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I still don’t know if my abuse counts. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. Or maybe that’s what I want to think. When I was 10, I was at my (at the time) best friend’s birthday party. I can’t remember much of the party itself, only that I had a white cardigan on. I remember the air smelled likes churros and popcorn. I can’t remember how I got to my friend’s bedroom. I only remember what happened there. The memory starts with me, standing in front of the bed. On the bed was Name, one of my friend’s older brothers. I remember staring at him for I don’t know how long. I think he was talking, but it was all static to me. I remember there was one those party lights things, the ones that project blue, red, and green lights onto the ceiling. Then I remember he starts jumping higher. And then he jumps at me, tackling me onto the ground. I was frozen in terror. And all I did was cry silently. But to this day, I still don’t know if it counts as rape. I was 10, but he was 13. He was only a kid too. Maybe he was also experiencing abuse, and he took it out on me. I also feel like it’s my fault for not doing anything, and not telling anyone. I could have screamed or something, but I just laid there, frozen and silent. I haven’t healed from this at all, probably because I haven’t really talked with anyone about it. I don’t know what to do.

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.

You Are Not Alone You are not alone. So many of us had so much taken from us by people who put pleasing their basal urges over our sanity. For their moments of bliss and dominance we suffer. We blame ourselves for their sickness. THEIR pathology. There is an army of us. That is what these stories teach us. They show us we are legion. We are strong. Our psychological reactions of fear, mistrust, hatred are not crazy. They are normal. It is also normal, but not easy, to climb out the darkness together. I grew up in a large low income black of flats that was like a village. My mum worked and we went about by ourselves. In the winter we were never expected to be seen if we left. We were in some flat mucking about with some kids or neighbor, and it all worked out fine. I did lose my virginity when I was eleven to a friend of my older brother who was in year ten. But that was no bother because it was not uncommon there, sadly. I am half Brazilian on my absent father’s side and was considered quite exotic and fit. My secondary sexual characteristics developed early. I was reasonably careful and in control. True abuse began years later when we moved out to a proper house with HIM. HE was my mom’s dream man. HE was fit for a middle-aged man. By that time my brother wasn’t with us because he took work in Alaska on a fishing boat. HE was ex-Army and seemed like a good man at first. I was a bit of trouble maker and over-cheeky and my mom gave HIM carte blanche to discipline me like father. We weren’t there the length of a full season when HE started treating me like a tart. The spanking part mom knew about and thought it was funny, even with me being fifteen. HE spanked my bare bum even when she was home. She said I’d always needed a man’s hand to block of my rough edges. It was cringe, humiliating, but nothing compared to what HE did when mum was away. Not to get detailed, HE soon got to a point where I was going to get HIS load whenever there was the chance. Since HE got to set my schedule he made sure there were regular chances. It was my HELL and HE was the Prince of Darkness. He was rough but careful not to leave any marks. Unless time was short I had to shower first. Sometimes after there would be something specific sitting out to wear, like a costume or lingerie, or my netball kit. The grating anticipation of what was going to follow was the real torture. HE would tell me to “Pick a hole”. My holes! My foof was one, my mouth was two, and you’d think I would never select three. But you’d be wrong. I hated HIM. I am very sensitive sexually and if I went with one I looked like I loved it and if I chose two I was doing work to please HIM. Three was the way I could shut down and brace myself without him ever seeing me smile, even if I was facing toward him. When I was strong with hatred I would choose three. I compartmentalized that small but brutal part of my life for my mum. If was a mere thirty to one hundred twenty minutes per a week of 10080 minutes. And I saw no other way then. Mum, for the first time was living a happy life. I could have won a BAFTA for how I seemed so cozy and content for her. It gutted me that my fear of upsetting HIM made it appear that HE had smoothed out my rough edges and made me into a proper lady. I kept my marks up and stayed on the netball team in spite of being the shortest. I kept going. I developed a habit of stabbing mechanical pencil tips into my skin and biting my nailbeds to illicit pain. I had one boyfriend for a short time. I went to the dances. Home was my hell so I did everything HE would allow to be anywhere else. I could not work but he made my mum keep her job so he could have me. My birthdays I would get my way of having a just girls’ night out with mum. There were only two birthdays before I got free of him. College cost 1000 pounds and when HE paid it HE did not know I was not going to be his tart anymore. I had a friend with a home much closer to my school. They had spare bedroom because an older sibling had moved out. Being seventeen, HE couldn’t force me to live with them if I had other safe accommodations. I took employment and paid the meager rent. He got me one more time when I was sleeping back at his house on Christmas eve. Probably drugged mum to keep her sleeping. I made sure he never got a chance again. Through my Portuguese class I met a man who lived in Portugal and invited me to come stay with him as long as I wanted rent free. I finished one year of sixth form and went to Portugal. I had fleeting relations with the man I stayed with but he traveled often we both had our own things. I worked at an American-themed restaurant as a server then. I spoke with my mum on the phone most days. She visited once, with HIM. I missed her and tried not to show much of my sorrow about being forced apart from her. Seeing HIM was horrendous, yet I kept it contained inside like a cancer. It helped solidify my decision. I traveled with a friend to Florida and got a job serving in a posh restaurant. I applied for a work VISA and on my second try I got it. I am thirty-eight now. Only three years ago did I confront my demons because I read online stories about other abuse survivors. It opened up a deep wound so I could start to heal. It was and still is hard work and an ongoing process. I confessed to my mum who had split with HIM after years of her own abuse that she also kept hidden. HE had let her go when she started having health problems, showing his true black heart. She lives with my brother and his family. I regret losing years with mum and my brother and being chased away from my home when I was young but it made me stronger. I have never married but I have a loving partner, two dogs and I speak three languages. I am a physical trainer and work near the beach where I go to meditate and body surf. Our journeys and stories are individual but we are in this together. Worldwide. You are not alone in carrying the pain and the shame and the fear and the flashbacks! Even if you are in the dark, start toward a path that looks like others are using to try to climb out. Use the resources, even if just right there on your computer, and build from there. Just start and keep climbing, especially when it seems too hard.

I was sexually assaulted between the ages of 18 and 19 by my then-boyfriend. I remember when it first started, I didn't even think of it as sexual assault, only that I knew I didn't want to and always felt upset after it happened. There was one specific event that made me realise what I was experiencing was not normal. I remember repeating "no" to the point of almost yelling and trying to push him off me with all my strength. He had a grip of my jumper which ripped when I eventually broke free. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. I went to dinner with his family that evening and cried in the bathroom. To this day, I still haven't told anyone and I wonder if he even understands the gravity of what he had done.

Tears fall from my face when I have flashbacks. The amount of times I’ve ran to the washroom and cried remembering those nights. Frozen in fear, unable to move. Feeling his hands on my skin. And hearing his voice as he tries to make sure I’m not awake. The excuses I’ve heard and the disbelief I’ve been through, that I still go through. Most dont believe my story, they believe his because “how could he do that?” They act like he never added the second part of his side; he admitted to touching me without consent. People don’t realize that I check that the doors are locked before I go to bed. They dont realize that I always have an eye on him making sure he’s not about to pull another stunt. The excuses they use. They believe his excuses and act like nothing happened. Sexual assault has been normalized but they forgot about me who’s still drowning in grief. The little girl inside of me was forced to grow up that night. That part of me that I will never get back. The fear that I will never lose. And the memories that can’t be erased. Most blame it on the clothes I was wearing. Those nights I was wearing pajamas. Shorts and a tank top. Considering it was 40° outside I believe I had the right to be wearing those clothes. When I think about that night my heart gets heavy. It’s like my heart gets bigger and it’s pushing against my chest. Every time I have a flashback I relive the experience. I feel his hands on me and remember the pain I felt. Most survivors say that they were almost broken, but I dont think I qualify for almost broken. I am broken. And I surprise myself everyday that I don’t cry in front of him. People think I need words of encouragement but in reality I need a hug. That's all I want, a hug from the right person. A hug.

My name is Name. I was born in a town called Location, the capital headquarters of District, located in the Northern part of Sierra Leone. My country was engaged in a brutal civil war (1991-2002), with all manner of atrocities committed against people and property. Sadly, I lost both parents during the war due to the lack of access to medical supplies at that time of the war. I was born into a very strict, loving, and religious family that practices the faith of Islam. We were financially poor, but rich in tradition, cultural value, respect, and a strong support network, whatever that means. My Father was a chief Imam and a farmer, and my mother was a housewife who supported my dad with the farming. I am one of the youngest of 26 children. My first name was given to me after dad was strictly told to name me either Name if I was a girl or Name 2 if I was a boy. He was cautioned that had this name followed instructions, I would have died. The second name was acquired through traditional belief that since my mum had lost seven children from minor illness or sudden death, if I were thrown into a dustbin after my mother gave birth to me, to appear that I was found for her to raise, then I would survive. The name for a dustbin in our native language is ‘Nyama’, meaning dirty. My experience of Africa at that time was a place where the voices of women and girls were often marginalised. That said, even at that young age, I always believed that everyone’s voice was equally important and should be considered and respected. This was fundamental to how we felt valued and appreciated in society, enabling us to give our very best. Yet, my first trauma happened at the age of 12, when I was subjected to the horrendous experience of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM), which is the intentional removal of female genital organs for non-medical reasons. This occurred not once, but twice. One early December morning, I was tied down. An older woman from within my family circle wrapped her legs around me to stop me from escaping. I was placed on the cold gravel floor of the wash yard. The whole process was so quick that by the time you were on the floor, the cut was done. This barbarous act was performed with an unsterilised pen knife, on me and every other girl who had no say in the matter. I remember it vividly. There were eight of us, and I was the first to be circumcised. This experience left me with an infection, unbearable pain and a deep sense of disconnection from my body. I had no idea how to express what I was feeling, or who to talk to about it. After surviving the pain of the first incident, I was called by one of my aunties to bring some water to the washing yard again. There, I saw an image of the lady who inflicted the first trauma on me, waiting to have it done again. The reason for having to redo it was that she was spiritually possessed at the time of the first incident, which led to a poor job. Since I was the first one to be circumcised, I was the only one who had to have it done twice. I was pinned down again against my will, and I remember crying a lot and being extremely upset, as I knew based on my previous experience what was going to happen. I was extremely scared. I knew something had been taken away from me, something that would harm my life. However, I was unable to process, analyse, and determine the impact, as there were no spaces allocated for reflection and processing. It was difficult, not having a safe space to discuss the negative experience of FGM, when the occasion is seen as a positive and significant milestone as a woman. At the time, everyone around me, including some of the victims, was celebrating and appeared overwhelmed with joy at having been cut. They had little regard for the overall impact it had on me. This whole experience left me mute. While healing from the second mutilation, it felt like my tongue had also been removed, because it was seen as bad luck to talk negatively about it. Therefore, everybody kept quiet and moved on with their lives, even for those who were severely affected. The next time I had the opportunity and platform to safely talk about my FGM experience was 25 years later. In 1991, when the Sierra Leone civil war began, my life was again flipped upside down. As a child, the reports of political unrest sounded like something occurring in a world far away from us. It sounded like something for the politician, not us farmers, to be worried about. What felt like a story became real life when rebels attacked my hometown in 1994. They left a devastating legacy on our close-knit community. There was a high death count and destruction of properties, including historical landmarks. We called it ‘the first attack that some of us survived’, and soon enough, death in every form, destruction and the sounds of guns became familiar. At this point, the war had extended from the Southern region of Sierra Leone (where it initially started) to the Northern region, with frequent attacks on the towns and villages in my district. The government seemed to have no control in resolving the situation, and instead, the violence was escalating like a wildfire. Children should not have to experience this level of carnage and destruction. No one should. But there I was, a child in all of that chaos, with no protection from family or the state. Having experienced frequent attacks in my hometown (Location), I decided to travel to Makeni (the headquarters of the Northern region), where they had military barracks. I travelled with my little nephew as we were the only family members still together at this stage as some of our family members were dead and some were displaced. The reason for going was the potential hope of having protection from the military, despite the risk involved. Although I was only 13 years old at the time,I knew there were no other options available. I found myself as a child living in constant fear of being tortured or dead within the next hour or so. I had no idea when my time would come. That feeling of knowing death could be just around the corner is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. The second trauma (which I thought was the first trauma due to the severity of the impact) occurred when I was 14 years old. The rebels attacked Makeni, and I was hospitalised for Malaria during the second week of December in 1998. Due to the rumours and panic of the rebels’ intention, I was discharged from the hospital to my brother (who was living in Makeni at that time) and nephew so that we could escape together in case of an attack. Before I came home, my nephew had already escaped with some neighbours for safety, and my brother was searching for me. We finally found each other, but it was too late to run away as the rebels were already in the town. The Christmas period of 1998 was like no other I had ever experienced. I was captured by the rebels, who found me hiding inside a toilet seat. I was hit, kicked and dragged to the neighbouring house where the first set of raping took place. I remember that the first man to rape was called Perpetrator Name (he was part of a group of five men). I was raped with a gun in my mouth in case I decided to shout for help. At the start of this brutal gang rape, I prayed for the sky to send me an angel to disappear with me. Since that wasn’t possible, and I did not want to feel any pain, I became numb, leaving only my physical appearance to deal with the minor pain. Once captured, one of the terrible acts the army does is train young children to become child soldiers. They know full well that hunger can lead to death, and with no family or future prospects, there’s no choice. My experience of being a child soldier led me to experience multiple rapes and other horrendous traumas on two separate occasions. It was hard to believe that before the abuse at the hands of adults, I was a happy, bubbly, and intelligent girl. After the FGM and rapes, I often felt very sad, worthless, lonely, and traumatised. The lack of a safe space or trusted individuals to express my feelings and thoughts led me to become even more consumed by the effects of trauma to the point where it became the norm for me. I am sure that millions of other survivors share the same sentiment. The day after these gruesome traumas was like the morning after the night that no one wanted to talk about. As a teenager, I found myself in a position where I had to deal with everything that had happened, with no family member or other adult to turn to for support. No professional or support network to discuss my thoughts with. Living in an environment where survivors of rape are at fault. Many incorrectly assume that the awful rape was partly the fault of the survivor because of how she was dressed or because she was somewhere she shouldn’t have been. I was 14 at the time I was first raped. I didn’t dress inappropriately, and as for being somewhere inappropriate, I was on the run from rebels, fleeing as they torched everything in their path to the ground. Yet, like so many others before me, I have been stigmatised for the actions of others, in this case, the sexual violence of men. Today, I am still here. I now live in London, having been granted asylum. I arrived in the UK with so much baggage, problems, trauma, language barrier, cultural barrier, and the fear of integration and the worries of exclusion. Despite my past in Sierra Leone, which I will never forget, I have built a new life. I am a wife, a mother, a sister, a friend, and a nurse, but above all, I am a survivor who set up her own charity to help other women. Women like you. Women like us. And from the bottom of my heart, I wish nothing but love and strength for you, wherever you are on your journey.

I was in a relationship when I was 15. He was older than me. He pressured me to do things I didn’t want to. One day he pushed me against a wall after I told him I had to go home and he started to take of my pants and do things to me while I tried get out of there. Unfortunately he was much (physically) stronger than me. He would also hurt me physically. He choked me once (not in a sexual way, he actually wanted to hurt me)

I woke up a morning after a night at the bar, in a room I had never seen before, without my pants, and next to a boy I knew only in passing. My last clear memory was receiving and drinking about half of my second drink of the night: a vodka redbull. From there, I recall walking to the door of the bar around 10 PM, and then everything else was completely blank. My mouth was dry and my head was pounding - my vision was so blurry that when I stood up, it felt like I had stepped onto a rotating carnival ride. The boy in the bed rolled over, hungover, and when I panickly asked if anything happened last night, he smiled and said we fooled around for a while until I passed out. I felt so sick to my stomach at that moment that I almost puked. I stumbled down the stairs and out of the house, shivering the whole walk home as I tried desperately to see straight. The hangover was like nothing I have ever experienced before, throwing up for hours into the evening and hoping for death. I am sure that sounds like an exaggeration, but having experienced many, many hangovers before, this one felt like something different. I contacted friends at the second bar I apparently arrived at, and they told me how concerned they were for me, how I could barely stand, how when they asked me to drink some water and sit on a stool, I complied but had no life in my eyes. It was then, that "the boy from the bed" stepped in and offered to take me home. Since my friends were working, they agreed, believing the boy and I were friends. For so long, I felt so much shame about that night. I wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there because the anxiety was so overwhelming. My long-distance boyfriend at the time was understanding, but I could not even bring myself to talk to him about it. In truth, because I had no memory of the night, and it only made the panic and shame bubble up inside me more to think about it. So I locked the event away and decided to move on. But now 5 years later, that night has come back to haunt me. A few months ago, I kept closing my eyes and seeing him smiling in his bed and my lungs felt like they were constricting. I would sit in bed and feel paralyzed, trying desperately to remember a clue. Now, I write about it and talk about the night with friends and other victims. I still feel a lot of anxiety from it, but I no longer feel like a stupid drunk girl.

I was sexually assaulted by two teenagers when I was 17 and extremely intoxicated. One of the rapists was my high school best friend's brother. This story is 35 years old but needs to be told in order for me to start healing. A repressed memory came flooding back 5 years ago, after finding a photo of a trip I took with her family, the place where this assault happened. I've silently tried to process it alone, but I can't keep quiet any longer. I hope sharing my story will help others come forward and start their healing process. It's never too late! I'm finding more and more friends who have similar stories and only by sharing my story had allowed them to share theirs. I feel like it's paying it forward a little.

I want to say my story so at least someone hears it. I was 15 he was 16 but much larger and stronger then me. He was a friend at first but we both grew to he feelings for each other. Within the first few months I found out he cheated on me. From there I was ready to leave him but he grew possessive and blackmailed me into staying with him. He had pictures and videos I didn’t know he even saved or took. The mental abuse turned physical as not a day went past where he wouldn’t hurt me or use my body for his satisfaction. It took me 2 years to get out of It. But I am still facing the pain still. I live in a small town and see his face more then I should. I am reminded of what he did by the way he looks at me or makes snide comments every time he sees me. I’m nearly 20.

It’s a shame to be you. So wrapped up in you. Clinging to your innocence. But I know it’s untrue. I know you! Your mother-raised a rapist. Wish I could say it to her face. “Your son- is a disgrace.” “You’ve never felt pressure, sweetheart.” That’s what you’d say But I felt your abuse… Every single day. Your words were like poison ivy. Your presence like quick sand. But I know in my soul, You’re the weakest type of man. But that pressure built up. My skin became tough. No longer sinking in your quick sand. Because pressure- makes Diamonds. It’s a shame to be you. When I get to be me. Someone worthy of love. And I get to be free. I get to feel safe, And I know who I am. I know I deserved better. I deserve a good man. I’m so glad that I’m me. And I’m so glad that you’re you. Because- while I am a Diamond, Well, you’re nothing, aren’t you?

I'm a woman from a middle class background living in a small town in Ireland. I work full time just as I have for most of my life. Abuse of any sort was to me something that happened to others. I guess I lived a protected life going from my daddy's house in to my first marriage. The end of the marriage started my road of abuse. Which I now tell in a conversation to my abuser : “Ha ha you got me at a vulnerable time in life. Do you remember the party we met at, the one in the country hall? I pretended that my colleague was my husband to try and get rid of you. But you were so persistent that eventually you wore me down with your sweet funny chat and smile. I was captured by the spell of a promise, a promise of a different life. So we moved in together. Everything was fine for a while but now looking back I see how you monitored me. I used to wonder at request texts for money always came when I was at the pass machine across from the taxi rank. Later much later I discovered your spy, the taxi driver. I avoided that place and walked further in all weathers. You began to text if I was later coming home from work, never asking if I was ok but demanding to know where I was, demanding to know what was keeping me. Now I know you timed my walk home from work, and questioned me if I left for work early. But I covered my tracks at times because I left my work rota lying around with the hours adjusted to give myself some me time. Boy, little did I know that the texts and time monitoring were to be mild forms of abuse compared to what you were going to put me through. Do you remember the night you wanted burger and chips but we had no money and you threatened to cut me up and put me in the boot or the night you beat me with the steel lamp because I used to light it to sleep as I was afraid of the dark. I was so lucky you didn't kill me. Flying plates of dinner became the norm because the food was either to hot/cold or not what you wanted. No matter how hard I worked outside the home to keep a roof over our heads you got worse. Trying to intimidate me and my manager by coming to the shop where I worked, insisting that we celebrate your birthday by going to mass. You even abused me with the readings from the bible. I got to the stage that I tore random pages from your bible. It was my secret pleasure when you searched for passages to quote from and couldn't find them. The public abuse happened very little but it was embarrassing. But it also was my saving because at your nephews holy communion your lovely display gave me the courage to tell your family that I had a safety order against you. Do you know that even with all of your following of me I still managed to keep most of my appointments with the lovely lady from Organisation. She gave me the courage to go to the Gardai and complain about you. But I learned from them that you'd complained about me being a bad wife. What a massive mistake it was to marry you but that was before your abuse got physical and I didn't see anything abusive in your behaviour. I made enough notes about what you did to me for court. Boy was I naïve going in to that court room. Looking back now I should have taken the barring order when the judge was giving it to me. BUT no, I was going to change the world and us, everything was going to work out fine and we would all live happy ever after. Fairy tales ha ha. I settled for a safety order which the Gardai explained to you when they came to our house later that day. Nothing really worked because you though you could still follow me around on your bike. I could write a book on the ways you abused me, locking me out of the bathroom when I needed to use the toilet but then I rented a house with 3 bathrooms. Things grew so bad that when I got the courage to throw you out that didn't even work. Wisdom hit you and you'd get the Gardai around to tell me that because your name was on the lease I'd have to let you in. The night you raped me was one of those times and it was the last time ever you touched me. I thought I'd jammed my bedroom door tight enough to keep you out but when I was sleeping you got in. You pinned me to the bed and told me you loved me as you forced yourself inside of me. The pain and fear still live with me. The DPP decide the evidence was not enough for a court case so I moved to an apartment behind coded gates for my safety. Yes you were gone but the impact of what you did to me changed my life for years. Walking and singing as I walked kept me sane at times. I threw myself in to my job and even got a new job in the city. But the city meant more loud noises to make me jump a mile off the ground. If anyone shouted not even at me I shook and had to try not to cry. I witnessed a row one day and it brought everything back. The emotional and physiological damage done by you left me a shell of my former self. Yes in work I used to be a power lady but not anymore. YOU changed me. BUT you know what, with the help of the Organisation, Organisation and my social worker I have found myself again. I have a great job, a great life and wonderful supportive friends who are here for me. YOU did not destroy me. I am a victor over your abuse because I walked away and stayed away. Today I live in a happy home where the food is eaten and not thrown around. I am not beaten but loved and respected. I work full time at my day job, while I blog and have gotten my confidence back so that I am now a public speaker. To anyone reading this and suffering abuse I say to you "Please contact Organisation. You deserve to be loved and respected" Darkness only lasts for a short time and then the sun shines forever

My story automatically elicits a response of doubt and ridicule simply because it occurred in a medical setting. I underwent a surgical procedure at a university hospital to fix a blown out vein around my ankle. The surgeon told me she would be making incisions around my knee. I was shocked, horrified, and deeply disturbed when I learned the next day that my pubic hair was shaved right up to my penis on the side and base. I later learned that the resident had removed the disposable underwear staff gave me and clipped my hair while a nurse then cleansed the area while I was sedated. I was never advised these intimate tasks would be performed or I would not have consented to this procedure. Apparently, everybody knew I was going to be prepped from the navel down except me. I was told this is standard for my procedure. So why wasn't I told? The staff had plenty of time and means to explain the prep process to me. Yet, they did not. And I think they should be held accountable. But everywhere I turn, I get turned away. I am dismayed that law enforcement is more apt to protect the medical community instead of innocent patients who only want help with physical issues in a respectful and dignified manner. I was deceived into believing my bodily privacy would be protected. I feel absolutely violated because I was. I am demonstrating signs of PTSD. I can't sleep at night. I have stomach problems. I do all that I can to avoid seeing nurses out and about. I even changed my route to work to avoid seeing a billboard advertising a local hospital. I have a hard time showering sometimes. And I have been having male intimacy problems that are not corrected through medication. With the help of my wife, I filed multiple complaints with the Office of Sexual Misconduct (department with the Title IX Office) at the university where this happened as well as with campus police, the state board of medicine, and other organizations. I was basically told that I should have expected visual and physical intimate access simply because it occurred in a medical context and that I implied consent to be prepped like this. This is unreasonable because I could only consent to be prepped for the procedure as it was explained to me, and that was with incisions around my knee. The cop even chided me for not taking responsibility for my own health care. I did all the research I could and asked all the questions I could think of. No way I could have ever discovered that they were going to violate me like that. I did not want to be exposed to complete strangers of the opposite sex, much less touched by them. I don't care if they are "professionals" or were not motivated by sexual gratification. Medical staff should not force intimate experiences on patients unless it is to save their life in that instant. The emotional trauma I am experiencing is no different than what a rape victim deals with. The psyche does not differentiate between whether the violation occurs in a private residence by a criminal or in a medical setting by a doctor or nurse. The harm is the same. To make matters worse, my wife also had a similar experience decades ago when she was a little girl from which she also suffers PTSD. My experience triggered her. We are not doing well as individuals or as a newly married couple. Hospitals should be safe places where patients seek healing without fear of assault on their personal dignity, bodily sanctity, autonomy, and humanity. But that is not the case for many patients who discover the hard way that many hospitals do not honor their own patient bill of rights mandating that patients be treated with dignity. Stripping a patient naked without his or her knowledge or expressed consent is violating the patient’s right to bodily autonomy and humanity. Patients merely have a right to know that intimate exposure and contact will occur, especially when they are in a vulnerable state from anesthesia. Some patients do not believe mere claims of “professionalism” are an adequate reason to surrender their bodily autonomy and sanctity without being allowed to explore options to avoid such an experience. Many hospitals have created an intimidating and unwelcoming environment for modest individuals and vulnerable members of society such as sexual assault victims who are hyper protective of their bodily privacy and sanctity. Advocacy groups have not taken our stories seriously. Yet, there are countless others from across the country who are suffering from negligent and careless medical personnel who do not respect a patient's right to bodily sanctity and autonomy. I am hoping these advocacy groups can help to get laws passed protecting patients from unwanted, non-consensual intimate procedures and tasks performed on them. It is encouraging to see an increasing number of states passing laws banning non-consensual pelvic exams. But this protection needs to be extended to all patients for all elective medical procedures. If interested, you can follow my blog in which I document my journey to seek accountability at link

“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.

The first sexual assault I went through was when I was 12 years old and my first ever boyfriend I had at the time Raped me he was 14 years old at the time The second sexual assault that happened to me was when I was on the bus the bus driver was a man it was myself and a older boy I was 16 years old and he was 22 years old The guy kept making so many remarks too me He kept saying that I was hot and that he wanted me and then he told me that he wanted to grab me and grab my boobs I told him no he asked again and I told him no again and I explained to him that I was not going to give him no consent I didn’t want anyone grabbing my boobs He ended up coming to my seat and he grabbed me so hard and he grabbed me by my boobs so hard that I was in pain I was in tears The bus driver had gotten off the bus the driver allowed it to happen I felt so ashamed after it happened I was afraid to tell anyone of what happened The third time I was sexually assaulted was by my boyfriend at the time he was starting to mistreat me and he decided to pin me against the wall and he said he wanted to try new things on me he said he didn’t want to do anymore hugging and he said he wanted to mess with my vagina and I told him No I told him I don’t want that to happen and he don’t have my consent and no permission to do so He decided to pin me to the wall and he messed with my vagina and he was literally hurting me so bad he had his fingers inside and I couldn’t even move cause the pain was bad I was so scared to tell my school counselor and teacher I was too scared and afraid to tell anyone The fourth time was the worst moment my boyfriend at the time threatened me to do oral sex with him and I told him no I will never do that he forcefully put my mouth around his penis and when I tried to move my head he kept trying to keep my head on it and when I was finally able to break away from the grip he hit me I went to a different area and my male friend and his good friend he ended up grabbing me after I told him no It was very very hard and difficult experience for me it was very very traumatizing for me My boyfriend I had was very abusive towards not only was he sexually assaulting me he was also physically abusive towards me He used to literally beat me he would always punch me in my stomach it was times when he would punch me in my stomach so hard I literally just wanted to cry He used to hit me on my shoulder he used to push me around me It was times he would drag me around he did so by grabbing my wrist Other times he would hit me on my neck He used to be very controlling he told my friends not to talk to me and not to interact with me He didn’t want me to talk to other guys he didn’t want any guys interacting with me He tried to find ways to monitor my Facebook and my other social media networks He was possessive over me at times too I tried to leave the relationship the first time and it was so hard to leave he ended up sexually assaulting me and then he hit me He was mistreating me so much He used to call me rude names too The second year of the relationship was the worst time After time went by I was able to get out of the relationship I was so terrified to tell anyone that I was in a relationship that contained both sexual assaults and domestic violence I was scared to find out what would have happened to me and I was scared of what would have happened to my mother A friend of mine helped me get out of the relationship with my boyfriend I get counseling and I am in the process of getting involved with support groups for young women who are survivors of both sexual assault and domestic violence I feel so much better knowing that I am able to get support and help I wish I knew all the warning signs at the time when I was dating him It ended up being a good relationship in the beginning and then it became a unhealthy relationship full of abuse I am very thankful I was able to get out I am thankful that I didn’t lose my life I am very thankful I survived

This is a series of accounts that happened to me in my childhood, and adolescence. I am now nearly 23 years old, but memories of these assaults often come back to haunt me. When I was around eight, a family friend touched me inappropriately. He threatened to harm me if told, and he pulled my female cousin alongside the abuse. This lead to us stimulating acts, although we thought it was "playing", unaware of the harm we did to each other. When I was twelve, I was nearly raped by a male cousin. We were living at my aunt's place, and it happened over the summer. He laid next to me. At first, I didn't think it was wrong, since I often hugged with my smaller cousins. But he touched my arm in a disgusting way that made me feel icky, and asked me for a kiss. When I refused, he tried to pin me down and lift up my dress. I began to cry, and that made him stop. He left the room, and never talked to me again, while I was constantly alert the whole time I lived there. When seventh grade came along, I was at a middle school dance. I was a shy, awkward child, shaken up by cruel bullies and apathetic teachers. I was mocked because I was fat, dark skinned, plump, nerdy, all the like. Due to my developed body, I was wolf-whistled at by either my own peers, slut shamed, etc. Some eight grade girls had brought some older high school boys to party with them, but nope, they were looking for girls to have sex with. I was targeted by three, and I was pulled near the gym. I managed to run, but the incident left me traumatized and with an unwillingness to trust men other then my brother or family members. When I was around 13-15, I had transferred to a Christian private school due to the severe bullying that I had experienced in my previous middle school. I was questioning my sexuality at the time, and I felt disgusting and dirty from my past experiences. I had crushed on a slightly older boy, and while he was nice, he was too into me. He often kissed and touched me without consent, and I was too scared to say no at times. My mother's reactions to our texts didn't help my fears, however. I am partially scared of intimacy, and I began to neglect taking care of myself as a defense mechanism against predators. But now, this year, I will focus on healing, and being the brightest person I can be. I will never let the fetid desires of a gross man soil me, or dull my sparkle.

It took 10 years of emotional, physical and financial abuse from a narcissistic man to realize that I stayed because it felt normal. My childhood wasn’t a healthy environment. So when I met my ex his avoidant and violent nature felt right. The gaslighting and love bombing were so common in my childhood home, I didn’t see the red flags when they popped up. Today I’m still struggling with imposter syndrome. How much of it was real affection? How much was more manipulation and lies? I wanted to share this, because sometimes I need to be validated that it all did happen, it wasn’t a fever dream. So I hope this helps someone out there. You’re not alone. What you’re feeling is valid. It’s scary and confusing at first, but it gets so much better. One day at a time. One small healthy decision at a time. It’s not gonna get better overnight, it will take a while. It’s been 1 year since we split, 2 months since the divorce. I’m taking my time to reset my nervous system and figure out who I am, without his narrative over me. You are loved.

They were a doctor, I was their patient. I consented to the ‘examination’, but not in full knowledge of what it would entail. It was a degrading and humiliating experience being ‘examined’...I didn’t know how these things should go, but knew it shouldn’t have been like that. It’s taken a toll, I carry a lot of shame and fear. I’m not even sure how to label the experience, but I’m trying to move forward.

If you take 13 and multiply it by four you get 52. If you multiply it by 5 you get 65. My assaulter was at least four to five times my age. He took advantage of me in a vulnerable moment. Choosing to grope a young girl in the dark of night while her friends were in the other side of the door. I know I was not raped but it feels almost wrong to consider it assault. Like I'm using a label that is not meant for me to use. But I know no other way to describe what happened aside from that. I didn't realize how much wrong that behavior was until weeks later. I still am trying to wrap my head around everything years later. I am less trusting and have a sharper personality because of it. All I do know, is that it was wrong. And his a** can burn.