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I was ran through before I even became a woman. I cant remember anything from my early childhood besides random snippets of conversations, arguments between my parents, and blurred pictures. I think now I finally understand why. It started when I was around 5 and lasted up until around 10. My grandma was a drug addict back then, and since no one else could watch me after school and on breaks, I was always with her. I loved her, I didnt understand her lifestyle at all and followed her just about anywhere I could. We always went on crazy adventures that, before today, I would look back on with a sort of nostalgic wonder. The memories were strange, almost like a book you would read in elementary school because thats how my brain processed all traumatic memories I think- they were altered into fairytales. One memory in particular, however, had no fairytale elements. A friend of my grandma's she always hung around was tall, I remember never being able to see his face- kind of like those old children's cartoons' portrayal of adults. He always had a stench to him and a slur in his speech. The first day I met him, I was wearing my favorite striped dress and my hair done in pigtails with red ballies. I was happy with myself that day, I got so many compliments, so many stares- but for some reason, only his stares and compliments terrified me. He was touchy, his breath was thick with alcohol and other substances ill never know the name of. He wasnt the only man who did this to me. I came into contact with many men after that, all just a drugged up and drunk as the last. If they harassed me, my grandma wouldn't care- she was probably under the influence of her own stuff. I vaguely remember some phrases- a man teaching me how to kiss with tongue, another man giving praise for using my mouth on him, and I never remembered any of it the next day. The acts I did, however, stuck with me. I would often touch myself and rub my private parts on things in my room, sucking on things that resembled genitalia. I was incredibly hypersexual, I even put my head down at school and "made out" on tables while having my pants pulled down from my hips and hump nothing. It's been affecting me ever sense, I dont know what to do. Every time an older man looks at me a dread thats almost paralyzing. I cant stand being touched anymore now that I remember, which im scared to convey because I've always been super touchy (not in an intimate way) with my friends- I dont know how to tell them. I zone out a lot, but now its more frequent and I'm scared it will get worst. Please, if you have any advice, share it. I cant let this ruin my life and it was so long ago.

I’m 56 years old and have spent most of my life trying to understand what happened to me growing up — not just what was done, but what was allowed. My mother didn’t hit me. Her weapons were colder: control, shame, silent punishments, and subtle emotional games that left no visible marks. She taught me love was conditional. If I pleased her, I got slivers of approval. If I spoke out, I was punished or exiled. Even joy was rationed — too much of it and she’d find a way to ruin it. Her moods ruled the house. Everyone learned to tiptoe. She told others she was doing her best. She played the victim so well — struggling mom, too burdened to care. But at home, it was all about control. She’d withhold affection, twist your words, cry on command, and convince you that you were the problem. I internalized all of it. I grew up believing I was unworthy, difficult, broken. Worse, she brought a man into our lives who raped me. I now know she saw things. I remember moments — things she would have had to notice, hear, sense. But she chose silence. Whether out of denial or protection for herself, she turned away. That betrayal has been harder to heal than the abuse itself. Because the person who was supposed to protect me not only failed to — she facilitated the harm. When I became a mother myself, I tried to do better — to break the cycle — but the damage was already seeded. It affected how I parented, how I loved, how I trusted. It fractured parts of me that I’m still putting back together. Even now, my mother continues to manipulate and control. She paints herself as a caretaker, but she makes dangerous decisions. She isolates her dying partner from his loved ones and undermines his medical needs. She is still trying to rewrite the story. Still trying to erase mine. But I won’t let her. I’m writing this because I need it spoken somewhere outside of me. I need to reclaim the truth: I was there. I didn’t imagine it. And it wasn’t my fault. To anyone reading who is still doubting their memory or blaming themselves — I see you. You’re not crazy. You’re not alone. And what happened to you mattered. I survived her. I am still here. And I am no longer silent.

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.

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

i have autism and i had been raped in my old class by a old man that looked like Putin, his face looked familiar but i can't verify it because i had never went to the hospital for rape check expect other things, i was having urinary incontinence for months and after months when the female police came i told her that my weeks old baby fall down the toilet after taking the pill She didn't write her note. only when she write it when my abusive and manipulated father tell her that i had "paranoia" and bah bah bah with evil-looking voice. i had been verbally abused and mocked after telling my parents about the sexual abuse at my home and then after that i decided to silence myself to avoid being abused again. i just wanna share with you i thought i can't because i was afraid i will get killed and getting taken down, i hate being slienced. i hate the way that my government and social media didn't provide accessible help but i finally found this website that i can share it with you.

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.

As an only child, I had no one to look up to really as a kid. But I always looked up to my Dad. Even though he was never really around due to work (although Mam worked more than he did and still found lots of time to spend with me), I still idolised him. He was my hero. He would always say 'Dads know everything - remember that', so lying to my dad (even little white lies) were pointless. Though when I hit 13 I began to realise he actually DID know everything. He knew what myself and my friends would talk about, he would know exactly where I was and who I was with without even needing to ask me, and I would always wonder why. In reality he had my phone tracked and could read all my messages. Now that I have been through the court system and he has been imprisoned for the abuse he inflicted upon me, I can confirm that he was in fact grooming me from the age of 13. About a month after my 18th Birthday, began the horrific 7.5 year abuse that I suffered. My Dad, masked for the first 2 years as a stranger, blackmailed me into performing sexual acts with strange men in our home - the one place I should've felt safe. When I finally realised it was him, I couldn't tell you how it then turned into just open ended abuse and rape from him. He would advertise us as a couple on hook up sites and in order to avoid physical beatings I would go along with it. I feared for my life so much that endless rapes and sexual assaults were easier - imagine that being the easiest choice - until you're in it, you just don't know how you'll react. I stopped going out, I gave up my hobbies, whilst in college I gave up my part time job - he controlled every single part of my life. And if I even let my "everything is rosey' mask slip even for a second, especially in front of my Mam, well it just doesn't bear thinking about. Fortunately for me, once Mam did find out, he was gone out of my life within 30 mins. Unfortunately, he went on to groom and abuse others after that. He was convicted, and is currently serving his prison sentence - but the fear of him stilll remains.

I am a child sexual abuse survivor living in Canada with an NDA for childhood sexual abuse for the past 28 years. When I sought to lift my NDA in 2018 after my abuser had died, the British Columbia court denied me and refused to lift the NDA. So, for the past seven years, I have been advocating both provincial and federal politicians in Canada to ban the misuse of NDAs for childhood sexual abuse survivors. With the passage of Trey's Law in both Texas and Missouri (and more states soon, I hope!), this will place pressure on the Canadian government and the provinces to pass similar legislation. I'm very heartened (and healed too!) by all of the survivors sharing their stories in the Missouri and Texas legislatures. All of this testimony is very important as evidence to prove the long-term extensive damage of an NDA on a childhood abuse victim for ensuing court cases. (This kind of evidence of long-term damage was missing in my BC court case; as a result, my application to lift the NDA was denied). We all need to keep speaking out to change the future for children. We might not be able to change the past, but we can certainly change the present and make the world safer for others. After a great deal of suffering for many years, I can see now that the suffering has had a meaning. As a result, I have become a stronger person. I am not thankful for the abuse, but it seems to me that a greater force in the universe is helping all victims to completely change the world right now. It is an unprecedented moment in human history and we all need to keep moving this incredible change forward. Thank you to Trey's Law and to all the survivors who have spoken in support of Trey's Law.

I had a tough year, I had lost a parent, I had been cheated on, I had to end a very good friendship. That summer I was going to have a good time, and enjoy being young. After work one day, I sprung up the idea to go on a night out with my cousin who had a similar year to mine. We went out for drinks, the two of us going through the same motions of a night out, batting off creeps at the bar, dancing, having a good time. We met with one of her old school friends and his friend, and I took a liking to the friend. We all piled up in a taxi and went back to their place. We all had a couple more drinks, and my cousin and her school friend went upstairs, leaving me with the other friend. One thing lead to another and we went upstairs. Through the motions there were things that didn't feel right, and I tried to tell him to stop, that I was uncomfortable, that I didn't want to do that, but he didn't listen, he just kept going. When finally, it was over and I just felt frozen in time, more concerned for my cousin in the next room, and not about myself, being in a scary position. My phone had died and nobody had a charger for it, so I had to beg the guy who had just assaulted me to order a taxi, because I didn't know what part of town I was in at the time, but all I knew was that I had to get home, and fast. All I remember was my cousin getting annoyed at me for leaving, but I didn't care, I wanted to get home, I wanted to be safe. I remember the taxi driver, it was a woman who told me about her son living in locationand how humid it was that time of year. It mightn't have been much, but it was comforting in that moment. I remember the streetlights reflecting on the rows of houses in that suburb, which still haunt me any time I pass through that area, sending a shiver down my spine. She pulled up to my house, the sun was starting to come up, my dad left the porch light on. I undressed and took a shower. Still not processing what had happened, I wrote in my journal and tried to pass it off as a silly dating fail, but knowing at the back of my mind it wasn't okay. I couldn't sleep so I read a book and the following day, took my younger sibling out into town to get school supplies for the new year. Months passed, and I tried to tell a friend about what happened to me, but all they could say to me was: "Well, what do you expect, that's what happens when you hook up with random people" and I retreated into myself. After that point, I went a long time without telling people what happened until I was visiting another friend in a different city and I decided to go on a date with someone I matched with on an app. As I was about to board the metro to get to the date, I froze up, I panicked, I started to cry. My friend immediately asked what happened, if I was okay, and was there anything she could do to help. I couldn't say it was nothing, because it wasn't nothing. It was something that shook me to my core, made me think I was in the wrong for enjoying my sexuality. I didn't go on the date, but what I did do was tell my friend what had happened, and instead of being met with judgement, I was met with kindness, compassion, and love. We left the train station, picked up bits for a self-care night, and I was allowed to be myself in a space where I was believed and listened to. It took me a good while to feel comfortable in myself, how I looked, how I expressed myself, how I even was in relationships. If it weren't for the friend who made sure I was okay and I was safe, I mightn't be sharing my story right now. There are still times when I pass through that same neighborhood, hear that person's name, or even go pass the bar we met at, and a cold wave passes through me, but I'm proud of the work I have put in to not let it ruin my day, get me down, or define me.

I (24,m) was sexual abused by my best friend at the time we were 10 years old. I was in 3rd grade and had to repeat that grade, so i lost a lot of contact to my friends. I stayed in contact with one friend, the perpetrator, and our friendship grew a lot. When i was at his home he showed me gay porn, this was the first time i came into contact with the topic of sex outside of sex ed class. I wasn't really interrested in it and, nothing more happened that day, but in retrospect I think, the friend was maybe kind of testing the waters. Some weeks later, we were at my place, where the abuse happened. I lived in a multi appartment house, and my mother had rented one appartment two sories down of our main appartment, so my father could move his office down there, we could have a guest room for family menbers that came to visit. I also had a model train down there, and me and the friend spend a lot of time there and played with the train. One day, in the winter time we decided to go tobogganing at a nearby hill. On the way to the hill, and on the way back, my friend talked me into trying out the things we saw in the porn video with him. First i said no to this, as i was only 10 and not interested in this kind of stuff, but he told me this kind of actions are normel for friends, and eventually i said yes. Back at my place, he still tried to talk me into it, and i remember that i didn't wanted to do these things, but was scared to loose him as my friend. Because at that time he was the only one of my old friends i had stayed in contact with. I remember that we were kissing, dry hummping, and me on top of him rubbing our private parts together. But the friend wanted to also try out sex with me. So he talked me into oral sex. After that he treid to talk me into letting him have anal sex with me. He wanted that i take a shower and clean myself up for this, but luckily I never said yes and after the 3rd time of trying to convince me he accepted that somehow. But he wanted oral sex again in exchange. To that i said yes, so he wouldn't be and at me. But i remember that i backed off of him at first to the edge of the bed and to the corner of the wall and sometimes still feel the cold wallpapper touching my back. I remember feeling very confused by all of this, and still to this day 15 years later, i am scared of intimacy with other people and get panic attacts even by just laying in bed with someone or cuddling half naked. I also felt a lot of guilt, because i wasn't forced to to these things and said yes. But today I know better, that i was child , didn't really know what was happening and that he abused my trust and lack of knowledge. I hope i will get better soon, and maybe heal from this. I also hope all the best to all of you survivors out there. What ever happened, it was not our fault.

10/10/18 My Daughter, These Things I Know Do not go to bed angry Make eye contact Offer a firm handshake Smile at people—stranger and friend alike No one will remember in one month Exercise your mind Go outside Studying does not count without a pen Focus on your lifestyle over your waistline Say yes to travel Say yes to long car rides Say yes to sharing one on one moments Pick up a book—the closest we have to time travel Take pictures Please and Thank you matter Raise your argument rather than your voice Time heals Your body is yours—to explore, to protect, to celebrate There is strength in vulnerability Know when you do not know Parents are just people too Never turn your back on the ocean You will make mistakes Forgive yourself—now try again It is alright to not be alright Write it down Practice loyalty A habit forms in seven days—stick with it Sing in the car—blame the voice on your mother Do not get on a motorcycle Be kind—stranger and friend alike Stay humble Stay curious Do not walk alone at night Do not pretend that is fair Stand your ground Know when to not stand your ground Find your people—love them fiercely and fully Trust your gut You are not alone

I was assaulted by a man, who was an acquaintance, in my apartment. We had hooked up once before, and it had been quick but fine. Things started consensually, but at one point it began to hurt me and I asked him if we could stop. At that point, he pushed down on my upper back, high enough that my mouth was half pushed into the pillow. I froze, and couldn't move at all. I just waited for him to finish whatever it was he wanted to do. The aftermath was extremely confusing. I first thought that it was just a bad experience. But as the months went on, I realised it was playing on my mind too much to be dismissed as that. Six months after the assault, I sought some medical tests. It was a year after, amid a particular run of sexual assault stories in the media, that I contacted rape crisis centre to get help. I also reported to the Gardai several years after my assault, and while they handled it well they also warned that if I was to pursue an investigation that the process could be very exposing and I chose not to take it further. My assault took place only six months after I had come out as queer, and so it felt like much of what I had worked hard to accept about myself and to go through as part of coming out was impacted -- the freedom to be who I was and to enjoy my sexuality was taken away for a long time. My assault was not the first time nor the last time I experienced non-consensual behaviour, although was by far the most serious and impactful occurrence.

I didn’t realize that what happened to me was sexual assault until a few years after it happened. I had always felt weird about it, something was off. Until I was in a Facebook group with a bunch of girls, sharing stories about how we lost our virginity or something, and one of them privately messaged me telling me she was a survivor as well... at first I was kind of confused, it still didn’t register, then after talking it out with her, it hit me... I was raped. It was right before I turned 21. I didn’t drink, but was at a party with several friends who were all drinking. It was after a concert, he was in the band. I had known him for a few years, had always had a crush on him. He’s about 4 or 5 years older than me. He was always so nice and everybody loved him. The party was dying down and everyone left except the people staying there(it was about an hour away from where we lived). We started making out, I was into it of course. But I was a virgin, so when he started to try going further, I told him. He backed off a little, then started again. I thought, I’m 21, I trust him, I like him, maybe I might as well finally do it. So I let him. I got nervous and scared though and asked him to stop. I tried to gently push him back a little. He wouldn’t. He kept saying “just the tip, I’ll just put the tip in.” I still tried to push him back but he wouldn’t stop. So I gave in. Then he kept wanting to go further, longer. I started pushing back again, trying to back myself away. “Just a little more, just a little longer, it’s okay it’s okay.” I don’t remember what I did or what happened after. I felt so weird. I didn’t fully understand what happened. I told my two best friends about it, not all of the details or anything, but they knew I slept in the same room as them so I was just like yeah so I finally lost my virginity, and they were excited for me. Again, we all loved him. I never would have imagined he’d hurt me. The thought didn’t even cross my mind. Back then I thought it was only considered rape if it was a stranger attacking you in a dark alley or something. Not someone you’ve known, you trusted, you liked... but he did. He literally took my virginity from me.

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

I’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

I never knew a happy safe experience of intimate connection until i was 39. Well, I don't know if that is 100% accurate to say but it feels true to say. It was with a woman - a friend. We were pretty drunk and I was getting over my first relationship, one which had turned abusive, and she was maybe exploring her sexuality before committing to a life relationship with her partner. We were not alone - there was another friend also there - on the other side of her - a good guy, a very good friend of hers. Me and this guy friend did not gravitate towards each other though. She kissed my hair. I hadn't felt so loved or cared for in a long time. The grasping/rejecting/fearful dichotomy was gone and for the first time i sensed it didn't need to be that way. She seemed to want me to be close to her and i didn't feel pressure to be anyone or do anything other than what felt right in that moment. From that experience, i learnt that there is such generosity and healing in reciprocal loving touch. I guess i maybe felt that way occasionally with my ex-partner. But it's funny how when bad experiences happen between you and another person, it can rinse even the best memory and sensation with a dulling wash.

To me it happened about 7 years ago, I was going to sleep over at a friend and I never realized his true intentions till it was too late. I wasn't sexually active myself at the time, and my abuser was maybe a few months older. I remember being there a few months earlier and he wanted to watch porn, I was young and naive and had never really seen porn. Thinking back, this was just one big flashing warning sign. When it happened, I didn't fight back. I froze. And after I waited the longest night for the next morning. I don't know why I just didn't leave immediately, I don't know why I didn't fight back. The next morning I left as soon as I could, pretending everything's normal. Once I got home I took a shower and I just stood there without showing any emotions, like I was dead on the inside. I thought it through for a good amount of time, I thought about what happened, why it happened, what I will do to prevent it from happening again. I remembered him taking pictures and some other details. Once I stepped out of the shower I had my verdict, I was going to pretend nothing happened. I was afraid he would use the pictures as blackmail, I thought exposing him would end up hurting my parents and others I care about. I was able to live with this lie for about 4 years, mostly not feeling anything during this time. But at a certain point I started feeling anger and shame, I kept this bottled up for a long time. Eventually I burst and told my friends, sadly my friends did not believe me. This caused me to feel even more anger. A year after telling my friends the story came out that my abuser had abused another kid, who was 4 years younger. It was not only rape but the abused was under-aged whereas the abuser was not anymore. My friends read this and knew that what I told them was true, they immediately contacted me and forced me to go to the police and tell my parents. When telling my parents I could see my father was disappointed. The morning after they pretended like nothing happened. When I told the police I got sent home since they required a specialist that was specialized in sexual abuse. I tried to go back a few times and kept being sent home. Finally someone listened to my report. However the abuser only got removed as trainer for a young football team and had to clean up trash for a month or 2. It's a long story and I doubt many read it, the reason I decided to share it anyways is to give advice to the few that did read it. If you encountered anything similar to this, please report it to the police. You don't want to end up like me, blaming yourself for future victims of your abuser. I do not expect that after I shared this I will feel relieved, I do not expect to get a good night's sleeps after this. But if this helps even a single person, this will be worth it.

“A story is a way to say something that can’t be said any other way.” - Flannery O’Connor Once upon a time, there was a boy who was neglected and sexually abused. My parents divorced when I was one year old. I have memories. Mom carries me into the kitchen, sets me down on horrible gold-flecked linoleum. Dad sits at the table by the window and eats his dinner. My diaper is full. My mother stands over me, yells and screams, her voice a tapestry of anger and rage and regret. Why doesn’t she change me? Why doesn’t she love me? I have more memories. I am six or seven or eight, and my sister tells me that if I have to pee, it’s okay to pee inside her. My sister teaches me to play five minutes in the closet. Confusion and fear and disgust fill the dark space. She teaches me other games. She threatens suicide. On one occasion, she brings her friend over to play with me. Years stretch on. I wish they would end, wish I would end. On a vacation with dad, she and I share a room, a bed, her on top of me again as she’d done too many times to remember. That dark, dreadful feeling in my stomach. She cries, stops, apologizes. I roll over, utter the only words my pre-adolescent, people-pleasing mind could find. “It’s okay.” My sister leaves for college. I am 12 or 13. I think it’s over. Every day, the boy would find ways to numb his pain and avoid the constant question in the back of his mind: “What’s wrong with me?”. I saw very little of my sister in the ensuing years. She would come home for the holidays, that dreadful time of year filled with constant conflict. Our overbearing, controlling mother would kick into overdrive, tripling the ever-present tension. Visitation with my father was always a point of contention, but especially so in December. While I never really knew him as a drinker, my father was an alcoholic, something my mother would never let us forget. In a twisted dance of wills, she would simultaneously push him away from us, yet keep him roped in to her life. Having my sister come home for the holidays just made everything so much worse. I started smoking somewhere around 13 or 14, and I’m only now realizing my long-time battle with nicotine is probably rooted in my abuse. I started drinking occasionally around the same time. And smoking pot. I floated through high school with only a few friendships, many of which revolved around drugs and alcohol. I kept my head down. At home, it was just my mother and I, and I did everything I could to avoid being there, to stay out from under her control. I got decent grades, stayed out of trouble (mostly). I hid my shame, my sorrow, my secret. I hid myself. Freshman year of college I lied, told the school I was living at home to avoid staying in the dorms. Too many people. Too many possibilities for my secret to spill. Instead, I lived with two friends in a crappy duplex a mile north of campus. I worked hard, attended classes, maintained appearances. I drank a lot, learned to be highly functional. We snorted coke, dropped acid, thrashed on our instruments at all hours. My secret faded fast, neglected, but not forgotten. During Christmas break that year my roommates went back home to spend time with their family. I drank wine by myself, watched TV, thought about ending it all. By chance, my two best friends from high school showed up at my door in time to keep those dark spots from consuming and obliterating me. I was still too close to home, too close to the pain. The following year I moved to another college a few hours away, abandoned the hard drugs, but the alcohol and cigarettes traveled with me. Five years later I left with a bachelor’s and a master’s degree. My secret lay buried under a mountain of grief, denial, self-hatred, and hard work, so far out of view as to be invisible. I had successfully tuned out the background noise of my abuse. I moved on, still hating myself, still hiding myself. I worked, married, had children, got a second master’s degree, excelled at my career, lived a seemingly reasonable and successful life. I drank sometimes. I smoked all the time. I forgot what I could. Somewhere in that life the overwhelming feeling of always being in the wrong room became unbearable, and I sought therapy. My first therapist told me that everyone hated their job and that I should just suck it up. I stopped seeing him, but I took his advice. I sucked it up, held it in. After my children were born, I realized I needed to try therapy again. How could I help my children if I couldn’t even help myself? My next therapist was much more compassionate. She helped me as best she could, but without the context I’d buried deep under those feelings, her help only took me so far. But, one day, many, many years later, the boy’s mother died. My mother passed away in July 2017. I was there, along with my brother and two sisters. She didn’t go quietly. My siblings would say she went out trying to sing. I think she suffered pain and torment and sorrow. I think she knew. Her funeral was not well attended. She was a creative person who likely had the creativity beaten, perhaps even molested, out of her as a child. She never asked for the help she needed, help that may have changed everything, and so she treated the world as if it were her enemy. I read some of her poetry at her funeral, and as I did so, I cried, my tears a blend of grief and relief. She was gone. I was glad. Because of that, the boy’s secret shame began to claw its way out. In the following months as we settled my mom’s estate, I spent more time around my sister than I had since she first left home for college. My anxious, restless shame stirred, clawed at my consciousness. I sucked it up, held it in. My sister left again, and I thought it was over again. I continued therapy. The progress was slow, as the work always is. I attended a writer’s conference in May 2019. These were people I was eager to be around, to grow existing friendships and make new ones. But the secret had begun burrowing out from under a lifetime’s worth of self-hatred, anger, and malaise. I should have been socializing, but instead I bought a couple bottles of liquor and hid myself away in my room. I drank. I smoked. I tried to keep on forgetting. The secret finally unfolded, a poisoned flower, and showed me in a mirror of bourbon that I can’t expect anyone to like me if I don’t even like myself. Because of that, the boy’s mind shattered, and his thoughts scattered in all directions. I could no longer ignore the memories, treat them like a bad dream. The drive home from Grand Rapids to Columbus was perhaps one of the longest of my life. My head exploded with fear, confusion, doubt, shame, and more shame. By the time I arrived home, I was so full of irrational thoughts I could barely function. I shared with my wife what had happened, shared my craziness, and she comforted and supported me, for which I’m eternally grateful. I phoned my therapist and made an appointment for later that day. I broke again in her office, spilled a staccato version of my story, a rush of half-spoken sentences between rib-cracking sobs. She met me with the compassion I’d come to appreciate. Because of that, the boy looked for help wherever he could find it. I was, unfortunately, sitting squarely outside my therapist’s area of expertise. But she took time to help me find another therapist who works with survivors of childhood sexual abuse. I made an appointment with the new therapist, scared of sharing my story, dreading what would be found there. Would my wife leave me? Would my sons be ashamed of who I am and what was done to me? Would I lose family, friends, my career? Until finally, the boy found more help than he ever thought possible. Despite my anxiety, I met my new therapist, and was relieved to find the same deep sense of compassion I’d experienced with my last one. He was kind and patient and supportive from the minute I walked in to his office. Through working with him, I continued to uncover myself and let go of the weights of shame that have been holding me down most of my life. I shared my story with others close to me. In June 2021, I attended a Weekend of Recovery, which in and of itself was a life-changing event. I joined a local support group as well, who welcomed me with a degree of love and kindness and openness I’ve rarely experienced. Over the past four or so years, he’s also provided me with a wealth of resources, including book recommendations and sites like MenHealing and 1-in-6. Slowly but surely, I’ve explored these resources, spending time reading, and listening to or watching stories of other survivors. The utter sense of isolation and all the feelings that came from are starting to lift. I open myself up a little more every day. I find courage in small acts and joy in being present for my partner and children in ways I could not have been before. I still hurt, but the pain is different somehow. There’s grief for the little boy who never got a chance to grow and be joyful. There’s anger, unexpected and unwelcomed, but I try to recognize it for what it is. I don’t suck it up and hold it in, I validate it and let myself cry. There’s tremendous comfort in knowing that we are survivors, not victims, and we are not alone. And, ever since then, the boy continued on his journey of recovery. In most stories, there’s an end. The plot wraps up, all questions are answered, and no more problems exist. That’s not how this works. I know my story is ongoing, that recovery is a process, not a solution. Trauma, all trauma, strikes deep and is enduring. It is not a problem to solve or a question to answer, it is a reframing of ourselves in such a way that we can move from surviving to thriving. We continue to work with ourselves and with others who have suffered abuse to heal and grow and once again become fully present and playful and joyful in our lives.

When I was 13 years old, I was molested in a vacant home 1 block from my childhood home. I was crying for help & no one listened. This was a (relationship)of mine who is currently incarcerated. He was 14 years old at the time. My mother contacted police when I came back home. When police arrived, I released some information as much to my ability from my knowledgeable standpoint. I was taken to the hospital for treatment. Children at this age aren't in the correct state of mind that these encounters are illegal whether the assailant is an adult or a minor. The next day, when I caught my school bus for school, my mother reported the incident to my school bus driver in front of all of my school bus riding mates. Then, as soon as I arrived at school, one of my classmates was asking me questions about the incident but, I refused to answer. I went to my teacher & social worker grieving. Quite some days later, my father was on the phone asking me questions about the incident but, I refused to answer. Then my grandmother confronted me about an allegation that I mentioned to someone which was not true. A week later, I reported to the school social worker of this. Later on that evening, the school social worker contacted my grandmother & confirmed that the rumor is not true. Being molested is the worst encounter that no one deserves to even live with. This is what changed me as an individual person. I will never in my days of my life victimize another person because, I was a victim myself. The only fear that you have to live with is, once someone speaks of it around the wrong people, it's out there & there's no taking it back.

I was interviewing for a position at Target in 2009 and my ex-partner is the employee who first greeted me that day – he had a really inviting smile. After working together for a couple of months, I fell for his charming personality, and we started dating in January of 2010. He was funny and made me laugh. He also made me feel special and beautiful. The abuse began a few months after we started dating. He pitted me against his ex-girlfriend – who was also not over him – through, what I now know as, manipulation tactics. The emotional and verbal abuse started about a year into the relationship. So much name-calling, gaslighting, and flipping things around so it appeared as though I was always overreacting. Even with all of that, there were good times and nothing physical at this point. We ended up getting married in 2012 and within two weeks of living together the physical abuse started, followed quickly by sexual abuse. Unfortunately, the emotional, verbal, and psychological abuse were much worse during this time as well. I knew I had to leave when one day I was walking out the door and he hit me from behind, while threatening to snap my neck if I screamed. His actions and threat terrified me, so as soon as I could, I snuck out of my home to a friend’s house and called the military police. Thankfully they believed me, and he received an Article 15* and was punished for his actions and threats. *An Article 15 is where the commander (who is normally not a lawyer) hears the evidence, makes a determination of guilt or innocence, and imposes punishment as they see fit. I was unable to leave for a couple more months after this terrifying incident, but that day was my wakeup call – if I stayed, he was going to kill me. I left in July 2013! The process was extremely confusing and hard. It is truly a miracle I was able to leave, and I really can’t tell you how it was possible. On top of the process itself being confusing, difficult, and scary, I lived in Guam at the time – halfway around the world from everyone I knew and any support system. I was terrified…but I left anyway. I don’t know how I would have left and divorced him without the support system I had. My friends (not mutual – those who were just mine) and family were extremely supportive and encouraged me to leave him. My dad handled everything so well. He never doubted me. He never judged me. This is the support that is needed when you’re trying to be free. My grandparents took me to the lawyer to divorce him. Standing strong alongside me. My journey started with reading countless self-help books because I learned that working on yourself is as essential as taking care of yourself. Both new concepts to a survivor of domestic violence. After being diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) two years after I left, I finally started therapy. I was extremely lucky in that I did not have to work for an entire year and could focus my time on healing and therapy. And while I had that year of dedicated time, healing from domestic violence is a lifelong endeavor – I’m still in therapy now and on doctor prescribed medications. It truly is a journey and with a good therapist and a variety of treatments (such as Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy and Eye Movement Desensitization and Processing (EMDR)), you will continue to heal.