questions and never the perpetrator? I moved out of my parents’ home at the age of 23 to pursue my career in the city of dreams - Los Angeles, California. The first night I arrived in LA, I remember thinking to myself, “I cannot wait to see what this city has to offer.” I was in pure bliss thinking about my future. I was ecstatic to grow professionally and start my new job at University. They even offered a program to pay for my master’s degree - which I planned to pursue. Only six months into my new dream job, those dreams were ruined overnight. My male boss was persistent in asking me to dinner, week after week. After rejecting multiple invitations, I felt obligated when he denied my vacation time and insisted it was only to “discuss work matters.” Moments before I met him, in the elevator already on the way down, I felt strongly that my intuition was urging me not to go. I talked myself out of the feeling - there was no reason to feel uncomfortable about going to a work dinner with your boss. We arrived at the restaurant around 6pm, sat at the bar, and ordered drinks and a few appetizers. Over the course of the evening, I had a plate of mac and cheese and three drinks. We spoke about work the entire time and he applauded my work ethic. After my third drink, I completely lost recollection of the night and my sense of time. I had no memory of leaving the restaurant, paying, or getting home. The next thing I remember was waking up on my own bed to him sexually assaulting me. I immediately jolted out of my room and across the hall, crying hysterically to my roommate, screaming for help. She later told me that I was slurring my words and my eyes were rolling behind my head, begging her to “get him out of here, get him out here!” She made sure I was safe in her room and called our neighbor. Once our neighbor arrived, my roommate went into my room and asked my boss to leave. He was still laying on my bed as she took pictures and videos for evidence. When he left my apartment, he had the audacity to text me saying “I hope you got home safe,” pretending he was never in my home in the first place. The morning after the sexual assault, I woke up extremely disoriented with a hangover that I have never experienced before. I was shivering cold and my throat was so sore I couldn’t even swallow. There was vomit all over my bathroom. After piecing the story together with my roommate, she convinced me to consider taking a rape kit exam. When my cousin arrived to drive me to my appointment, I was in a fetal position, shaking on my floor, crying hysterically. I was in disbelief that my boss, someone who I was supposed to trust, took advantage of his power and changed my life forever. I wanted to slip out of my body. The next day, I followed all of the correct steps. My cousin took me to the Rape Treatment Center to get a rape kit exam and to file a police report. It was a very uncomfortable and invasive process. Luckily, I was assigned to a lovely nurse and therapist who helped guide and console me through the process. As the nurse was drawing my blood to test for date rape drugs in my system, she prepared me with the news that since I came in later in the night, the test may come out negative. After completing my rape kit exam, I was interrogated with questions by a detective and told him exactly what I remembered from the previous night. My father drove 4 hours to pick me up from the facility. I am so grateful to have had so many loved ones surrounding me during those 48 hours. I would never have been able to go through it alone. Months later, I received the results from the rape kit exam: there wasn’t enough evidence to find him guilty. They did find saliva on my chest, but it was not enough. The district attorney assigned to my case explained that these cases are difficult to find the perpetrator guilty, especially without witnesses. Everyone stated that they believed me along the way, however there was no action taking place. The Rape Treatment Center paired me with a wonderful therapist. I was diagnosed with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and depersonalization. I had repetitive intrusive dreams where the perpetrator would chase me down the halls on campus. Keeping my position at University was not worth deteriorating my mental health. I gave up the dream job and a free master’s degree. Over the next nine months I applied to hundreds of jobs, with no avail. I felt like my entire world fell apart right in front of me. I was stuck. I was lost. I decided to hire an attorney for damages and loss of income. I felt so validated that the law firm believed my story and wholeheartedly agreed that I had a strong case. It made me feel empowered for the first time during these difficult months. The lawsuit was a lengthy and tedious process, and we encountered plenty of setbacks. I didn’t even know what the word “arbitration” meant before filing the lawsuit. When you start a new job, they hand you a stack of papers to sign. Somewhere buried in my contract, I signed away my rights to a trial. My case would be required to go through an arbitration and would never meet the public eye. Luckily, my attorneys appealed the arbitration clause and won, so I was able to go to trial. University offered me money multiple times to settle, but I did not want another large corporation to sweep this case under the rug and pay me off to keep quiet. I knew it was going to be triggering and re- traumatizing. I fought hard to take my case all the way to the end to utilize my voice. COVID-19 threw another wrench in my case: wait an unknown amount of time to take my case before a jury of my peers or opt for a bench trial (where a judge makes the sole decision for your case, instead of a jury). After dragging the process out for four long years and the current climate of the world, I chose to take the bench trial. I wanted to close this chapter of my life and begin to move on. Besides, the system and the judge would be on my side. My case was bulletproof. Trial was just as awful and traumatizing as everyone said it would be. I had to face my perpetrator for the first time since the assault, walking into the courtroom doors. My body shut down - shaking and crying uncontrollably for about 30 minutes. I had to take a break before even starting the trial. Two weeks later, I received the judge’s decision to rule in the University’s favor. Although, the judge (and everyone involved in the case) admitted that what happened to me was real, they concluded that “no one forced me to go to dinner.” It felt like someone knocked the wind out of me. I was dumbfounded and in complete disbelief. I couldn’t stomach food and had sleepless nights for weeks. I willingly relived my incident over and over again to ensure this would never happen to anyone else. The judge ruled that University received no consequences, and the system has loudly given them permission for this to happen in the future. Would you go to dinner with an older, unattractive man who kept aggressively pursuing you? No. I would have never gone to dinner with him if he hadn’t been my boss. The worst part - I should have been on vacation that week but remember - he denied it. During the trial, the defense attorney asked me if University could have done anything differently to prevent this. At that moment I knew why I went to trial, to give insight to prevent this from happening in the future. Here is what I said: Absolutely - there is plenty of more work to be done. There should be strict policies in place that prohibit management to pursue and fraternize with their subordinates outside of work hours. This policy exists for many companies - and for a reason. The University needs to implement extensive ongoing sexual harassment/assault training throughout the campus, and not just once a year to check a box. They should feel responsible to do anything and everything to prevent this from happening to anyone else in the University “family.” My sexual assault happened a few months prior to the 2017 #MeToo movement. I wanted so badly to hear someone else’s story to validate mine, but there were very few similar articles online to relate to. I felt completely alone. When the #MeToo movement came to light and so many women and men came out publicly with their stories, it helped me get through mine. So, I want to say thank you to all the women and men who spoke their truth. You have inspired me to speak mine! My story has made me a stronger woman. I have learned the importance of using your voice and speaking your truth. If anyone reading this statement has gone through something similar please know that you are not alone, and I am with you. We are all in this together and we need to utilize our voices until we no longer have to. No one ever disputed my case. Everyone in this case agreed that what happened to me was factual, but that no one was responsible except for me. My story has left me with one choice: FIGHT ON!

The way we learn about sexual abuse needs to be changed in schools because that’s where it started and I didn’t even realise. Small things that seemed like not a huge deal led to the shaping of my own attitude towards what is acceptable behaviour. When I was 14 during pe, a boy smacked my arse so hard with a table tennis racket it left a mark, I was so embarrassed and so self conscious that I said nothing. The next situation was when I was 16 and I had a younger first year student pinching my bum whenever the hallway was crowded, I could never catch who it was but I knew it was a smaller person in a younger year, it was like a game for them but I was uncomfortable, again it didn’t seem so bad and what would I even say if I were to tell someone? The next incident happened a few months later during a group project where we the students were in a room alone, I was standing talking to a boy the same age as me, I was in the middle of giving my opinion on the project which he clearly wasn’t listening to because he suddenly grabbed me and “jokingly” shook his head between my boobs. I was shocked, and so was everyone else but it had happened and that was that, I left the room upset but also worried I was being too dramatic, our group dynamic had been so good up until that point and I didn’t want to ruin it over this “small” thing so I said nothing, the boy apologised but it was already done, he later asked me to not tell people what happened because it was upsetting for him. These incidents all occurred in an environment where the incidents themselves never stood out, there were girls in my year who’s nudes had spread like wildfire, girls who were more developed than others with boobs and a bum who were labelled sluts purely because of their appearance, I myself got attention from boys and attention could only be positive surely? I was almost thankful that I was being accepted even if it meant I was being objectified and at times mistreated, I couldn’t see clearly at the time, I thought attention that made me uncomfortable was better than nothing. With school in the past I entered my first year of college, I’d had a healthy relationship before that had ended at this point and I’d had sex with only this boy so I felt ok with the thought of it with a new person. I was 19 and there was a boy in my class who I was head over heels for, my heart stopped whenever I saw him. I bumped into him on a night and the feeling was mutual, he gave me a kiss and I couldn’t believe it I was so excited I texted my friends and made plans to see the guy the following week. I saw him again on another night out and we kissed and he asked if I wanted to go back to his house so I said yes. I said yes Ready to have sex with this person. We went back to his house and we started, he was a bit rougher than my previous partner and didn’t take things as slow as I was used to but I didn’t want to cause an issue so I didn’t say anything. Penetration happened faster than I anticipated and it was uncomfortable and then painful but he kept going and I felt tears on my face I was in agony, he stopped eventually. I could tell he was annoyed he didn’t finish so I let him essentially have sex with my mouth, I wasn’t actively giving him oral sex. He got what he wanted out of the situation and I was lying there wondering what I had done so wrong, for him it was just a bad shag and for me it was feeling like I had been torn open, I wish I had said no sooner during the act. I got dressed in the dark and went home, I went to use the toilet and pulled my trousers down and my legs were covered in blood, my heart stopped. I got cleaned up and threw my underwear in the bin and went to bed my body still sore. The next morning instead of going to class I went to my gp. I told her a small lie and said I had a new boyfriend and we had rough sex and I was a bit sore, so she checked me and said I had a cut on my area, she told me to take a painkiller and to take it easy and off I went. Later that day the boy texted me, what a relief maybe this will fix the shitty feeling I have. He texted me to say I got blood on his bedsheets…and I apologised. He quickly moved on with his life flirting with other girls and having better sex than he did with me and I dwelled on it for a long time. I couldn’t have sex properly for a long time, whenever I tried my body shut down, my legs would shake uncontrollably and I would tighten up, I would have panic attacks and the whole time I felt bad for the men I was trying to sleep with, it was always my problem. When I met my current partner I told him what happened, I still didn’t know what to call it, just a bad experience. We took it slow, he was very understanding and let me get back to penetrative sex in my own time, allowing me to get to a point where I could actually enjoy it. My sex life is positive now, my partner and I have a healthy relationship. The incident years ago with the boy in college meant a long period of panic inducing sexual experiences but I think the cause began long before him. The attitude and entitlement of the boys in my formative teenage years had a lasting impact on me. It made me believe I had little to say in what happened to my body, whether I was allowed to enjoy sexual experiences and took away my voice where I could say NO. I think a different experience in school would’ve meant things would’ve gone differently with the boy in college because I still don’t know what to call it, for me it wasn’t rape because I never said no, my body says otherwise, my body felt what happened and shut down from it, it took years to recover. I’m glad I’m where i am now, my hope is that teenage girls get more support in school than I did.

I do not know if it’s because I am a woman, because I am Hispanic, because I didn’t have Mommy and Daddy swooping in to shield me from accountability-probably a mix of all but one thing is true.. Evil Lives in Small Court Houses I am a survivor of domestic violence whose life has been destroyed not only by years of physical abuse, but also by coercive control, legal retaliation, and harassment that began the moment I tried to protect myself and my children. This is not a custody dispute. This is criminal misconduct, perjury, fraud, and public endangerment. The abuse began in 2021. I endured physical violence, including strangulation, intimidation, and control. In August 2024, after he slammed me into a wall with a door, I finally removed him from my home. That should have been the end. Instead, when the physical abuse stopped, the legal abuse began. Since then, I have faced relentless harassment. My ex and his attorney weaponized the courts, filing retaliatory restraining orders, false allegations, and motions designed to erase me as a mother. My own restraining order—based on police reports of injuries to me and my daughters—was denied without being heard. On the same day, they filed a retaliatory order against me. This wasn’t about safety. It was about control. Inside the courthouse, the abuse only escalated. I have been mocked, harassed, and threatened in open court. A bailiff physically covered my microphone and told me, “Stop talking or you’re going to lose your kids more.” When I pleaded with the court to recognize my daughter’s needs as a child on the spectrum, the commissioner mocked me: “I see you are crying, but I don’t see a single tear.” (with the most evil voice)As if I was acting. I have audio. What man in power says that to a mother losing her children? This wasn’t justice — it was cruelty, and it violated my rights. And I am not alone. Other parents in this courthouse describe the same treatment. The consequences have been devastating. Had my restraining order been approved back in November, I would still be with my daughters. I would still have my home. I would still have my business. Instead, my children have been withheld from me for over two months. I now live out of a bag after a self-help eviction, forced from my home while a retaliatory unlawful detainer is on appeal. I was coerced into signing a stipulation under distress, another example of being taken advantage of at every angle. The safety risks are undeniable. My ex is a convicted felon with multiple DUIs. He lied under oath about his firearms, refused to surrender them, and has since purchased more guns illegally. Meanwhile, his attorney impersonated an appellate court clerk—on audio—just to get my address. This is fraud. This is criminal. Yet the court has protected them while punishing me. This is not due process. This is coercive control—domestic violence that has evolved from fists to filings, from physical intimidation to psychological and legal warfare. My children have become pawns in a campaign to erase me. If the system had worked as it should, I would still be with my daughters, in my home, running my business. Instead, I am homeless, silenced, mocked, and still unprotected. Justice should be for all—not just for those who can afford a malevolent attorney willing to do anything to destroy the other parent. #tipswelcome #❤️

I’ve attempted to write this so many times, zoning in and out staring at the blank screen. Disassociating as my mind and thoughts spin at 1000 miles per hour, yet not one has landed in a constructive sentence. My entire outlook on myself, the world and life as I knew it changed in a way I never imagined possible. I lost myself. I lost my confidence, I genuinely didn’t recognize the person in the mirror looking back at me. I was a social butterfly who had turned to isolation and drugs for comfort. Being on social media the last couple of weeks has been tough and triggering. But I know I’m not alone. I was raped by a bouncer of popular City bars, a number years ago, in my own home, with everyone partying in the room down the hall. He was a friend. Someone I thought I could trust. I’m a lesbian and I now blame myself for letting myself get too comfortable around guys. Just because I was gay, I thought it gave me a safer card to be close and alone with men. I had a few friends back to my house after a night out, we were on a bit of a love buzz. Mixture of drunk and high. I was going to the bathroom. In my own home. A lot of it is blocked out still til this day, yet some of it feels like it just happened yesterday. He came in while I was using the toilet and I didn’t mind because he was my friend and I was gay, and not coherent enough to worry. We were talking, laughing, he was complimenting me as I pulled up my trousers. He pulled me in and kissed me, at first I kissed him back until I realized what was happening and pulled back. He then got very strong and restrictive of my movements and I started to panic. I told him stop. I told him no. I told him I’m gay and we’re too fucked up. He persisted to kiss me where he could, he ripped my trousers open. I had only done the button, I hadn’t a chance to zip it so they ripped open without much effort. I tried to pull away, I tried to stop. I even tried to scream but literally nothing was coming out of my mouth. I was moving so much that he (5 times my size and weight) pulled and pinned me to the ground and tore my trousers to my ankles as he couldn’t get them off over my boots. When he couldn’t get it in far enough in the front he dragged and twisted me around, forced my face into the radiator and raped me from behind. I can still HEAR him breathing in my face and my ear from in front and behind. I can feel his weight suffocating me. I had bruises for months afterwards. I finally managed to coerce him off and squirm out with the excuse to get a condom to make it easier. I ran for my life through the house. Kicking off my shoes, pants and underwear to get it off my skin. I went into the front room and collapsed crying. Got sweatpants and into the next room to the party goers. The moment they saw me they knew before I could even get out the sentence. They ran to the bathroom and he was wanking himself off. I lost a lot of myself that night. More than I can remember. More than I’m willing to. For a long time people accused me of lying because he’s “such a nice guy” “he’s a bouncer he wouldn’t do that” “he’s the nicest person iv ever met” “how much did you have to drink” “what were you wearing” “did you lead him on” “he apologized to me for sleeping with you” “he said you took your pants off” NO. MEANS. NO. NO MATTER HOW DRUNK. NO MEANS NO NO MATTER HOW HIGH. NO MEANS NO. NO MATTER IF YOU KISSED THEM BACK. NO MEANS NO. NO MATTER YOUR SEXUALITY. NO MEANS NO. NO MATTER HOW NICE HE IS PERCEIVED TO BE. NO MEANS NO. NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU PUSH THEM AWAY. NO MEANS NO. A piece of my inner heart, died that day. And I wish I could say it was the last time a male friend refused to take no for an answer. I suffer with C PTSD. I had to leave hospitality after almost 12 years. I don’t go out any more. I became too dependent on drugs and alcohol to numb out the noises, numb out the flash backs, numb out the feeling my body will never recover from. I’ve been trying for continuous sobriety but I haven’t got the hang of it yet. Although I’ve had more days sober than drunk/high but I’m tired of running. I’m tired of numbing. I have breakdowns in Tesco now. Yet I still see him around every now and again. He still has a job. He still has a life. He still has access to so many drunk women. Thank you to the staff at City hospital and City who took such good care of me under the circumstances both times. I will be back for part 2 but for now I’m pretty drained out. I don’t think I’ve ever sat down and typed about this this much before and I need to do more grounding exercises. You are not alone. We are not alone. We are stronger together. A pencil can break easily alone, but it’s much harder to break in a bunch. I don’t have the will power or strength to read this back before posting but thank you so much for creating a space where we can come together and feel safe despite having such heavy trauma’s on our backs. Name

A Broken Trust He was someone I thought I could trust—a friend who made me laugh, someone I was starting to like. When he invited me out that evening, I didn’t sense the storm ahead. Car troubles forced us to change plans, and instead of heading out, we stayed in. It felt comfortable at first, sitting together, sharing drinks, and laughing about life. We kissed a little—it was lighthearted, a step toward something new. But that was as far as I wanted to go. I wasn’t sure if something had been slipped into my drink. I hadn’t had much, yet I felt strange, like my body wasn’t my own. I told him I needed to lay down, just for a moment, to collect myself. I must have dozed off, but when I opened my eyes, everything changed. He was there, naked, on top of me, kissing me. My body froze as fear took over. I begged him to stop with the voice I could manage, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t stop. He stripped me of my clothes, my power, and my voice, ignoring every plea. The pain was searing, my body rejecting him in every way it could, but he didn’t care. He pushed on, each thrust a betrayal, each moment an erasure of who I was before that night. I cried beneath him, and when he finished, he looked me in the eyes—cold, unfeeling—as if what he’d done was nothing at all. I wanted to leave, to escape the horror of that room, but he wouldn’t even give me my clothes. Humiliated and broken, I sat there, trembling and sick to my stomach. Questions flooded my mind: What if I get pregnant? What if he gave me an STD? I’d barely begun to understand my own feelings about sex, and now they were shattered. When I tried to confront him later, hoping for some clarity, his response was a second betrayal. “You consented,” he said casually, as though rewriting the truth. His half-hearted apology meant nothing. It wasn’t enough, and it would never be enough. Years passed, but the memory of that night stayed with me, haunting me in ways I couldn’t explain. I felt trapped in a cycle of pain and anger, desperate for control over something that had taken so much from me. I thought meeting him again, facing him on my terms, might give me closure. Maybe if I reenacted that night, this time with me in control, the wound would start to heal. But even in that plan, I knew I was trying to make sense of something senseless. No action could undo what he had done. No reenactment could erase the trauma he inflicted or give me back the person I was before.

I was 19, I think. I can't remember much of it: my memory has been shattered after, not just of the event, but of all my life before, during, and after. I was gaslit out of my mind. He told me I wanted it, he told me I was begging for it. He made my body react to him – and despite the fact that all the time there was this voice in my head, telling me to get away, telling me this wasn't right, I listened to him over myself. How could I not? He was my whole world. I was isolated, completely emotionally dependent on him. He undressed me carefully, he told me "Oh, so that's what you wanted all along" after my body reacted to his touch. He asked me if certain things had been done to me before. I said no. I remember, even through the haze clouding my mind, he was ecstatic at the thought. He was tender. I was convinced that we were in love, that we were meant for each other, that our very souls would always be driven to one another, like two halves of a whole. I didn't know at the time that actively distracting myself and dissociating throughout the whole process was not usual, was not okay. I didn't know feeling like a doll in someone else's arms was not okay. He was a guy in a female body, and I'm only attracted to female bodies, so it all became okay in my mind at the time. But it wasn't. It was my first – and only – sexual experience. I couldn't let anyone else touch me after that, I still can't because it feels like I'm trapped again, like I'm dehumanized again. The morning after, he asked me if I was okay, he said he was worried. I reassured him that it was. What else could I do? It wasn't, though. I felt even at the time that it wasn't, but I dismissed the thought because – How could it be rape when I felt like I couldn't say no? But it was. I realized what happened years after it did. Six years, to be precise. And all the while I thought I had no right to feel like there was something wrong. I don't remember it, but I'm told by a person I trust that I cried for two months after that night, every day there were constant tears in my eyes. We both thought it was okay because we believed it. But it wasn't. Even saying that out loud, of writing down, feels liberating in its own way. I still want to claw my skin off sometimes, when it feels particularly bad. I still hate my body. I suffer from PTSD which had gone untreated for seven years because I had been battling the thought I don't deserve to heal. It was hard, but in the end, I won. What happened to me was wrong, and so hurtful, but I'm a survivor. I can heal. I will heal.

It’s amazing how social media has the ability to connect people from all over the world. Old friends, former classmates, and long-distance family members coming together after years of separation and rekindling relationships that would otherwise not exist. With a simple search of a first and last name and an invitation, you have the ability to bring the past straight to your front door. In my case, my past is there for a reason and I never sought out old high school friends or former coworkers when I first joined Facebook. In fact, I didn’t even create an account right away. Maybe I didn’t understand the concept at the time or maybe I just didn’t care. Either way, when I did eventually open a Facebook account, I kept it pretty simple. If people found me and invited me into their worlds, most times I accepted. There were a few invitations I declined because I didn’t want certain individuals in my space - there was no place for them in it. Over the years, I have cleaned up my account, unfollowed several people for various reasons (even blocked a few), and now it’s a little more than a handful of friends and family that I watch grow, celebrate happy times, mourn losses, and share their special moments through pictures and captions. I’ve watched babies grow into young adults and the adults age with grace, humor, a few more wrinkles, and touches of grey. I’ve mourned with those who have lost loved ones and I’ve celebrated their happy times, holidays, and accomplishments with them, albeit from a distance. I have also shared my life on social media; my children and their milestones, birthdays, vacations, special occasions, and even the loss of a loved one or two. Along with Facebook I also jumped on the Twitter, Instagram, YouTube bandwagons, but have recently settled comfortably into the simplicity of my Instagram account. It’s essentially my online photo album and since I cannot have all of my actual photo albums at an arm’s reach like I once did, Instagram is the next best thing. The funny thing about social media and the Internet is how easy it is to actually find someone. You don’t need more than a name and a state and soon enough you're down the Internet/social media rabbit hole. Eventually you will see at least a glimpse into the life of who you are searching for. You'd be amazed at how much you can find out about a person without even friending or following them on social media including close relatives or associates, places of employment, current and previous addresses and phone numbers, political affiliations - the list is endless. Public records, especially in state, are wide open for anyone to search. I’ve searched Google for myself to see what pops up and immediately I see my Facebook page, Instagram account, connections to my place of employment, and I can access a million sites that claim to be a 'white pages’ type search engine that will provide me with random but solid information. I happen to have a few different last names, but it doesn’t matter how you search: you will find my age, close relatives, the city I live in, a map to my house, previous addresses and phone numbers, and because I share the same name as my mother, her obituary is in the top five Google results (without even putting state in the search bar). So, when a handful of years ago (or so) I received a message through Facebook Messenger from an old high school friend, it was strange that she said she had a hard time finding me. At that time, we would have actually had a few high school friends in common. I really didn’t think much of it, but my husband was the one who said that was an odd comment given all of what we know about Facebook and the Internet. Moving on... I was pleasantly surprised to hear from her, but after nearly 30 years and remembering our very last time together, where do you even begin catching up? You see, this wasn’t just any friend. This was my very best friend in high school, a friend I met on my first day of my freshman year of the very prestigious Academy, an all-girl Catholic high school in City, State. That was the beginning of a friendship that would last through high school and beyond for a short time, until distance, a physical altercation, and maybe something more ominous separated us for good. For the sake of this story, I will call my best friend Name. You will understand why in a bit. Name and I were seated behind one another in most of our classes because in those days, we were seated alphabetically. We were always in the first row and directly behind one another. It was just fate that we hit it off. It was easy to make friends with the girls sitting behind you, in front of you, and directly to your right or left because those seating arrangements followed us from class to class. Many of my closest high school friends' last names began with the letters A through F. Cheating was easy too...a little slide to the left or right and we could help one another if needed. Name was beautiful, funny, and many times the center of attention. She had the blackest hair I had ever seen and it was fiercely wild. Name had high cheekbones, a pointy nose, a high forehead always covered by bangs, and a pretty smile. She was engaging and we became fast friends. Looking back at those years, I remember feeling never ‘good enough’ to be her friend. I always felt she was the pretty one and I wasn’t even a diamond in the rough. I was just the pretty girl's best friend. Name never made me feel 'less than' and I'm sure that by the time we met, my insecurities, low self-esteem, and lack of self-worth were already set in motion. This would not be the only relationship in which I felt like I was living in someone else's shadow, but this is the one where I feel that a real pattern emerged. That is, until my husband came along. He never let me feel second to anyone. To him, I've always been the brightest, shiniest, most beautiful, rare, one of a kind 'diamond' he has ever known. Back to the story - Name knew makeup, Name knew fashion, Name was confident, Name was a leader, and I cannot remember ever having a fight or disagreement with her. She was part sister, part friend. It was the 80's, we had big hair, black eyeliner, tight jeans tucked into our scrunched down socks, sweatshirts off the shoulder, leg warmers, and sometimes a little belly showing. The boys gave Name a lot of their attention and she loved every bit of it. She was flirty and she was good at it, but Name was a good girl and it was all in good fun. I have many fond memories of our years together. I practically lived at her house through high school, loved her family more than mine (didn’t we all have a friend like that), and the option for me to stay with her family when mine was moving to state was on the table. In the end, I opted not to do that because, in fact, I did love my family and the thought of being away from them for that long was too difficult to bear. Or was there more to me not wanting to stay there? Name and I did everything girlfriends do: studied, talked about boys, danced, experimented with hair and makeup, hung out on the street corners where I started smoking (Parliaments, for those of you who would remember the brand), listened to music, went to the movies, got fake ID's to get into the 18 and over clubs, and so much more. We were listening to Madonna, Kool and the Gang, Expose, Shannon, and Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam among many others. We spent a lot of time at her house and a lot of time in her kitchen talking with her mom. Her parents were called by their first names and were the coolest parents around. The first time I got drunk and passed out was at a party at Name’s house. Her parents also let the kids drink, which was pretty cool when I was 17. That particular night my mother must have known something was up because she refused to let me spend the night and sent my brother to pick me up. I literally threw up out of the car window the entire way home. That's a story my brother has brought up many times over the years. Back to Name's house - Sundays were a day for cooking, eating, and family time. I had not really experienced that cultural tradition before and I loved being a part of it. Her grandparents lived in her house and everything was homemade, authentic, and delicious. There was always enough food to feed an army. Thinking back about those days, there were always so many people coming and going at Name’s house and everyone was welcomed with open arms. There was one particular kid I remember being around quite often, but he was not a family member. He may have been a friend of a younger sibling, but he hung out with the older kids so I'm not sure. I mention this because he comes back up in this story a little later on. I remember I had a crush on Name's older brother for a while, but don't remember talking to her about it and nothing ever came of it. I am positive some of my friends ended up with crushes on my brother too. Name and I went to clubs, movies, the flea market, school dances and our high school's ring night together. She came on vacation with my family and I went on a weekend trip with hers. There was nothing we didn’t share. When we were 16, Name came on a family vacation with us to state. It was a great time! We visited with family, went to the beach, hung out on Fort Lauderdale's strip, and baked in the sun covered in baby oil by the poolside. We both got pretty sunburned and my mom thought Name had sun poisoning, which was pretty scary. My mom took care of both of us and even called Name's mom to let her know what was happening. Name was in such pain I thought her mom would want her home as soon as possible, but she let her stay with us. After a couple of days, we were both feeling better. While we were in state I got my driving permit, not to be confused with a drivers license. That may have been because we could not literally spend another minute in the sun or just preparing me for our move to state later that year. Overall, it was a great time with a great friend and I have lots of pictures to prove it. When we got back home, the fact that my state permit only allowed me to drive with an 18-year-old licensed driver did not stop Name and I from taking her parent's van to the mall - without permission and without the already mentioned mandatory 18-year-old licensed driver. I will never forget how scared I was, not just how mad her dad would be if he found out, but I really did not know how to drive. Name was much more carefree about breaking all of the rules (and driving laws) on this particular day. All I could think about was all that could go wrong and how it would be my fault. And on top of that, all of the windows of the van were covered (I think with curtains) so I couldn't see anything behind us or in any blind spot. That could be why I still have to turn in all directions multiple times before changing lanes all of these years later. Like I said, I have told that story many times over the years and had a few good laughs, but actually writing about it makes it a bit more cemented in my history; a history that Name was a big part of. With all of the worry I remember feeling as we backed out of the driveway and all the anxiety I felt driving to Location, it's ironic that I can't remember how the day ended. Obviously, we survived my driving and we didn't get caught because between Name's dad and mine, I'm not sure I would be here to tell the story. Another memorable night with Name was when we went food shopping for her mom. I remember feeling like that was an impossible task considering all of the people in her household, but we went and she was a champ. My mother would never have sent me or my siblings grocery shopping so this was quite an adventure for me. During this trip however, Name stuck a few makeup items in her purse while we wandered up and down the aisles. I remember not really caring about the stealing of an eyeliner or lipstick and didn’t give it any thought because she was so calm and confident. That was until, after checking out at the register, a security guard (or police officer – I can’t recall) stopped us and asked us to walk with him to an office at the front of the store. We were caught and we were both guilty, it didn’t matter who stole what. When the officer asked us our names and ages and said he was going to call our parents, we were beyond freaking out - begging and pleading for him not to. Again, between her father and my retired-cop father, our asses were in deep trouble. The fact that I was turning 17 within a week or so (Name was just 16) allowed me to acknowledge the complaint and basically take Name into my custody. I think we were trespassed from the store and I think the officer really gave two near-hysterical girls a break, but going grocery shopping wasn’t a regular thing anyhow. This story has also been repeated many times through the years and my feeling of relief at not having a juvenile record has never waned. Again, our parents never found out. In July of 1986 I went on a ‘camping’ trip with Name’s family to City 2, State 2. Name’s parents allowed each of the children to pick a friend to go with. I was 17 and this would be our last summer together because my family was moving to state the following month. I wouldn’t have known the exact place or date of this trip, but it is written on the back of a photo I have from the day we arrived home. Also, on the back of the photo, in my handwriting, are the names of everyone pictured in the photo. For many, that way of cataloging people, dates, and places is a trip down memory lane. For me, it is a stark reminder of a memory I had repressed a long time ago. That repressed memory came to light after two things happened: (1) Name messaged me on Facebook and (2) shortly thereafter I came across that photo taken on her doorstep the day we returned from the camping trip. While purging my attic, I found a lot of photos from those carefree high school days and sent them to friends who could enjoy a walk down memory lane..... At first, the memories came in waves. Flashes of faces. A jolt of fear. My stomach turned. I was laying on a floor. I was scared and nothing was making sense. These quick flashes of a living nightmare didn’t seem real, but I knew they were. I saw his face. I saw him laughing. I saw both of them laughing. I saw me lying there, drunk, passed out and incapable of stopping it. There must have been a moment or two of clarity during my blackout because I saw me being sexually assaulted by my best friend’s brother and the younger boy I mentioned earlier. I see both of their faces, but the younger boy's relationship to the family is escaping me. He was younger than us by a couple of years, he spent a lot of time with the older kids at Name’s house, and he was with us on that family trip to State 2. He could have been a friend of a younger sibling or he could have been a troubled youth Name’s family took in. These small flashes eventually came to life as a full-blown memory and made me anxious and sick. My head was spinning and I was unable to stop the memories, feelings, and horrors that were engulfing me. This assault was replaying over and over again in my head and I could not turn it off. I was so ashamed and confused by what I was experiencing that I couldn’t even tell my husband to his face. I wrote it all down for him in a letter and we never spoke about it again - at my request. And I never said another word about it – not to anyone. I felt shame, I felt embarrassed, I felt angry, I felt humiliated. What else do I remember about that weekend beside being sexually assaulted? We were drinking heavily on the night of the assault, the next morning while taking a shower (hungover and having no recollection of the night before) Name's brother came into the bathroom while I was showering and took my clothes as a prank (or so I thought), and taking that photo on the doorstep of Name’s house when we returned from the trip. That’s it. But that was already too much for me to handle. I put the picture away and for five or so years just tried not to think about it. That didn’t stop me from remembering and I certainly was not healing. Every single time Name popped up on social media, she was a trigger for a flashback. I even unfollowed and muted her for a while to see if that would work, but it didn’t. The nightmare would rear its ugly head and I would wonder how I could go about facing what happened and actually heal from all the pain it brought me. I thought about writing this story many times. I would start it and not be able to continue, I wrote in great detail and then less detail, I wondered if people would believe me or not, and I struggled with naming my friend and her brother or would that be going too far. Well, that’s ironic, isn’t it? Questioning my going too far when I was the victim of sexual assault. And I was the one carrying the weight of this incident that happened so long ago. The final straw came when the subject of sexual assault came up in one of my sociology classes. I was reading about victim blaming, how 1 in 3 women (worldwide) will experience sexual violence in their lifetime, how 2 out of 3 sexual assaults go unreported, and how the majority of assaults are committed by someone the victim knows. I knew it was time to tell my story. Back to my best friend…… I remember so clearly lying in her bed together, talking about the future, how much we were going to miss each other, and listening to You've Got a Friend. For years that song brought back those moments instantly. My family moved to state in August of 1986 and life as I knew it went on. Everything about that year was hard though: adjusting to a new home and a new school, and making new friends was tough at 17. I visited Name’s family during my first Christmas break and she visited me during that first spring break. At the time, I was in what I would call my first serious relationship, one that would go on for about 4 years. While Name was visiting, we hung out with my boyfriend and new friends a lot. I saw nothing wrong with it, but apparently, she did. One night before we were supposed to go out, she started an argument and I thought she was just insecure and jealous of my new relationship and friends. One wrong word and one instigative push led to an all-out girl fight. The next day she flew home early and we never spoke again. Until that Facebook message 30 years later…. One message that led to a picture, a picture that led to a memory, a memory that led to a single night that changed my life forever, a single night that led to the truth, a truth that led to my journey of healing. For many years I felt that I was a victim of 'something' but I could not put my finger on what it was, who may have been involved, or why I felt I had been violated. These feelings gnawed at me for years. My husband is the only one I talked with about any of these feelings and he has always been a source of emotional and mental strength to get me through the rough patches. Years ago, I went to rape counseling because although I didn't 'know' what happened, deep down somewhere in my subconscious, I did know. I have battled depression, I live with anxiety, and many years ago I contemplated suicide. I basically mirror the definition of a sex assault survivor with post-traumatic stress disorder type behaviors. Lately I've wondered if my best friend was aware of what happened that fateful night so long ago, but I guess I'll never know. What I do know is that two rapists got away with a crime for over 35 years and they will never be punished for what they did. What kind of men or monsters did they become? Because they got away with it once, could there be other victims? Do they have daughters? Does what they did to me ever cross their minds, and how would they feel if their daughters were victims at the hands of cowardly monsters like them? Are they married? What would their wives think if they heard this story and know that the men they married are men who assaulted an incapacitated, drunk 17 year old girl? Thanks to the Internet and social media, I already know the answers to some of these questions. I don't really care about any of that, but I hope they are both looked at just a little bit differently for the rest of their lives after people read about what they did. They are rapists and they altered the course of my life in many ways. This is now another story cemented in my history linked back to my high school best friend - brought straight to the forefront of my life through a simple social media message and a long-forgotten photo. I guess the past does have a way of catching up to us. For reference: Consent is an agreement to participate in a sexual activity. Without consent, sexual activity (including oral sex, genital touching, and vaginal or anal penetration) is sexual assault or rape. One in five women in the United States experienced completed or attempted rape during their lifetime. I am one. Being drunk is not a free pass. If you are drunk and you perform a sexual act on another drunk person, you are accountable for your behavior. The person initiating the sexual act is responsible for getting consent. Victim Blaming is not okay. No rapist rapes by accident. The rapist has time to make a choice and with the wrong choice, victims suffer for a lifetime.