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I feel so alone because not all my family members know my father did it and the ones that do tell me to let it go keep it cordial and move on to keep the peace. I have always felt alone bc for a long time nobody knew it happened but then I found out it happened to my younger sister. when it happened to my younger sister my mother didnt believe her which is why i dont want to bother telling her. years ago it happened to my older sister from my dads brother. it makes me so angry and resentful that they want to keep it a secret I just want the truth out there and to be free of that but my mom recently found out I like women too and she shamed me for it. I feel so angry and disappointed. I feel bad for wanting to cut off all of them but it feels like the best for me because I feel so trapped. I feel I will never escape this, it feels impossible. It makes me so angry and sad this is the life I have lived and has such a chain on me. I dont have the money to move out quite yet but it seems I will have to.

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.

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

IF YOU DONT, THE CHILDREN WILL NEVER SEE ME AGAIN.... It was Mother's Day and that's what the father of our children said. If I didn't have sex with him, the kids would never see their Dad again. So I did. And it was the final straw. My depression really kicked in then. Looking back, I realise a few things. It's now called coercive rape, the children would have been better to have seen as little as possible of a manipulative, narcissistic father as possible and despite all that happened since, I and the children are together.

• Biography (including background): While growing up at home, I suffered physical and emotional abuse from my father, neglect from my mother (a cycle of abuse from my maternal grandparents), violence from my older sister, and had to care for my younger sisters. At the same time, I had a childhood hobby of reading specialized books, and I had a desire to pursue higher education and make the most of my educational opportunities to contribute to society, devoting all my free time to studying... However, at the age of 17, I reached my limit, my physical and mental health deteriorated, and I had eight chronic illnesses (10 types of medication), so I took a two-year break (I also dropped out of high school). After that, due to limited funds (using my own earnings), I applied to a university that I could apply to while still in prefecture name, and enrolled in university. While continuing my education, I left my hometown and, while undergoing treatment for my chronic illness, I actively volunteered and worked for non-profit organization (an NPO for people with Down syndrome).

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

I'm 37 year old male survivor in my country. I don't know what to share yet. I am a survivor of multiple assaults in childhood and early adulthood, mostly with female assailants. I think I'm ready to talk with some female survivors (though not in most details). To be honest this scares me though. My experience with advocacy and support groups (apart from a website specifically for male survivors) in the past has been very negative. I have always wondered what a *true* coalition of survivors of all genders would look like.

I didn't realise I had experienced Sexual violence until I was in a women's refuge. It was when they were going through my experiences and fully explained the sexual abuse that I realised. I was often coerced into sex and one time after a night out I woke up to him on top of me, I was frozen and couldn't move. This was my husband, I trusted him.

So I was a woman who thought things like this don't happen to me, until it did. An old friend were meeting for coffee in his apartment, except it wasn't. When he locked the door behind us, I just knew, I told him over and over again I didn't want to have sex with him. He refused to listen, I went in to detachment and froze, all I remember was I got to get out alive, I bearly did. That was over 3 years ago, and I have become gray sexual, fear of sex, or intimacy. It does get better, it's like greif you learn to live with it and move on with it in your life. There is something you loose with out ever getting back. However hang on, talk to a support system, be kind to yourself and learn to love yourself for making it through what no one should have too, it does get better.

On our first Christmas Together He Raped Me I was raped in every way possible under the Christmas Tree ... He smelled like Marlboro Reds, . That man on my back. He was smiling so Cheshirely that spit dribbled down his chin from the collosal effort. . He didn't ask permission to have sex with me. That would've been ...inconvenient to his desires. ...Megalomania at its blindest. He didn't care about my soul, my needs, my wants, my health..my sanity..He plied me with promises of freedom....Lured me with lies of love . A cage is a cage...is love of an abuser. and tore at me until I was completely eviscerated between his bubbles of spit and rancid alcohol. He had me until he climaxed, and I bled. Then.. he left me there. All I could smell was iron and salt. I bit my tongue, and it bled in my mouth only because it hurt so much. I had endometriosis even then. He didn't care. He didn't use lubricant... He didn't use anything, but hatred to abuse me again and again..l I begged him to stop. Used me until all I could see, taste, smell, and touch was blinding pain. All I could feel was his putrid breath ,,,singing every miniscule, semaphore hair... My nerves on fire and Screaming in sheer agony. DESIST!!!on my skin..miniscule, sensitive parts burning...... Screaming for him to cease... Every cell shrieking my earlobes throbbing with the terrible, dogged rhythm. The stench of his wanton hatred and desperation was the coming of doom...heart pounding against my cochlea..echoing staggered, shallow breath and pointless gasps of st--op. His body was a deleterious weapon..shrouding my neck and curls in jaundiced spittle. All he could manage to utter through his crusted lips was how good ALL of my ignominy felt TOO him, For HiM, withIN him. I recall that I vomited then.. Christmas Feasts were over for some time hence........I don't remember how long it took him to finish It might've been 2 or 20 minutes, or 20, or 2 hours. They say time is Linear, but it truly isn't. One second can feel like a lifetime, and one entire day can vanish in a flash. I didn't want to smell him, but I couldn't hold my breath that long . He latched on when he pulled out long enough to use me until Then. I bled. It wasn't a disturbing porn video. It was my life. WTF I was 18 yo, and I thought he was going to kill me... Because he was terrified of being arrested and jailed for statutory rape. He was a predator, and I, merely a sumptuous meal of Vestal Virgin.... I'm the stupidest person alive. That's how I see myself. It was my fault that I bled under that tree. My fault that I was there. I chose him.. I thought I was going to die that night... Under that Christmas Tree with no decorations, and old school, small, multicolored string lights. Bulbs of saffron, amber, rose, ..emerald, and cobalt. The EnD

i was sexually assaulted in my house, but i don't remember how old i was or his face. it makes me feel it's not valid, but i know it happened. i was sexually abused by a teacher in pre-k, a man who i didn't know the name of. he molested me more than one occasion. he followed me to the bathroom and raped me. i tried to fight back, but a four year old doesn't have that much strength. i was sexually assaulted multiple times at gymnastic camp. she would touch me knowing it made me uncomfortable. i would try to avoid her, but it never worked. these made me feel weak, and still does at times, but i know im strong. and i know it's ok to feel the way i feel. feeling are valid and you are strong.

At the age of 7, I was sexually abused by my school bus driver on my way home from school. As I grew older, I realized that I didn't remember most of the things correctly, and even forgot some parts. I didn't get psychological support from a professional and I grew up as a child who was very sensitive to physical touch. I had thoughts of self-harm many times when I was younger, but I never could. I'm now 19 years old and traveling the world while studying abroad. I love myself, my friends and my family. As someone who grew up thinking that I was never fully understood, I would like to remind you that you are not alone and that this life is worth living by finding the good in you, no matter how much negative trauma you have experienced. Whoever reads this has clicked on this page for a reason, first of all, love yourself and remember that I am always there for you.

I grew up with an immense fear of men, of which I never understood why... Until I reached my midlife and developed a serious physical ailment, only then was my horrific secret unveiled! During my childhood, I was often left in the care of my caretaker as my family member was busy nurturing my younger, sickly brother hence I became independent from a young age. Nature and my pets were my solstice. Growing up I was shy and introverted, and always felt like I never belonged. Deliberately I would avoid contact and conversation with all men, including family members. Constantly I bit my nails, until they bled sometimes. As a teenager, my caretaker would belt me until I was bruised for my insolence apparently?! My family obviously heard, yet chose to be silent due to their fear of him. An inner rage developed towards him and eventually I completely despised him. One day in my mid-forties I awoke with a serious frozen neck. As a Holistic Practitioner, I knew that this was an underlying emotion which was manifesting as a physical ailment so I decided to seek psychological aid. After a few months of regular sessions, the deepest dark secret was revealed... I had been sexually abused by my caretaker since childhood. YES that was a heavy pill to swallow, and of course more therapy was required to heal my painful, inner child wounds. The horrific shock caused various emotional reactions from depression, anger, shame, guilt and even suicidal thoughts. However, a power deep within me gave me the strength to slowly and gently work through it on a daily basis, thanks to the love and support of many wonderful people including close friends. Yoga, meditation, journaling, breathwork, energy therapy and different holistic modalities assisted my transformational, healing journey. I also believe that my continued faith guided me as well, to find inner peace and forgiveness towards my abuser. A year later I approached my family member about my abuse, and as shocked as she was she could still not support me emotionally. My dysfunctional childhood could never be erased, however I chose to make the rest of my life the Best of my life from that day onwards! After some time. the day eventually came when I had the courage to face my abuser. I looked him in the face with absolute compassion, that's when I realised that I was completely healed. My path hereon would be creating the life I dreamed of. His choice of denial was his issue! On Date, I appeared for the first time publicly on stage as a Speaker to share my story of Name of Presentation' at the Location of event. It was utterly life-changing. Standing at the podium, my legs were trembling and hands were shaking, yet I felt this Divine presence supporting me and giving me the courage. I was not alone. I chose to speak my truth and be the voice for the voiceless! The audience were fortunately patient and understanding as I opened my heart. Since then I was inspired to create my personal brand 'Brand Name', which offers support, healing and guidance to those who've been sexually abused and endured domestic violence. I'm also a Organization NameAmbassador for the prevention of Children's sexual abuse, which is unfortunately ripe in today's society. My passion is to continue to share my triumphant, transformational story on webinars and podcasts worldwide. The time is now for victims to come out of the closet and be the change they wish to see in the world, so they too can live the life of freedom and peace that they truly deserve. My mission is to encourage other victims to no longer be silent. Speaking my truth was my path to emancipation. Recently I co-authored a book, Book Title - The voices of survivors' which will be published on Date. Writing it was another beautiful, healing experience for me. I gained even deeper, inner peace. Even though my trauma was horrifying and I was scarred both physically and emotionally, I was determined to transform my pain to purpose and my wounds to wisdom so I'm no longer the victim but rather the Victor in my life! I am living proof it can be done and proud to say I've never needed to be on medication; Holistic therapies greatly aided my metamorphosis. Nowadays I am more confident, brave and compassionate, appreciating every day of my new-found existence! " OUR TRUTH DESERVES TO BE REVEALED; OUR PRESENCE WARRANTS TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED; OUR VOICES NEED TO BE HEARD AND EXPRESSED." - Name

“Imagine an ending”, said the counsellor. “See it as you want it, as you need it to be. Write your story and those in it as it should be in a just world”, she suggests. I think “no!”, it needs it to be real; a conversation with live faces across real tables, with a hug, a strong handshake, and a glance that lets me know it really happened in amongst the unreality of it all. Those conversations, as yet unsaid, will anchor me in truth, bathe me in facts and create a storyboard with pins and thread for me follow home. Those people, as yet unseen, will interpret it with me, a Watson and Holmes quest - in the room together as the facts reveal themselves. The institutions, as yet faceless, will now permit me to be a fly on the wall of those interviews where untruths were told. I need all this, I think, so that finally the lost threads are found, and I can write my story, now coloured with the gaps I have craved to fill; revealing me to myself. The words shared will help me to find my own. ……………………………………... Us women are left outside a system hoping that something or someone will ground us in the facts held at arms lengths- the facts about us, our assault, or experience. Many women who report sexual assault to the authorities face multiple hurdles. Some remain open to responding to this system that offers no guarantees for all we give to it. Others shut down before the act has concluded, resigning themselves to a painful silence in the hope it will be less so than the alternative public ordeal. The burden of proof lays solidly with us as we concurrently grapple with processing our own trauma. If we are able to share a palatable version of our story with other women, we soon realise how much worse it could have been. But we knew that already. Grading our experience with a perfunctory “at least”. It lives in us: this learned and inherited shame. We carry that burden before we are assaulted, and it is further cemented by the knowing glance or stern word spoken before we leave the house in those clothes. Later that night we are escorted to a beige room and asked to remove them all, still sticky with fearful sweat and told that without us in them, these articles might determine his guilt. There is always some authority acting as sartorial dictator, taking away our carefully chosen outfit with worried words or procedural hands. As such, we continue to hold the weight of their assigned moral value, and determine little of their impact, for that is decided by the viewer, whomever they may be in the room that day. ……………………………………... I am caked in heavy layers of dread, pending success or failure. Why did I start this thankless task? I enter another world, an office of sorts, where you catch a glimpse of the story not told to you, because by knowing you may contaminate the truth. Despite my bodily contamination, I am not permitted to know the full facts, as they say. The most personal and invasive event, prolonged by paperwork. This manufactured situation demands intimacy and yet requires, by law, complete professionalism. Their job, an often-thankless endeavour to find and prove the truth to a wig not made for this century. I try to picture my good egg behind the mask that doesn't fit his face. I saw more of him than ever before on our day in court. It was our day. I needed to see his eyes as he spoke; for the real-life connection to mirror the intensity of our past dealings. He is the only one who knows who I am in this. Until this happens, I float here, suspended in the delay, waiting to be anchored to the tangible earth beneath. To feel the bench and smell the varnish. To be present and audible. To be where life is being lived. We leave court and enter a room with my sister-in-assault. Kept apart for many months to protect us from further injustice. Unsure of the protocol and fearful of our matched pain, we join hands. We hug on my request – despite our fear of emotion and viral spread. How odd to have a thing such as this in common. To be joined together by an act of harm by a man with less years than us, so far away from home. We all came to this city with hopes - for opportunities – for a life beyond the limitations, however different, of our respective hometowns. Joined by this recurring act, we three meet again in a room filled with wood and plexiglass, unable to see beyond the thing itself. This dirty touch has smeared us all with a single colour, marking us out as dirt. Her wide face and open eyes meet mine in tears, a flood after a personal drought. Guilt shades my face pink – I wish she would cry. We share past fears and eventual overcoming and know from this moment on we are allowed to let go. The words have been spoken, by us, the good eggs, and the wigs. The ordeal is over, and permission is granted to lock our fear away with him in the middle of our land, far away from the hopes of this Eastern city. This is the end and the beginning.

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

Do you think what I went through was harassment, I didn't ask for the attention, I just wanted the job. I reported this to the H.R. Department and was laughed at and the next day at work was mocked and got smirks and leers from fellow coworkers to where it just made me walk out and quit. I'm male and I only lasted nine weeks at a new job in a warehouse and within the first week my veteran female supervisor of 24 years in her position ( 5 years here ) and i started talking about how we both use to work at the same company at different times and how working at this new company was a refreshing and relaxed change and while we were talking, she started rubbing the middle of my back straight up and down with her hand and that's the day that it started. After that she has come up from behind me 3 different times and put both her hands around my neck for making a data entry mistake, patted me on the back as she walked by me, and started bumping her hand on my thigh to talk to me. She's asked me to dance with her in the warehouse in front of coworkers and even asked if i was going to whip her one day when my belt broke loose while putting boxes on a skid for inventory. When i was putting boxes on a skid one day the bottom of a box broke open letting glass bottles break on the floor and when she seen it, she told me to come over to her, so i did and she playfully slapped me. This last time i was bubble wrapping glass bottles for protection for shipping and i had a large roll of bubble wrap at my feet on the floor i was using and she came over to help on the other side of the roller conveyor and looked at me and said gimme some, so when i started to bend down to get her the bubble wrap, she said to me, If you think I'm going anywhere near down there to get the bubble wrap from you, your crazy, well, i didn't say anything to her but, just looked at her confused and was saying to myself, i wasn't expecting you to go down at my feet to get the bubble wrap but, i felt she was implying something else, maybe I'm wrong.

My mother had a lot of mental health issues and still does. I haven't had any contact with her for two years. Beginning when I was 3 or 4 up until I was 10 or 12, she would regularly say she had to "check your bottom." She would have me strip, lay down on a towel with my knee up and legs spread, and she would touch me. I can still feel her fingers on me and inside of my vagina, scraping with her fingernails: I can feel this on a visceral level as I type this. She would always take my temperature rectally. And then clean me with cotton balls and cotton swabs. I don't know why she stopped and I don't know why she did what she did. For years I struggled with this and with memories of her touching me. I have spent most of my adult life dealing with anxiety, trust issues, sexual dysfunction, and shame. I finally told my therapist a few years ago and it was like a weight was lifted. I still feel alone and unable to talk about this with people. It doesn't seem like anyone talks about or has much research on maternal sexual abuse especially towards female children. It has affected my sex life, my body image, and my ability to trust other people. I am starting up with a new therapist soon and I know this is something I want to, that I need to talk about but it is stirring up so much anxiety. For other daughters out there, you are not alone. Mothers do this and likely with a higher frequency than we'll ever know.

All of my closest friends have been sexually assaulted in some kind of way, including myself. It breaks my heart, all I want to do is hug them and tell them it’s gonna be okay and it won’t happen again but I can’t guarantee that and it’s so scary.

I'm a male survivor, primarily of female abuse. I'm a little nervous - wait - no I'm actually scared to share here since it's mixed-gendered. I found a wonderful website specifically for men, but I've never had a positive experience elsewhere. Hoping to be supported by both men and women. I've been waking up crying in the morning a lot lately and having dissociative episodes. And I can't keep wondering again if I'm even still a man. Did I have a right to say no? Anyway I don't know what else to write, but thanks for reading this.