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I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. Like many survivors, I did not fully understand or process what had been done to me until adulthood. Trauma does not operate on a clean or predictable timeline. It delays recognition, fragments memory, and often prevents disclosure until years—sometimes decades—later. When I finally came forward and spoke publicly about the abuse I experienced as a child, I believed I was exercising a basic right: to tell the truth about what happened to me. Instead, I was met with coercion. After I disclosed the abuse, my abuser and his attorney issued legal threats and demands aimed at forcing me to retract my statements and remain silent. I was pressured to take down my survivor narrative and was threatened with financial and legal consequences simply for speaking about what was done to me as a child. At the same time, I have been unable to find legal representation of my own. Despite confirming documentation, despite the seriousness of the harm, and despite acting in good faith, I have been told repeatedly that my case is “too old,” “too difficult,” or financially unviable under existing laws. The result is a brutal imbalance of power: the person who abused me had legal counsel ready to threaten me, while I—his victim—could not find a lawyer willing or able to help me pursue justice. This is what survivors face when the law closes its doors. I did not choose to be abused. I did not choose how my mind protected me as a child. And I should not be punished, intimidated, or silenced for seeking accountability as an adult. No survivor should be subjected to legal threats from their abuser for telling the truth. No survivor should be forced to face an abuser’s attorney alone, without representation, simply because trauma delayed their ability to come forward. And no one should be denied access to the courts while those who harmed them are able to use the legal system as a weapon. That is why Trey’s Law matters. Trey’s Law is not about revenge. It is about access—access to justice, access to accountability, and access to the courts for survivors whose abuse could not realistically be confronted within rigid, outdated timelines. If abuse happens again to someone else—and we know it will—they should not have to endure what I have endured just to be heard. They should not be threatened for speaking. They should not be shut out of the legal system before they ever have a chance to stand in it. Trey’s Law recognizes the reality of trauma and corrects a system that currently protects abusers better than it protects the people they harmed. I am sharing my story not only for myself, but for every survivor who was told it was “too late,” who was pressured into silence, or who discovered that the hardest part was not surviving the abuse—but surviving the system afterward. I will not stop until the law honors who it should: the victims.

My first memory ever is the pain, pressure, fear, and disgust of being raped. I remember the heat of the room, the pressure and debilitating pain of it every crevice and hole possible he created pain. There’s not many good memories I remember at all honestly till I reached 3rd grade. From 3 to 8 every summer it was endless rape and pain in hopes to protect my brother and his siblings and the absolute fear he put in me. He was my moms friends son older then me but not much. He made me feel disgusting, dirty, petrified like I deserved this I was scared of him in every way. He was a horrible man no remorse but it makes me think something happened to him as well. It makes no sense that it could fit in my tiny mouth my private areas everywhere I still remember it like yesterday it felt like I was being ripped apart the pressure was unbearable. But I knew if I just went through with it and stayed quiet I would be free the rest of the day. I quickly learned to stay quiet when he brought out the BB gun though not a real gun I can tell you it hurt the one time I screamed for help he shot and shot and shot I hate the number 3. I get confused on how my parents and doctors didn’t know. I had constant utis, stomach issues, pain and burning my doctor said I was dramatic and nobody seemed to notice. I always cried for help in the bathroom for wiping but it was really because I was scared to even touch there it was so sore. But I denied every thing that I’m fine he convinced me this had to happen that I was worthless and this is what I was made for to help him and save the other kids from it. So he knew it was wrong yet he picked me. He took my childhood from me I lived in constant fear and anxiety I was petrified of everyone even class mates. I had horrific dreams every single night putting me in a state of paralyzing fear. In third grade I escaped so I thought. I made it until I started taking the route to our house it was the summer before 7th grade i was walking home from Work at the salon I don’t know how or why but there he was on Main Street both of us alone he pulled me into the bathroom on the brick building of the circle I didn’t make a noise why the fuck didn’t I make a noise how was he even there and again took everything away from me nobody stopped or cared. How did my family not know I was gone longer how did they not see the pain in my face and body I was on my period then he was so happy to promise he would be the farther of my baby one day. I was picked up most days I would tell my parents I really didn’t want to walk home most the time I’d be picked up but every single time I had to walk Wich was only 4 times he was there to destroy me again like he was watching my every move how did he know those days how I still don’t understand it. The salon would send me for lunches and of course I couldn’t drive so I had to walk everywhere I was petrified and swore he was watching then. After this I planned to kill myself but he soon died and I finally was free well my body was free but not my mind, I was still trapped in this hell of fear and hate for myself that he would find me again I still suffer every single day not a single day goes by without me thinking of that hell. There were times I could start to feel myself getting better and then it would come crashing down in disaster. Constant nightmares paralyzed fear anger. I wish to god I would have told people then I would have had so much more help and would have already been so much farther in recovery but I finally told someone! It started with my therapist who helped me find the courage to tell my family and every fear of not being believed and scared to be in trouble was proven wrong my family has done nothing but help me face this and though it’s proven to be harder before it’s better I am so happy I’ve started my recovery and hope to find peace soon! A support system is so important I couldn’t be more grateful for mine. I hope this can help others in some way if i could say anything to another survivor is that it will never be perfect but you will get better this does not define you.

I was young and naive. I didn't even know what rape was. I sought help from my friends only to be met with all of the "why didn't you...this?" or "why didn't you...that?" From that point on I blamed myself and never spoke about the rape. In my early adulthood, I had a coworker that recognized something in me and she asked me if I had been raped. She offered me support and resources. I still hadn't ever heard of any advocacy programs. At age 25, I applied for a new job working with child abuse victims. Little did I know, but they also worked with victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. I found my healing there and I continue to work there 31 years later. I found my healing and strength through educating the public and advocating for others. As I get older, I get bolder. I no longer fear sharing my story.

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.

Fuck every single one of you motherfuckers. Fuck what you did to me. Fuck what you said to me. Liars. Manipulators. Gaslighters. Heart breakers. Rapist .Takers. Evil. All these voices in my head get loud, I wish I could shut them out or kill them. Get out. Die. Go to hell. An empty void of nothingness. Everything that was and is, is gone. It never existed. I blend in with the darkness. I can't tell the difference between his hands and everyone else's. Trapped in that moment forever. Tainted. Fucking sickening. Maybe if I died, everyone would be happy. Burden free. A dead person can't feel pain. Another body in the graveyard. That's all I'll be. I need to get out. I need a way out.

I'm still angry. My boyfriend of 4 years raped me in January. We had talked about kids. Marriage. Our future together. I trusted him with my life. He knew that, and I often wonder if he used that. He gave me an edible and encouraged me to drink. I figured he would want nothing but the best for me, so I obliged. Like I said, I trusted him with my life. I blacked out. I remember about 5 minutes of the entire 4 hour ordeal. I remember saying I was dizzy and wanted to sleep, and he told me that the only way to not get sick from drinking (which was a big fear of mine) was to have sex. I was so intoxicated I couldn't hold myself up. I fell flat on my face a few times. It was 4 hours. 4 hours long of him taking advantage of me being unconscious. Due to some health issues, I couldn't have sex with him when conscious, so I guess he invited himself to it when I wasn't conscious. I'm still upset. But that's the thing: I am upset about the situation, but I don't hate him. Too many people keep asking why I continue to keep up with him after what he did. It isn't that black and white. I support people forgiving their abusers. I support people not forgiving their abusers. Right now, he's still in my life because he lives nearby and he's going through a lot and I try to help where I can. But I also am fully aware of my own limitations and what I can handle. I am helping him from an emotional distance. I hate what he did, but I don't hate him. I haven't cut him off yet, and I don't have to. Stop trying to fill in the ending to my story, and let me write it myself.

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.

five months after my first period, I sent my first nude. I was eleven years old dating a girl I met on xbox , thirteen. i see her years later on tiktok, living a happy life with a new partner feeling nostalgic for the year we shared. i feel anger despite knowing she is just another cog, another victim, but she put me through that cycle too. i was eleven, she was complimenting my newly developing curves and chest, i still wore a training bra. i feel so small in my trauma, it was through snapchat, xbox live , she never touched me, she never molested me, but i still feel those phantom arms wrapping around my sides, i still feel her eyes leering at me when i catch a glimpse at myself in the bathroom mirror in the moments before it fogs up. i still feel so horrible about what she did to me, i feel so angry about what she did, i doubt she meant to hurt me like this, we were so young. i'm an adult now, same as she. sometimes i find myself wanting to contact her again, to ask, "why?". part of me misses her, part of me wants to scream at her, part of me wants to have a civil conversation. i wish it were easier.

sorry that this is super long😭😭😭 when I was younger I was best friends with this girl we met on the first day of kindergarten and were inseparable and when we were 7 she started touching me on the school bus and I told the school and instead of helping they put me and her in the school counselor's office and she showed us a video of keeping our hands to ourselves and not letting other people touch out bodies 3 weeks she raped me in her bedroom and I didn't know what to do so I just laid there and didn't speak I think it made it worse that she is a girl and its not typical for females to rape other females so I felt as no one would believe me so I stayed quiet because of what happened the first time after that stuff kept happening but then I got into the 5th grade and we didn't see each other because it was there first real year of COVID so it was all basically online and we were in different classes but then 6th grade started and I was back to seeing her every day and that was super hard and she started to do that stuff and it was really bad on my mental health then she decided to punch me in the face for no reason so I stopped talking to her I ended up admitting myself to a psych ward where I did end up getting help and was doing better and I went to my ex friends play performance and this friend was friends with the girl at the time and I still wanted to be his friend so I because friends with her again and told her that I stopped talking to her because my best friend told me to that night she raped me in my own bedroom after I let her borrow my clothes my shows by hairbrush my everything and she still decided to rape me and that hurt and again like the first time I sat there doing and saying nothing for some reason I couldn't no matter what no matter what I thought no matter what I said nothing I was frozen I always everyone talk about fight or flight and no one ever talks about freeze even tho its one of the most common ones every time she did something like that I would freeze I wouldn't talk I would barely move I just laid there helpless like God was gonna send someone to help me but he never did I was all alone I was like a helpless dog dying on the side of the road and I just let her do it I said no once and after she didn't stop I gave up I didn't know what do do anymore and I didn't wanna repeat myself for some reason so thus I didn't after that I stopped talking to her all together and in 8th grade after being out as transgender for about a year when kids would say stuff what I would correct them on my name she would stand up for me and I hated that I hated it so much it made me feel like I couldn't hate her for raping me and assaulting me because now shes standing up for me so if I hate her I would be a bad person even tho I know I am not a bad person for hating her because I have every right to because of what she did to me even if it was a long time anyways I think that's it sorry again that this is super long I don't know what others look like so I don't know if mines actually long or not compared to other peoples but if you read all of this thank you for reading my story and I hope all of you have an absolutely amazing 💗💗💗

HE picked me up the first day in the shiniest white Toyota I’d ever seen. Hallucinating halos of light around him, I knew in my heart: this was the man I would marry. Almost 15 years older, but so handsome, so experienced. We seemed to have everything in common—intellectual passions (both personal and professional), unbreakable bonds with our widowed mothers, and a shared dream of building an all-American family home. Cruising through the crisp mid-October air, we swapped thoughts and expectations before arriving at Orlando’s downtown library. I’d never even dated before. He, meanwhile, had recently lost out on a girl named Name. After attending a free 3D modeling class, we drove home through the area. Admiring the street art and neighborhood history, Name 2grinned widely. He talked endlessly about books, so our biweekly “dates” shifted to Barnes & Noble. Marriage dreams swirled through my mind; I thought I was in heaven, Ignorance is bliss. Or in this case—a kiss. Her name was Name 3 Emphasis on the DIE. At first, she didn’t look harmful. A government employee and the grandmother of my future children, Provider Name seemed overjoyed when Name 2 told her I’d proposed. She served me huge slices of homemade pistachio cake during what should have been one of our cozy courtship nights at home. On weekends, we both did laundry and cleaning. Even after I returned from an emergency psychiatric stay, she hugged me. Told me she loved me. Promised I was safe. “What’s mine is yours,” she said. Food, water, shelter, family, a bed—even help looking for work. She was like… a mother-in-law to me. Somewhere in that 4 month bloody scuffle - my hymen snapped, and someone forced me to fellate them repeatedly. I thought it was my fiancé on top of me when it happened. But he wasn’t my fiancé. Which means she wasn’t my mother in law either…

I know it was his fault Not my 12-year-old self’s fault  We know it but the guilt sticks to us anyway  I have done plenty of things to feel guilty about since.    But then it was not my fault, yet I could have done so much better.  The guilt is there.  Like burn scars.   I did not block out the memory because I participated consciously.    It was my first job.  $6 per hour.  When my uncle started giving me massages in his repair shop, I was already changing. I had urges. New urges and sensations. I had kissed boys at school.  The massages were creepy and felt creepy.  Right after I started working there.  I declined them, but in a token, way. I did not try to move away. Not very hard.  I was a roller blader with my cousins. I took long skates around town. I ached sometimes. That’s how it made a little sense I would need a massage.  I ignored the obvious—that he sent both the man employees away or home for our sessions, and we kept it secret. Even from my friends. I knew it was not on the level.  I knew he was being a perv. My boss. My uncle.  The dragon. I would lay on the massage table in the back and let him touch me.  He bought it a week after he started the touching. I was still awkward about it and the table make it seem legit   It felt good.  My back and shoulders to start, but he spent most of the time on my legs and butt. That’s where most of the muscle is, especially on a skinny in-line skater girl. It was probably the most athletic time of my life. I did not do sports again.  Not eating was my exercise plan eventually.  I was sort of tall then but I stopped growing at fourteen. I would squirm when he would rub my vulva through my clothes while doing my upper thighs and he would tell me to relax. The first time he brought oil I did not take anything off because I was wearing shorts.   He had a plan. He got two bottles of oil so I could take one home and put it on so the smell would not seem weird when I came home smelling like vanilla.   It suddenly became normal that I would sit down, take off my shirt, and shorts or pants, and lay down. He would take off my panties.  No bra then. I never really needed one.    This was my job!   I was getting paid to do what he said.  I still feel shame that I kept quiet as he escalated it. It was such a gradual damn process from the occasional brush through the clothes to my vulva being fully part of the massage on the way down. I breathed hard while he did it. I couldn’t help it.  That was the routine.    It felt so intense.  Of course.   I got used to his hands on my body. I thought about it all the time.  I did not know what my clitoris was. Even though it felt crazy I thought it was less bad when he touched it than when he touched my labia because it was just a low part of my belly, not my privates. I’m crying right now.  To think what I didn’t know and HE DID!  He was a selfish immoral prick. A predator. Probably still is.  He warned me before he used his mouth the first time.  I was on my stomach.  He put his face between my legs.  I couldn’t see him.   I immediately tried to get up and said “No, no, no, no, no, no.” rapid fire.   He apologized. I rolled over. We hugged.  He spent some time rubbing my face, temples, and ears. He knew I liked that.  Then he got real stern. The only time he ever scolded me. Told me not to behave like a baby.  I worked for HIM.  Not the other way around. He was doing this FOR ME.   Used his strength to hold my thighs and went at it with his mouth and tongue until I went still. I stared up at the ceiling tiles. He stopped when he thought I had liked it. I think it was my breathing. I learned to breathe hard and make sounds to make him happy.  Shame. Guilt. I went from dreading that part to looking forward to it.  I felt cooler than other girls at school.  Cooler than my cousin.    Dragon and I were cool with each other, like we had a fun inside secret.    We would kiss sometimes. Make out.  He stopped staying fully dressed. I did not realize what he was doing until he showed me.  The dragon was masturbating.  Seeing it was so insane that it was scary.  I got used to these kinds of freaky adrenaline rushes. Revolting and exciting.   I was just a girl.    Then I wasn’t.  Never again.  He would use fingers in me and I would have something like mini climaxes.    Then he would stand and jerk it right over me at the end and drip it on me.  I thought it was gross.  So gross. We had a roll of paper towels by the table to wipe me off.  While he drove me home it was ALWAYS like it never happened. I did not know at the time that men completely change and lose interest after they purge it.  If he would have tried to have sex with me it probably would have kept going. No more virgin after three months of foreplay. Ignorant bliss that would crash and burn me one day.  BUT he wanted a blowjob one day.  Maybe he thought it was an easier transition.  He was wrong! I was so revolted by it that I vomited, got a headache, and that night told my parents.  Shame on me for waiting so long!  Shame on me for taking pleasure in his predation!  Shame on him for being a HORRIBLE MAN!  Shame on my parents for letting him tell most of the story his way!    Because I was too young to articulate it right.    Shame on me for keeping quiet while he apologized to me in front of them in the kitchen. I was not even sure what he told them before they called me in. My parents both seemed relieved after he cleared it up.  Most of all, shame on me for letting it sit that way.    A cowardly silence and head nod that was my signature on a contract with the devil.    I lost my soul without a fight.  Hating him costs hating myself.  That is my first guilt.

When I was 8 I was molested by my older 13 year old “friend.” It was a typical grooming situation with secrets we can’t tell others that weren’t playing our “game”. This time was very confusing and I felt like I couldn’t talk to my parents or sister about it. It lasted for months- touching, hiding spots, secrets, oral sex, and vaginal sex. She ended up telling her friends at school - my mom was a school counselor that worked there. She overheard and reacted. She came to my elementary school and said that the girl said that I started it. I felt completely unsupported by my mom- unloved, unheard, not trusted, hurt, broken. I shut down from then emotionally. My parents didn’t hug me or tell me it wasn’t my fault or anything it was just pure fear and chaos and their disbelief that they didn’t know it happened even though it would happen in the same room as them sometimes. I told them this and they still couldn’t validate me or take responsibility- they never even cried for me- for the devastation I went through. We went on like all was normal. When I was 11 I started trying drinking. When I was 13 I basically wanted to die but didn’t know why. I went to a different school when I was 14 and it was all people that were upper class- I didn’t quite fit it but it was very important to my parents that we did. I was stealing to have the clothes the other girls wore- I didn’t want to depend on my parents. I then got into my first relationship at 15 and lost my virginity in the back of his car- it was abusive- verbally, sexually, emotionally and psychologically. He would intimidate me by throwing boxes, raging, screaming in my face for hours, calling me every name in the book and not letting me leave the house- he isolated me from my friends- and cheated on me whenever he wanted. That lasted for 2 years. Then I went to college, broken. I was raped 10 times when I was in college at parties or in their dorm room or mine. I woke up with a condom inside me one time… bruises on my vagina another… with no recollection of how or who did it. I was over drinking so I felt like they were my fault. I told the dean of students about one time I got roofied and nothing happened- he was a D2 football player so got a slap on the wrist. He then harassed and followed me for months intimidating me saying I was lying and ruined my reputation. I felt the same every time I woke up- confused, shocked, embarrassed, sick, alone, empty, raw, and scared to death- how did it happen again. I got sober thinking that would stop the assaults- I have since been assaulted and taken advantage of on multiple dates. Most recently, at work, I was sexually harassed for months and raped at my coworkers house. I reported it after he was reported to HR by another colleague and the state police didn’t do a thorough investigation and didn’t seem to believe me or care. He violated the restraining order and has faced no ramifications- he is a nurse. I have undergone trauma treatment for 6 months now. Healing means waking up in the morning free to do what I want, when I want, where I want, with who I want. I am learning how to voice myself and say no, set boundaries and speak up when I am uncomfortable. I have come a long way from the chaos and trauma that I reenacted without a solution. I go to sex and love addicts anonymous meetings- I went no contact, went through a painful withdrawal and am starting to see things differently. I see that the lies were not love. Love bombing isn’t love. I was chasing a fantasy of someone I wanted him to be but he never was. I live in mental health housing and I’m looking for a job. I have peace now because I spoke up. I am grateful to be alive. I pray anyone in an unsafe situation trusts the smallest voice inside you that knows what is happening isn’t right. I pray you get out safely with a plan. Don’t think “I should have” or “I was smarter than this” we are smart and we may have known better, but abusers are good at what they do - mine was when I was 15 and I recreated that traumatic hell for 15 more years. It needs to end now. I deserve a good life with a healthy person. I deserve to be treated with respect and love. I am loveable, and I am worthwhile. I say affirmations each day to move toward the life I want and not look back to a life where I was suffering in silence. I thank God everyday that I get the chance to heal, pray, laugh and have the chance to know what real love looks like, starting with my friendships. I hope to find and participate in therapy groups so I can continue to be vulnerable and heal. I hold on to the hope that I will feel safe in my body as I did when I did to prepare for EMDR. I had never felt safe in my body before. I will feel this again- I wake up every day with hope. Things are getting better slowly, healing is possible, and I am grateful for the start of a new life.

I am a cis-gender, woman. For as long as I can remember, I have identified as bisexual. I was never "closeted", but I did grow up in the mid-Atlantic suburbs in the '70s, so having a girlfriend who was anything more than a "buddy" wasn't even available to me. In fact, it wasn't until 1973 that homosexuality was removed from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). So I didn't grow up thinking that I could ever act on my feelings for women. As I matured, I dabbled a little bit, but not anything fulfilling. My longing for sexual intimacy with a woman increased in intensity once I hit peri-menopause. At a certain stage in my adult life, I found myself obsessing 24/7 about having a sexual relationship with a woman. That day came when I ran into someone from my past - someone whom I knew was gay - someone to whom I had a strong, physical attraction that was so unbearable, it nearly drove me mad. Seriously. I still question whether I was in my right mind when we were together because in hindsight, I tolerated behavior from her that was incredibly abusive and abnormal, just so I could get laid. Because in the beginning, the sex was great. The first time we kissed, my head almost exploded. And when we finally had sex, I felt as if the whole world came to a stop, and I realized that THIS IS WHAT HAD BEEN MISSING FROM MY LIFE! But, just as adolescents confuse chemical changes associated with sex with love, so did I. When she gazed into my eyes and told me that she had always loved me, I believed her. It felt magical. I was enchanted. And, I thought that I was in love with her too. The abuse started a few months after we began "dating". I put that word in quotes, because she was so closeted that we didn't dare hold hands in public or get caught kissing. (By the way, her reaction to getting "caught" was SO extreme, that she violently pushed me away with both hands, the day her landlord caught me hugging her goodbye, as he took out the garbage.) We were in the car, driving home from a day of hanging out in the city. Much of her abuse happened in the car because there, I was a captive audience who couldn't escape her ranting, raving, screaming, punching the door, the windshield, throwing things … We'd both had too much to drink that day, she had flirted with someone else (as she always did, I realize now in hindsight), words were exchanged between us about the incident, and she flew into a rage. She punched the car's rearview mirror so hard that it snapped off and flew across the car, missing my face by inches. I sat mutely in shock, frightened because we were in a moving vehicle on a major highway. It was then that I should have ended it. It was then that I should have seen her for who she really was, rather than who I was dreaming she could be. It was then that I realized that something didn't feel good about 'this" anymore. I stayed with her for 5 more years, during which time she trapped me in the car with abusive tantrums regularly. That night was just a preview! During the on again / off again time that we were together, she made grand, romantic promises to me about a life together; living in a nice house, all the money she was going to make, blah, blah, blah. In her next breath, she would berate ME for not making enough money, for not having more important or more interesting friends. She taunted me for not being - as she put it - "a spectacular fuck". And - more than once - she put me down for having had sex with men before we met. Or as she put it, "All the dick you sucked before we met". This, despite the fact that she had undergone two abortions (after having unprotected, reckless sex with men of course) and that she constantly flirted with them when we were out. She also bragged to me about her former lovers (all of whom had either died or cut her out their lives completely). She was homophobic. She said that she hated being gay, and that she hated me for being gay. She would insist that I wasn't gay at all. "You're just a straight chick who gets off on fucking women", she said to me. A laughable statement, because THIS is what turned HER on! I was not the first woman that she believed she had "turned", despite my protests that I am and always have been, bisexual. She delusionally thought that she had some kind of special power to turn straight women gay. She would have melt-downs any time that I wanted us to be a visible couple, insisted that I could not "come out" - even though we traveled to places that were gay friendly, had gay friends and that we WERE gay. The emotional abuse increased in frequency, but took place in secrecy, so I had nowhere to turn. I began to live with a knot in my stomach and depression started to take over my life to the point where I not only lost my identity, but I lost my desire to live. The secrecy that she forced me into kept her abuse of me a secret too, even from our mutual friends. Each time that I tried to break up with her, those big, fat, alligator tears would start. For me, that's really hard to take from a woman. I've seen men cry, but HER tears sucked me back in every time. Sucked. That's a good word for it, on many levels. She was sucking the life out of me and I was the sucker who fell for her lies, every time I tried to break it off. She reeled me back in each time, like a fish on a hook. One day, as she stood in my kitchen berating me once again, immediately after I had taken her on another miserable vacation where all she did was put me down, I finally snapped. "Get the fuck out" I said. My calm tone must have really frightened her, because she left. Finally. I'd had enough mental and emotional abuse. There was nothing wrong with me and yet, she berated me and criticized me constantly. I had gained weight, I had lost friends, my own family didn't recognize me anymore. "Your attention span is so short, maybe fingerpaints would be good for you!" She actually SAID this to me! This is how she treated me. Constantly. But I stayed with her, for the promise of what I thought we might have. Promises that she filled my head with, in bed when we had sex. Sex, that she slowly began to use as a weapon of control and manipulation over me. She withheld physical affection, flirted with other women, and treated me like shit. Then, in the very next breath, she would suggest that we open a joint bank account, "For our future", she said with a warm smile and a sparkle in her eye. Thankfully, I never fell for that lie. I've always worked hard for my money, and I wasn't going to share it with someone who turned out to be a fucking monster, a liar, and an imposter. I already suffered from PTSD, and she preyed upon it. It increased in intensity while we were together. When I met her, I was a very pretty, self-confident woman in great physical shape. My years with my abuser turned me into an overweight, anxious, angry, depressed person who trusts no one, and drinks too much alcohol. Therapy and breathing techniques help, along with a prescription for Xanax that I take occasionally, but I still feel shame over having stayed in an abusive relationship for so long. I'm not a mental health professional, nor do I think it's appropriate for any layperson to "diagnose" someone (some of those "professionals" shouldn't either, by the way), but several personality disorders come to mind when I think of her such as ... Narcissistic … Histrionic … Borderline … even bipolar. In closing, I despise her and what she did to me. I'm glad that I finally rid my life of her, even though she tried several more times to weasle her way back in. I will always HATE her … but I'm beginning to love myself again.

I was Sexually Assaulted by a Rideshare Driver a few year’s ago. What was supposed to be a quick trip from Point A to Point B only turned out to be a disaster for me and my Family. My Rideshare Driver started saying things to me while he was driving and then he stopped the Car and kept saying things to me sexually and then he grabbed my Private Parts and it freaked me out and I was really shocked and I couldn’t do anything and then I told him no stop it and to leave me alone. Finally I was able to break free from him and I finally got to my correct destination through another way. I am now dealing with several mental and health problems because of it and my life is still a total wreck.

How does one even know what happened? It’s so far locked away. What if I’m making it all up. I’m so scared that I’ve painted a negative image of these people in my mind for nothing. But then again, I remember one thing clearly. Agony. Pure agony. As I felt helpless. And in the future when I felt unable to say no to any older or larger man, because it hadn’t worked in the past. Why would it start working now? As someone who believed that everything happens for a reason, I struggle to find any sort of comfort in that statement. It’s all messed up now. I know what happened. Maybe I doubt myself because I don’t want it to be true. After my dad died, there was no one left to protect me from these people. I was all alone. Living in a household full of young females. The only solace I’m able to find is that it was only me, not them. I was the one without a say. Whether I want to acknowledge it or not, I am a victim. Genuinely. Even if what I know physically happened didn’t, I’d be in the same boat. Harassed. I shouldn’t have met up with them. I should’ve trusted my gut, what my father taught me. But fear wrecked my common sense. Almost 3 years later and I am just now remembering what my brain tried so desperately to hide from me. I always knew there was something wrong with those experiences. But shied away from any sort of label. I am no longer scared of you. It is time to speak my truth. You. Raped. Me

My name is Name. I grew up with a mother, two sisters, and a stepfather that stepped up to be my Dad when my biological father passed at 7 years old. My step father became someone I looked up to in a time where I didn’t know how to navigate grief. He was my Dad and I was proud to call him that. When I was 10 years old, the one I called my Dad molested me in our backyard. I was told that if I were to tell anyone we would be homeless and I would break the family apart if I were to say a word. That was the day I grew silent. I didn’t quite know the extremity of the situation until I was 11 years old. I discovered what he had done to me through a movie that I was watching unsupervised. I remember the exact moment I figured it out. Holding back my tears, I rushed to the shower and began to wash my body. I thought that if I washed hard enough somehow I could be wiped clean from impurity. I took the blame for what happened and dared not to say anything because if I did, all I could picture was my mom and sisters on the streets since he was the only one bringing in the money to live on. From 11-13 years old it was only mere comments and mandatory kissing of the lips, but that was my normal. I didn’t know it wasn’t normal in other households until a friend of mine noticed. I began to grow suspicion of how much I might be in danger from something happening again as I grew older. When I was 14, he found a video of me and my friends on my phone one night. He used it against me and said that what we did on our video would send me to jail for a long time, and if I didn’t do what he says, he would email it to the police. He began to groom me and the kisses began to turn into 10 kisses in a row. He would come in my bedroom, my bathroom, the dressing rooms, my bed, and when he was driving he would hold my hand or put his hand on my thigh. When I would try to stand up for myself, he would threaten to take the doors off my bathroom and bedroom. The moment I knew I was in deeper danger, was the night that he suggested intercourse and sexual activity in order to have a car or go to college. I ran inside to tell my mom, but she didn’t believe me. I knew that something had to change, but I felt stuck. I didn’t know what to do. When I was 15 years old, I went to a church camp with the youth group of my Grandma’s church. One day the group I was in had a prayers circle. It was an opportunity for campers to say what is on my heart. When it was my turn, I told them everything. On the last day of camp, the head of the camp who flew out to meet me, told me that I am safe and they called Children’s Protection Services. My heart sank, but I knew somehow everything was going to be okay. The rest of my summer consisted of meetings and preparation for trial. The trial came several months later, but I was not believed. My whole life, I tried to protect my sisters from the same thing, but when I wasn’t believed, I began to feel as if I was failing to protect them. Not only that but my first sister who was 10 years old at the time wanted nothing to do with me, and although I was angry of being pushed out by my mother and sister, I had my grandparents and had my baby sister, who was 5 at the time, to adore me and see me as I was with full belief. 7 years later at 22 years old, the one I once called Dad got sentenced to life in prison. How? The same thing happened to my younger sister just 5 years a part from me. There was enough proof, and it was the day where the jury, the judge and half a filled room believed me., but this time, both my sisters shut me out. Within a 12 years period of my life I felt alone, unseen, and unheard. Since I came out with my story when I was 15, I felt even more alone, unseen, and unheard. The rest of the family didn’t know anything about what happened to me because my family lives in secret. Secrets, Suffering, Silence. The 3 S’s my life consisted of. Finally at 22 I could breathe. 12 years of weight was lifted off my shoulders and even though my baby sister’s attitude change towards me, she was safe, and that was all that mattered to me. When I was 23 years old, my younger sister, who was also molested as I was, the one I tried to protect since I was 11, died from fentanyl. It was then when I vowed to never be silent again. At 25 years old, I left everything I knew to somehow embark a journey where I travel the world to speak message of liberation, change, and awareness. My hope is that the little girls and boys like us, the survivors, can hear the story of a girl as they are somewhere around the world terrified to leave their bedroom, with the hope they march out that bedroom and say “No, I will not stand up for this any longer. I refuse to remain silent.” My love goes to every once hurt child, teenager, or adult. You are not alone. Thank you for reading. More about my story is found on my Link

We were both 8 or 9 at the time. Some kids kept telling us explicit stories at recess and got their voices in our heads. We thought we had to do it because they told us to. All I remember is what I was wearing and small details about it. It wasn’t our fault. I don’t think I knew how to handle it and I eventually ended up dragging it onto another girl. I never touched her, but she told her mom. I got in trouble. I still haven’t said anything.

I have been married for 14 years. Within this last year I have come to realize that my marriage is not "normal". I was told early on, by my husband, that he was a narcissist. I quickly dismissed him and said he was nothing like that. Now... Idk. He is very controlling, but we have no sex life. I have to ask to be intimate and 99% of the time the answer is no. This is the confusing to me. I thought narcissist liked sex. As soon as we were married the sex stopped. I know I am in an unhealthy relationship, but I am just now realizing this. For 14 years this has been my life and I just accepted it. Now I am confused and scared of what the future will be. I am so devoted to him. I have been trained to be this person and I don't know who I am outside of it.

For a long time I hid behind the shame of what happened to me. It took a long time and some therapy before I was able to speak about my childhood. Growing up in a chaotic home due to parents that were addicts made it easy for me to be hurt. I always thought that somehow it was my fault. I don’t remember every part of what happened but the pieces that I can recall are unsettling. I have memories of an older cousin showing myself and two other cousins different parts of his body as a child. I knew it was wrong and from what I remember, most of it was being in a dark living room with the TV on and trying to hide from an adult seeing us. After some time I remember my female cousin who was the same age as me showing me how to masturbate and later on we engaged in oral sexual acts on various occasions. Her bother who was two years younger than me would touch me until I caved in to do things with him as well. I just remember feeling so scared that someone was going to find out. I can’t even recall how we learned how to do those things. I was embarrassed but also terrified of an adult finding out and us getting into trouble. I carried that shame with me forever and always felt like it was my fault since I was older than him. I wish I could recall all of the details and how it all started and ended. Later in life, I had a guy over to hook up with which I regret. After we had sex the first time I was done. I didn’t want to have unprotected sex but I didn’t stop him when he started up again. I just remembered feeling frozen and the sound of his breathing and his smell made me relive the experiences with my cousin. That was when I decided to talk to my therapist about what had happened. It took a while for me to understand that I had no reason to feel shame and that it was not my fault. I have worked on my healing process and I can understand it a lot better now as an adult.

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