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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.

I could never remember my childhood well, even as a kid. But I started to be hypersexual at 3, and so thats when I believe me and my brother started touching (hes 3 and a half years older). When I was 12 I remembered and told my parents, my mom freaked out and screamed at me. She said it was my fault and that it wasn't too bad if I didn't tell anyone. I fear thats she's right. When I was 14 and in deep psychosis, I felt like there was more to remember. I started to feel my brother's hands over my body and mouth. I remembered us having sex 3 times. The first time when I was 6 and the last when I was 8. One of those times he was hitting me and pinning me. I dont know how real those memories are because I recovered them in psychosis. I started doing really bad cus all I could think about was me and my brother fucking. A couple of months ago I remembered my brother fucking me with his hands around my neck (which was painful). Im so scared that really happened because I see my brother daily and hes my best friend. Im worried ill remember more.

Last year I was gang raped. I have an ear ringing called tinnitus that has not stopped since. I have nightmares. I flew with my mom to a wedding overseas. I was excited. She would be busy with her friends and cousin and I would get to spend time with my awesome second cousin who is two years older than me. After the rehearsal dinner we went out. It was fun because I was not legally able to drink there even though the age was lower than in my province, but they did not check ID’s. I did not drink much because it was not my thing and I had a boyfriend but I was able to go to some bars then a club attached to a hotel. So much fun up to when we met two soldiers in uniform who were cute and separated us from her friends because of our looks. My cousin is stunning beautiful. They had a private room at the club and several soldiers were there and two prostitutes also. Those prostitutes definitely hated us being there. I wanted to get out anyway and the cute ones that invited us acted like they understood and took us out of there. We stupidly let them take us to their hotel room where they totally dropped the cute romantic act and made us strip our clothes to music. They showed us a gun they had in a drawer. I was terrified. They made us lay on our stomachs bent over the bed side by side and had sex with us that way. They switched like we were interchangeable before finishing in us with no protection. We held hands. I was crying while my cousin was trying to be strong and cheer me up. We weren’t allowed to leave and our clothes were hidden. Before took our phones we had to text that we were staying at my cousin’s friend’s house. Then they called two other soldiers, one of them a huge tall dark guy with body builder muscles. He was the worst to me. They made us dance and then we had to use our mouths on the cute ones that had lured us there while the other two had sex with us. I vomited and my cousin cleaned it up but then it started again. They had cocaine and made us sniff it off their parts and sniffed it off us. Another one came and I think it was just those five during the night but they kept raping us and making us do things even when we would pass out. I would like to have been more unconscious but cocaine makes you so awake. I want to remember less and think about it all less. We showered many times. The big dark one peed on me and in my mouth the shower. He did it more than once like I was his toilet. The other men even had to tell him to chill out when he was making me scream liking his fingers and pushing them in my arse, but not when he made me crawl around like a dog using my hair as a leash. I remember one of them calling their friends to tell them to turn all their t.v.’s way up to hide the noise in our room. They watched sports news on the t.v. They had me and my cousin kiss each other and stuff. I could not act like it was a fun party like my cousin did sometimes and encouraged me to do. She tried to take some of their attention away from me over and over. I love her for it but they did not leave me alone. My chest is something they were obsessed with. They did not care that I was obviously distressed and freaking out or that in my country I was three years below the age of consent. There I was the minimum. We woke up in the morning on one the beds together with only the two soldiers sleeping on the floor. The black one was gone! They had sex with us again and another man who was much older and who they called SIR came in and had sex with both us but mostly me. They cheered him on and my head was pounding and I was crying and it seemed to last forever. Finally we got our clothes back but they took us for brunch wearing their normal clothes. They showed me pictures on their phones that made it look like I was having fun and warned us how bad it would be if we said anything different than we had a nice party. A nice party in hell! Before that I’d had sex with only my 1 boyfriend ever. One night of hell and now my number was seven!! We had to start getting ready for the wedding right away and I was exhausted. My cousin hid me and I took a nap in my dress, hair and makeup until the last minute. I cried in the ceremony but not for the wedding. I was so sore in my vagina, muscles, and brain that I got so drunk at the reception I barely remember any of it. Just part of being on the plane home. I told my mom the truth when I got back and she got all crazy, so did my dad, and they tried to call over there and the hotel and such but there was nothing the police would do. I saw my dad cry for the first time as I told the whole story. My boyfriend could not handle it and dumped me. I go to group and do therapy. I take a pill everyday and now benzo’s for break through anxiety. I try to hide my large chest under baggy clothes where before I used it for attention. STUPID! My cousin does not seem to have the trauma I do or the nightmares. In her country they are done with secondary school up to two years before us and are more treated like adults sooner. I said mean things to her once because of it. She forgave me but we talk much less since I asked if she has gang bangs all the time. I felt terrible because she even let them have anal sex with her to lure them away from me. I could tell it hurt her so much but at the time was just thinking about my own survival. My childhood is OVER but I do not feel like an adult. Her advice is -Don’t let it get you so down-. Like I have a choice in this!! She went to a therapist ONCE because her mom made the appointment and does not plan to go back. Her life did not really change!! She works reception at a tech company and models on the side and still goes to parties and clubs and dates. How??? It is unbelievable how attitudes toward something like this can be so different in different countries. I am a victim now and I usually feel like it. Definitely damaged. Everybody at my school knows why. I am THAT girl. My new more mature boyfriend is understanding but I feel like a sad little burden to him. I am hypersexual sometimes now and can’t help it. It is a coping mechanism that happens to some victims of sexual assault. I did not ask for it. I worry my boyfriend can’t trust me because of it. I had an older guy friend who’s been my neighbor for years take advantage of me after I told him the story of what happened at his house. We had sex and then he felt guilty for being turned on by my rape story. He admitted it and asked me to forgive him. The sex helped me calm the ear ringing for just short time periods so I did it with him more than once a day for a bit until my dad started to suspect something and talked to him. Since then I don’t trust myself. I want to marry my boyfriend in large part just to protect myself and show him I love him and am loyal even though I am not sure I can be. I worry I cannot love like a normal person. I worry I push him away being too needy and wanting to marry him so soon. I need him more than he needs me. Is that the way it will always be in relationships for rape victims??? I work hard at school not to ruin my future. It is so hard to focus. My ears ring constantly. Thank you for listening.

I don't know if what my brother did to me can be classified as sexual abuse. I was staying over at his house. It was late at night, and we were watching a movie. At some point, he asked if he could initiate some cuddling. I actually agreed, since we are really close and both enjoy physical affection. While we were spooning, he snuck his hand under my shirt. He didn't say anything, and I didn't say anything. As the night went on, he alternated between different caresses, kisses on my head or the side of my face, and words of affection. I idly stroked his arm back because I felt awkward just lying there. He eventually asked "is this okay?" in reference to his hand inching up my stomach. I was giving him the benefit of the doubt and still thought the action was platonic, plus it felt nice, plus I am a timid person and have a hard time with confrontation, so my brain thinks saying "no" to people is provoking them, so I said "yes". I didn't really want to say it I, though. I don't think I wanted to say "no", wither. I don't think I wanted to say anything at all. I was tired. We both were. His caresses smoothly progressed to the point he was caressing the underside of my breasts. That's when I started really questioning his intentions. He asked "is this okay?" again. I said "yes" again. When the movie ended, I got scared. I had been using it to distract myself from what was happening, and I was afraid that now that there was no distraction, he would shift his whole attention to me and try to initiate something; so I sat up. He lightly squeezed the underside of my breast as I did so, maybe on purpose, or maybe as a reflex. When he realized I was genuinely pulling away, he took back his hands, said: "I'm sorry. Your brother's a creep", and got up to take a shower. I think that's the moment I started freaking out. It's what confirmed my suspicions that his touches really had sexual intent behind them. I had been trying to gaslight myself into believing they were innocent affection, but those words were forcing me to face the reality of my situation. I remember running my mouth non-stop about random topics when we were having breakfast because I was afraid he was going to bring up what just happened and would want to have a conversation about it. I didn't want to talk about it. I wanted to pretend it never happened. I still try to. But it haunts me. He and his wife (who had been sleeping peacefully in their bedroom through the whole night) left early in the morning for their honeymoon (I was there to house-sit, and had come the night before to hang out with them before they left). Once I was alone, I quietly went to their bed to sleep (with their permission and insistance, since there were no other beds in the apartment). As I tried to fall asleep, I still could feel his hands on me, like a phantom touch. I broke down right there. I felt guilty, and disgusting, for not having stopped it and for having enjoyed it too. I felt like maybe I was the creep, and maybe I was the one turning this interaction into something inappropriate. The following weeks, I tried to suppress my feelings. Some days before Christmas, I was on a plane with my mother, about to start our holiday vacation. I was close to my period and my breasts felt sensitive. That triggered something in me and I suddenly teared up right there, in public. That vague ache reminded me of the feeling of that one squeeze he gave to my breast. My mother noticed me about to cry, but I lied and said that's just because I'm close to my period and feeling gloomy (I had been struggling with depression for a while, which she knew.) During the trip, I would get random flashbacks to that night, sometimes even accompanied with feelings of nausea. I felt like I was making my brain overreact somehow, since I hadn't been raped and I shouldn't be traumatized for touching that can barely even be considered intimate. When we got back home, I did something I'm not sure whether I regret it: I talked to him about it. I sent him a long text (he lives in another city, which actually made me feel safer about confronting him) which I barely remember anything about, except that it mentioned "that night" and how I had been upset by it. I broke down while typing it, and it probably wasn't very coherent. My brother sent me many short replies in quick bursts when he saw it. He apologized profusely. He said "I don't know what's wrong with me", "I'll get psychological help", alongside many things I don't remember. That had me freaking out a bit. What did he need psychological help for? Was he admitting he's got urges he can't control? But I didn't say anything related to that. I was afraid of accusing him, and I made sure to clarify I was also to blame for not setting down any boundaries. We were both replying to each other without thinking. We were panicking, and full of adrenaline. I was scared of losing him. He was the only connection I had in the city we both lived in (very far from our hometown, where our parents and my friends all live). I didn't want to upset him, because he's a very sensitive person and I already felt guilty for how I was reacting to it. We somewhat resolved the issue over text. Except we didn't. At all. I pretended we did, but I was still plagued by doubts and paranoia. More than the touching, what haunted me were his words: "I'm sorry. Your brother's a creep." They shook me to my core. All I had wanted was to be in denial about what happened, but those words wouldn't let me. The story goes on to this day, but I don't want to write too much about the aftermath of "that night", since I'd be writing for too long and I want to focus on whether it was an instance of abuse. At this point, I feel a little more grounded and able to accept that what happened had sexual undertones. I am still full of shame and guilt. I did consent to some of the touching. I'm not certain I wanted to, but it is something I did. That would usually make me think this is a consensual encounter and that I simply regret it now, but there are many factors that also contribute to my belief that this could potentially be an instance of abuse too. First of all, my brother was 38 at the time. I was 20, which yes, is an adult, but still; he is my much older brother. He was already nearly an adult by the time I was born. He's been a figure of authority my whole life, even though he likes to pretend he's not. He's a little clueless when it comes to what's appropriate or not in social contexts, but I do think someone his age should know better than to sneak his hand under his little sister's shirt and go up her body so much his fingers actually brush against her areola. Secondly, I am neurodivergent, though I hadn't told him at the time. However, when I did tell him, he said he already had suspicions. Regardless of that, I've always been quiet and withdrawn, so it upsets that he initiated touching under the guise of innocent affection and then expected me to be able to express my discomfort when it escalated without him specifying it was going to. I don't think his form of seeking consent was productive at all either. He only asked me if two specific touches were okay, and only after starting to do them. He didn't ask for explicit permission for anything but the cuddling at the start. What I want to say is that I was vulnerable. I am young, inexperienced, autistic, and he has always been an emotional support and almost parental figure to me. I don't know how he can be so naive as to think he doesn't have any power over me. Maybe he does know that, but wasn't thinking at the time. I still don't get why he would touch me like that. I find a little solace in thinking that maybe I didn't have any control over it after all. But I don't know. Maybe I did. I am an adult after all. And I do believe he would have stopped if I had told him to. But I definitely never gave any enthusiastic consent. I feel betrayed. I feel lost. I feel angry. I feel sad. I've been avoiding thinking about it for months. Tonight, it all came back to me once more and I broke down again. I truly don't know what to do. I don't want to tell anyone close to me what happened because I am ashamed. I certainly don't want to tell my parents. I kind of want to cut ties with him, but at the same time I don't because I truly believe he is remorseful about it and I don't want to make him sad. I can't help being naive. I don't know if that's comforting, or embarrassing.

For me, my story entailed a male friend getting into my bed when i told him not to and forcing me to ‘cuddle’ with him, while he grabbed at me. He had been telling me all night how he missed his girlfriend, particularly her body & “that” part of their relationship. I felt horrible, i was uncomfortable and scared that he might do more. He didnt. But still even years later i feel uneasy when i think about it & how creepy he really was. He ignored me when i said no. He took away my autonomy that night. So dont feel like your story isnt worthy just because it “could have been worse”. Every experience is valid ❤️

I don't even know if this is sexual abuse/cocsa honestly. My cousin was 9/10 i was 8. All I know is he started touching me and I wasn't allowed to tell anyone. I don't know if this counts as cocsa and I don't want to take away from people who were sexually abused.

In my survival story, "Just Words, Dirty Words", I shared so much and I brushed over an experience with a male gynecologist. It was a much bigger deal that I let on because it had triggered my previous abuse as an adolescent on my first job. I wonted other girls and women to understand what is not okay for a gynecologist to do. It was not until after it happened that I realized the full impact. I realized I had let myself be victimized again without trying to stop it. I felt self-loathing and anxiety. I write this letter to that opportunistic predator. You broke your oath. You betrayed the trust. You are terrible! I have done research on what a breast and pelvic exam is supposed be like and understand you used the framework to sexually assault me. I was late for the appointment to get birth control at the university clinic when I had just moved for college. You let me in even though you had no nurse chaperon, it seemed that you might have sent them home after putting me in the room. You are a man and that is against policy. We shared our first eye contact and I ignored your lust and first glance flirtation. You saw I was vulnerable and needed something from you. You told me as a new patient you have to do a full first visit exam. Now I believe you may have lied. I nodded and put down my guard. When you returned I was undressed wearing a paper smock for a false sense of security. I was self conscious even though I had impeccable hygiene and grooming but worried I was not fresh enough so late in the day because you were a man and you made it sexual. You examined my breasts with no gloves. I said nothing. I knew you were massaging them for you pleasure. You went on for five minutes like that. I think five whole minutes while you kept talking. When my boss used to molest me just seconds was plenty to make me feel sick and used. He would sit on my torso, compressing my ribs to the point I could not take a deep breath and have sex with my breasts and he usually took less time than you. do remember you used the words “wonderful” and “amazing” when commenting on by breast health. We could both smell the musk from down below from stimulating me like that. I was embarrassed. You should have been the one ashamed! You mentioned the textures and gave some instructional anatomy to pretend it might be official. You asked random questions and you shared personal stories like it was a date. All the while you were groping my tits like a pervert. Both hands at the same time! I tried to cover for you by pretending like this was not insane and not a sexual assault. You were twice my age and your mustache was ridiculous. You finally moved on to the pelvic exam. You said the words, “Very nice” when you lifted up the paper drape to help my feet into the stirrups. That is not appropriate when viewing a patient’s vagina for the first time. You explained every step from “I’m going to touch your thighs now” to “take a deep breath as I insert the speculum”. That part was quick but then you explained the manual exam that you did for too long. You inserted two fingers to check for cervical motion tenderness but rubbed my clitoris with your lubricated thumb as you did so. That was wrong! You explained that you were going to move your other hand to check for tenderness of my ovaries to check for infection but kept working your other hand on my clit and inside me. You put what felt like three fingers in me! You were sexually assaulting me again. Breaching my trust. Ignoring you oath. As a last indignity you felt for masses in the space between my vagina and rectum. You left your thumb in my vagina while you put a finger in my anus and moved them both back and in and out explaining you thought you felt something for a second but it resolved on massage, meaning it was nothing to worry about. You raped me! That was rape! I looked it up and what you were doing is a real part of an exam but no gynecologist had done that before then or ever since! Instead of leaving the room while I dressed you stayed and helped by holding out my clothes! Totally inappropriate! You should not have a medical license! Sure I let you, and I cooperated, and even tried to endure it and put on a pleasant face. I was a different person then and you just continued my cycle of being abused by men. But the anus part was where I felt true terror and wanted to get out. You gave me a business card with your name on it and told me to call and ask when you were working to schedule next visit. Then you only wrote me for 1 refill on 30 day birth control! Like I would even come back to be assaulted again. You smug abuser of power and trust! I left with you thinking I enjoyed that and would see you again!!! You make me want to scream and pound on things! It was delayed, but my abuse anxiety was triggered that night, and days after. I will never see a male gynecologist again. Your lust and greed is not better than that of a rapist. You broke my trust in the medical system and I still get anxiety at any doctor visit. Just because a girl’s reaction to abuse is not instant, because of some survival mechanism, does not make it any less painful. Sometimes even more, because we feel guilty for not being strong and assertive. You were in a position of authority and abused it so badly. You should be ashamed, doctor! You should be in prison!

I didn’t expect to feel so angry, but I do and it comes back in waves. I’m trying my best to heal. it’s been months since the last incident, but it’s really impacted me. It’s been two occasions now within the past couple years, where a man who was supposedly safe, ended up harming me. These are men who have a good reputation in the community and supposedly offer guidance and healing to others, which makes it so much harder for me because these are the men that are supposed to be safe and trustworthy. So now my trust in men is absolutely destroyed. I’m angry at them. I’m repulsed by them. I want nothing to do with them. In my mind if the supposed good guys can do this kind of thing then what does it say about the rest of them? I know it’s not an optimistic mindset, but I’m tired of being told that I need to think more positively. My experiences really harmed me. And it’s not a positive experience for me to pretend like they didn’t. I’m tired of stuffing down my feelings to make others more comfortable. Every day I think about my pain. And how I suffer the consequences while these men go about their lives, getting support and praise from others publicly. I do want vengeance. But I could live with just having my suffering understood. I’m a kind hearted person. I didn’t deserve what they did. I’m someone who has a big heart and desires love. I’m someone who cares about doing the right thing. But now because of my scars love doesn’t even feel like an option to me. I don’t want to be angry. I want to live in a world where abuse and sexual violence don’t go unpunished.

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

I was in 6th standard when my neighbour touched me, forced me onto his lap, hugged me from behind and asked if he could kiss me. I was terrified and stayed silent because we were on a terrace and I feared he might push me off. I cried, and he told me not to tell my parents. I was only a child and didn't know what to do. Even now, remembering it can make me dizzy and bring everything back. It wasn't my fault.

I have lived through many battles, some visible and some invisible. Chronic pain has been a constant companion, and alongside it came experiences of assault, grief, bullying, and being overlooked or targeted in the workplace. Each of these left scars that ran deeper than I could admit at the time. For years, I tried to hold it all in — the pressure, the pain, the silence through alcohol and substances. But it built until I couldn’t contain it anymore, and I crashed hard. My mental health episode was frightening, for me and for those around me. What has made it harder is the culture I grew up in. In South Asian communities, mental health is often brushed aside, stigmatized, or seen as weakness. Instead of compassion, I felt shame. Instead of understanding, I carried guilt. I believed I had let down the people I loved most. But I am learning that what happened was not my fault. Trauma is not a choice. Crashes are not punishments. They are the body and mind crying out for care. I am still here. I am learning to see my sensitivity and survival not as flaws, but as proof of resilience. Sharing my story is part of releasing the shame and reclaiming my voice. My hope is that others who have lived through pain and silence — especially in communities where mental health is hidden — can know they are not alone. Our stories matter. Our survival matters.

I really want to tell anybody my story to be better than me my story start when I love my casein he really pretty and hot I love him for 5 years and it was the best 5 years I never tell him that I love him but he always makes me feel that he have the same feeling by doing moves but he really selfish and he proud at himself a lot I don't know why and he sometimes is really rude and star tells me that am ugly fat and you not pretty you like men but I wasn't ugly but when you love anybody you understand them and try to not make problems with them and one day he was really jealous of my guy best friend and start to tell me his not good don't talk with him and I try to know why he tells me that I want him to tell me that he is jealous so after one day he said that am used girl and I be really sad but now I try to forget him and love my self cause he let me hate my self so I need to tell you don't let anybody make you feel sad and uncomfortable with your self just be your self and people opinion it is just an opinion not true . I hope you get advantages from my story.

From the time I was around nine years old up until I was seventeen, my twin sister coerced me into having oral and penetrative sex multiple times. This continued over many, many years. It started as a game--we played "characters", students at a school that had crushes on each other in the midst of a universe we created playing pretend. The realization that what we were doing was wrong--that she was my sister and that we were really doing this--didn't kick in until I was around fifteen years old. I should've stopped her then, I know that now. The guilt was enough to crush me. I tried to call her off. It worked for several weeks. But we'd been close for so long, and she was my only source of comfort. Without what I thought was an expression of her love, I grew depressed and upset. And when I saw a poem she wrote, describing in detail the love she felt for me in the slant of the "characters" we always played, I thought it was a sign that I had been wrong. I came back to her and the abuse continued from then on. I started to feel guilty again and began trying to find a compromise--ridding myself of the urge to listen to her before the manipulation started, before she came in. I dreaded her nightly visits that had become our routine. As we went on with life, her feelings towards me started to bleed into real life, outside of the fantasy world of our "characters". She'd act weird about me crushing on people at school, dating people at school or online. When I found another poem of hers lamenting about my online boyfriend that she'd discovered reading my diary, not in the voice of the "characters" but in her own voice, I knew it had to end. During an argument we had later when I was seventeen, I asked her how she thought /I/ felt after going back on my promise to stop what we were doing. She smiled in my face and told me, "I think you like it. You're a masochist." The following weekend my mother left to vacation with my grandmother and my sister was moved to my room. I was terrified that it would happen again. One night when she tried I called her out and told her to stop. I thought it wouldn't work...but it did. My relationship with my sister has never been the same. We lack the closeness we once had. As a now adult going into my sophomore year of college, I'm starting to notice depressive behaviors again at my lack in love. Maybe everyone has someone and my someone was her, I keep thinking, over and over. I need proof that I'm not alone, that someone else out there won't hate me for what happened. I need to know there's someone out there who loves me, who fate has picked for me, that isn't her. I'm so, so glad to have a safe space to express my truth.

I love my self no matter what!

Hi I can't possibly share all the details in small box. So I made my own page as part of my healing process. So far I have had women saying that I've inspired them to write and share their own stories so I am very encouraged. I hope to help someone in all of this... Blog

In the wave of the Cornell 7, people forget about small colleges. I have since transitioned and identify as a transman. But at the time I still looked like a woman and didn’t know I was transsexual. In 2018 before I graduated, I met this guy at my small private art college. We had a small library and an editing bay at a different room. I always stayed behind to finish my projects. The library student worker was usually there with me alone since it was late into the night. I went there one night to check out the room. He seemed kind of weird but I didn’t think much of it. I contuined several days doing my work etc, staying late at night. One night he came in to check on me and was really weird. I felt off but had to get my project done. He sat on the floor of the room as I ate the dinner my mom packed. Then after I ate he started to kiss me and I felt weird. I didn’t move or say anything. He told me we would continue this later. I was just shocked and didn’t go home right away as I wished now I had. Later he came back to tell me the library was closed and started to kiss me and hug me which I felt weird again. I lived down the street from the college so after security locked up and the school was closed he offered me a ride home. Told me folks were scary out there. Now thinking back I wasn’t very smart because I accepted the ride. Instead of driving me down the street home, he drove to a nearby park and parked on street then pulled out his 🍆 and told me to do things to it. I was scared and didn’t know what to do so I used my hands. He told me to go to the back seat where this contained till he finished. Then he drove me home. The next few days he didn’t really talk to me and started dateing one of the popular girls. I always felt sorry for her seeing them together. If she knew what he was really like but she mean like Regina from Mean Girls. I didn’t tell the college anything because I didn’t know how this would end up or if people would hate me so I just let it go. So SA happens on small campuses as well even more so since they don’t have any kind of security department or have to follow Title IX laws. Plus they are not well known like Cornell or UCLA and won’t face pressure and public backlash to do things right and protect their students.

I was used and abused by my next door neighbor's teenage son for two years, from age 4 till age 6. I was friends with his little sister and him and he gained my trust after my mom and I moved into the house. The first time it happened we were in the living room and he got my Simpsons sheet from my room and we went under the sheet and he unvelcroed his board shorts and took his penis out and put my head on it, telling me to pretend it was a bottle, it was frequent between oral and anal and I didn't understand how bad it was, my mom caught it finally and it stopped. My mom was going to press charges but his dad was a former police officer and my decided to not go through with it. As a child afterwards I moved forward, in my teens and adult years, I'm 36 almost 37, relationships have been difficult. I'm have not been intimate with any woman.

I am still in the mid for 2 1/2 year battle in the courts and so I want to remain anonymous through this, but also help myself and others because we all deserve to be heard. I hear you I Hear You For a long time, I thought domestic violence had to look a certain way. I thought there had to be bruises. There had to be blood. There had to be scars that someone else could see. Because that is what we were told. He didn’t beat you with a pipe. It wasn’t that bad. You’re making a bigger deal out of it than it really was. Everybody has marital problems. But I know something now that I didn’t know then. Domestic violence is not defined by the size of the bruise. Sometimes there are no marks. Sometimes there is a pattern: A pattern of intimidation. A pattern of fear. A pattern of screaming and humiliation. A pattern of threats. A pattern of pushing and grabbing. A pattern of destroying things. A pattern of control. A pattern of provoking someone until they finally react—and then using that reaction as proof that they are the problem. And sometimes, there is physical violence too. But the absence of a visible injury does not make what happened less real. Domestic violence can change the entire atmosphere of a home. You learn to listen for the front door. You learn to read facial expressions. You learn the difference between a normal sigh and an angry one. You learn which words are safe and which ones aren’t. You learn what subjects to avoid. You learn how to answer. You learn when to be quiet. You learn how to keep the children quiet. You learn how to keep the peace. You learn to wait. Always waiting for the next shoe to drop. When that becomes your normal, you don’t always recognize that you are living in survival. You just think you’re trying to have a good marriage. Because that is what you wanted. You wanted a good marriage. You wanted a safe home. You wanted happy children. You wanted a close family. You wanted your children to grow up knowing what love looked like. You wanted the family you believed God had given you. And that is part of what makes this so difficult to understand from the outside. The victim often isn’t trying to destroy the family. She is trying desperately to save it. That desire to preserve the family can keep her in survival for years. It can also make the truth harder for others to see. When the Abuser Controls the Story Sometimes the abuser has been telling the story for years before the victim ever finds the courage to tell hers. The abuser doesn’t have to lock her in a room to isolate her. Sometimes they isolate her by controlling the narrative. They tell family members she’s unstable. They tell friends she’s controlling. They tell people she’s difficult. They say the children are disrespectful. They say the wife is turning the children against them. They say, “You don’t know what I have to deal with.” They tell everyone how unreasonable she is. Slowly, people begin to see the victim through the picture the abuser has painted. So when the victim finally speaks, people aren’t hearing her story for the first time. They’re hearing it after someone else has already explained who she supposedly is. That makes being believed even harder. Her tears become proof that she’s unstable. Her anger becomes proof that she’s controlling. Her children’s reactions become proof that she’s turned them against their father. Her attempts to protect the children become proof that she’s keeping them from him. Her frustration becomes proof that she’s difficult. And the abuser can stand back and say: “See?” “See how they are?” “See how crazy she is?” “See how disrespectful the kids are?” “See what I have to deal with?” But what people don’t always see is what happened before that moment. They don’t see the pushing and pushing and pushing. They don’t see the intimidation. They don’t see the hours of screaming. They don’t see the threats. They don’t see the humiliation. They don’t see the destruction. They don’t see the name-calling. They don’t see the financial control and manipulation. They don’t see the fear. They don’t see the gaslighting. They don’t see the years of walking on eggshells. They see the reaction. And sometimes the victim’s reaction is the only thing they remember. But a reaction is not the beginning of the story. And it is not the whole story. The Person Everyone Thinks They Know There is another reason this can be so difficult for people to understand. The abuser can be charming. He can be the guy everyone says would give you the shirt off his back. He can be silly. Funny. Generous. Helpful. Loving with his family. Sometimes he really can be that person, even when no one else is around. And that is where the victim finds hope again. Because she remembers that person too. She sees the good moments. She remembers the laughter. She remembers the tenderness. She sees the version of him that she hoped was the real him. So she tells herself maybe that is who he really is. Maybe things will stay good. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe if she does better, communicates better, mothers better, keeps the house better, says the right things, or stops upsetting him, the good version will stay. That hope can keep a woman trying long after she has been hurt. And when other people only see the charming version, they may have a hard time believing the woman describing what happens behind closed doors. But sometimes the manipulation happens in a way that is even harder to recognize. When we would go away on trips together, just the two of us, he would sometimes use that time to convince me that our problems weren’t really between us. He would say things like: “See how good we are when your child isn’t around?” “See? They’re the problem.” Or he would talk about one of my friends. “See how good we are when you’re not hanging out with that person?” These were the friends he felt intimidated by. The ones who would speak truth to me. The ones he did not have fooled. And because I was away with him, away from my child, away from those friends, and things could feel good, I would believe him. I would think, Maybe he’s right. Maybe my child really is the problem. Maybe that friend really is influencing me. Maybe we really are better when they aren’t around. That is what manipulation can do. It can make you question the very people who are trying to help you see what you cannot see yet. And that is why those trips could be so confusing. Because for a moment, things really could feel good. And then I would come home and my children would tell me what had happened while I was gone. For years, I didn’t know how to reconcile those two realities. The reality I experienced when I was alone with him and the reality my children experienced when I wasn’t there. Eventually, I had to understand that both experiences were real. Because charm does not erase a pattern. Funny does not erase fear. Generosity does not erase intimidation. Tender moments do not erase violence. And the person who can make everyone else laugh can still be the person whose family is afraid of what will happen when the door closes. The reality inside the home can be very different from the picture everyone else sees. Because my child should never have been hiding in the backyard. They should never have been hiding because they were afraid of what would happen when their father came after them with a large wooden spoon. There should never have been holes in the walls. There should never have been a fist in my face while I was being screamed at and yelled at. I should never have been prevented from using a phone when I was trying to call for help. My children should never have been physically thrown around. Items should never have been thrown and broken. There should never have been marks. There should never have been closed-door conversations where I was belittled, told what an awful mother I was, and given instructions about how I needed to correct my children, what I was doing wrong, and what I needed to expect from them. But those things happened. And sometimes the manipulation looked like something else entirely. He would tell me what I needed to do as a mother. He would tell me how I needed to correct the children. He would convince me that he knew better. And I was afraid of him. So I listened. I went out and did what he told me to do while he sat there playing the hero. And I became the bad guy to my own children. I carried out the correction because I was afraid not to. I believed that maybe he was right. That maybe I needed to keep him happy. That maybe he knew better. That maybe if I just did what he said, the anger would stop. That is one of the most painful things for a mother to look back on. Because she can see what her children saw. They saw Mom delivering the correction. They didn’t necessarily see the fear behind it. They didn’t know what had happened behind the closed door. They didn’t know that Mom was sometimes making decisions from a place of survival. And that is how abuse can distort an entire family. The person causing the fear can sometimes look like the hero. And the person trying to manage that fear can end up looking like the problem. When the Veil Begins to Lift But sometimes, something begins to change. There comes a point when you stop doing what he tells you to do. Not because you suddenly become fearless. Not because you have everything figured out. But because something inside you begins to see what you could not see before. The veil starts to come off. You begin to question the things you have accepted for years. You begin to hear your children differently. You begin to hear yourself differently. For years, my children would call me at work and tell me something was wrong. And I would tell them: “Just respect your father.” “What are you guys doing wrong?” I was telling them the same things that had been told to me. I was repeating the very words that had kept me doubting myself. And sometimes, while one of my children was telling me what was happening, he would call on the other line telling me how disrespectful they were. “Don’t believe them.” “They’re disrespectful.” “You don’t know what they’re doing.” And for years, I believed him. But my children kept trying to tell me. Over and over. “Mom, he is different when you’re not here.” “Please don’t leave us here alone with him.” “You don’t know how he is.” “He has you fooled.” Those words are hard for a mother to hear. Especially when you have spent years believing the person you thought you were supposed to trust. And I had spent years hearing another version of the same story. When we were away together, he would tell me: “See how good we are when your child isn’t around?” “See how good we are when you’re not listening to that friend?” He wanted me to believe that the people around me were the reason we had problems. And because things could feel good when I was alone with him, I believed it. I thought maybe my child really was the problem. Maybe that friend really was the problem. Maybe I was listening to people who were making things worse. But those were the very people who would speak truth to me. The people he felt intimidated by. The people he could not fool. And eventually, I started seeing that. Eventually, I started believing my children. And then something even more important happened. I started believing my own reality. I stopped automatically explaining everything away. I stopped automatically asking what they had done to cause it. I stopped automatically assuming that he must be right. And when I stopped playing the role he had given me, something changed. The control he had held for years began to slip. And the anger intensified. The manipulation intensified. The pressure intensified. It was as though losing control of me was different from simply being angry with me. Because for years, I had been responding the way he wanted me to respond. I was believing what he told me. I was correcting my children the way he told me to. I was questioning myself instead of questioning the behavior. I was trying to keep him happy because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. Then I began to stand up. I began to believe my children. I began to trust what I was seeing. And the person who had controlled the narrative for so long no longer had the same control. What I had once understood as simply him being angry began to look different. I could see the pattern. And sometimes that is when the behavior becomes even more frightening—not necessarily because something new has begun, but because the control that existed for years is no longer working the same way. My children had been trying to tell me for years. They had called me. They had begged me. They had pleaded with me not to leave them home alone with him. They were telling me that the person I knew was not the only person they knew. And eventually, I heard them. Eventually, I believed them. Eventually, I believed myself. And then I began to see that what had happened to me was not something that existed only in my imagination or in my marriage. The same patterns were showing up in what my children were experiencing. The same fear. The same manipulation. The same need to manage his anger. The same feeling that something was wrong, followed by the pressure to believe that they were the problem. That was when the picture became harder to deny. Because my children had been trying to tell me what I could not yet see. And sometimes the people closest to the truth are the ones we have been taught not to believe. The Breaking Point Is Not the Whole Story Sometimes when people finally show up at the door, the victim isn’t calm. She’s crying. She’s angry. She’s shaking. She’s defensive. She’s exhausted. She’s done. Because she has been pushed beyond what she can carry. The abuser may be standing there completely calm, looking like the reasonable one. Then comes: “See?” Suddenly, the victim’s breaking point becomes the evidence against her. But ask what happened before the breaking point. Ask what the pattern looked like. Ask what happened when someone said no. Ask what happened when the children didn’t comply. Ask why the children were afraid. Ask why everyone in the home learned how to keep the peace. Ask why the victim was always trying to prevent the next explosion and be the wife and mother the abuser demanded she be. Don’t judge the entire story by the moment the victim finally couldn’t hold it together anymore. Sometimes the person who looks the least composed when everyone arrives is the person who has been holding everything together for years. That is why the pattern matters more than a single moment. The Hidden Cost of Motherhood There is another part of abuse that mothers carry almost silently: the grief of the motherhood they dreamed about but never got to fully experience. Before your children ever arrived, you imagined their tiny hands, their laughter, protecting them, raising them, and giving them a safe and loving home. You didn’t dream about surviving motherhood. You dreamed about being a mom. But when you are living with abuse, motherhood can become another form of survival. You are watching his moods, measuring your words, protecting your children, trying to keep the peace, and wondering what will happen when he comes home. You are not simply raising children. You are trying to raise them while navigating someone else’s anger. And that can leave a mother looking backward with tremendous guilt. You may think about the moments you wish you had handled differently. You may grieve the childhood you wanted your children to have. You may wonder whether they saw you as the bad one because they couldn’t see what you were carrying. But before you condemn yourself, ask yourself: “What was I surviving?” You can acknowledge the moments you wish had been different without taking responsibility for the abuse. You can grieve what was stolen without believing you failed your children. Because your heart was there from the beginning. You wanted to be their mother. You wanted to protect them. You wanted them to be safe. Your heart was never to destroy your family. Your heart was to have one. You Deserve to Be Heard If you have lived something similar, I want you to hear what I wish I had heard sooner. I hear you. I hear the woman who doesn’t have a perfect timeline. I hear the woman who can’t remember every incident. I hear the woman who stayed. I hear the woman who defended him. I hear the woman who made excuses. I hear the woman who wondered whether she was the problem. I hear the woman whose friends and family may have believed someone else’s version of her. I hear the woman who finally reacted after being pushed too far. I hear the woman who began to question what she had been told. I hear the woman who started believing her children. I hear the woman who finally started believing herself. I hear the mother who feels like years were stolen. I hear the mother who looks back and wishes she could have given her children something different. I hear the woman who is ashamed that she stayed. I hear the woman who is ashamed that she reacted. I hear the woman who wonders whether anyone will believe her now. I hear you. You don’t need a perfect story. You don’t need to remember every date. You don’t need photographs of every incident. You don’t need a visible scar. You don’t have to have called the police the first time. You don’t have to have left the first time. You don’t have to prove that someone else had it worse before you are allowed to acknowledge what happened to you. You don’t have to minimize your pain because someone else doesn’t understand it. You don’t have to accept the identity someone else created for you. And you don’t have to believe that because you had imperfect reactions, the abuse wasn’t real. Your reaction does not erase the pattern. Your anger does not erase the fear. Your mistakes do not justify someone else’s choices. The story someone told about you does not automatically become the truth about you. Sometimes the realization comes slowly. Sometimes you can only see the pattern after you are finally far enough away from it. Sometimes you have to look backward and recognize that what you called “marital problems” was actually a pattern of fear, control, intimidation, and abuse. Sometimes the hardest realization isn’t admitting that someone hurt you. It is realizing how long you were taught to doubt yourself. Where We Are Now And then there is the part nobody always tells you about what comes after. Healing is slow. Sometimes it is two steps forward and one step back. Sometimes it is one step forward and two steps back. There are days when the doubt comes back. The fear. The confusion. The instinct to question yourself. Because when the abuser is finally out of the home, it is easy to instinctively go back to what you knew for years. You may hear his voice in your own thoughts. Did that really happen? It really happened. Was it really that bad? Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I was the problem. And when that happens, you take the next step toward truth. You tell yourself what you know. Yes. It happened. The hitting happened. The pushing happened. The name-calling happened. The screaming in my face happened. The phone calls I received while I was at work happened. The threats of violence happened. The actual violence happened. The broken items happened. The intimidation happened. The financial control happened. The lying and hiding of money happened. The fear was real. The pattern was real. It was all true. And you may have to tell yourself that more than once. Not because you are weak. But because you spent years being taught to question your own reality. So healing may not look like never doubting again. Sometimes healing looks like recognizing the doubt and answering it with truth. I know what happened. I know what I lived. I know what my children experienced. I do not have to rewrite the truth to make someone else’s narrative more comfortable. The story may still be told differently by the person who caused the harm. The narrative may still be manipulated. Other people may still believe a different version. But their version does not change what happened. You do not have to spend the rest of your life arguing with every version of the story. Sometimes you simply stand in the truth you know. And then you take the next step. Then another. And another. Healing is happening. Redemption is happening. Restoration is happening. Little by little. God is restoring what was taken. Not all at once. Not on the timeline you imagined. But piece by piece, He is teaching you that your life is more than what happened to you. The years cannot be rewritten. The things that happened cannot be undone. But what was stolen does not have to be the end of your story. There can be truth after confusion. There can be peace after fear. There can be identity after years of being told who you were. There can be motherhood after survival. There can be life after abuse. And there can be redemption. There can be restoration. So if you are somewhere in this story right now—still questioning, still afraid, still trying to understand, still grieving, or just beginning to see the veil lift—I want you to know: You do not have to figure it all out today. Take the next step toward truth. When the doubt comes, tell yourself what you know. It happened. It was real. The pattern was real. And you are allowed to heal from something that really happened. You are allowed to grieve what was lost. You are allowed to believe your children. You are allowed to believe yourself. You are allowed to rebuild. You are allowed to become more than the woman who survived. You are still here. And little by little, God is restoring what was taken. I hear you. Your story is real. And you matter—not because someone else finally believes you, but because you were always worthy to be heard.

People think moving on means letting go, closing the door, and never looking back. As much as my nervous system would like that, it's not my path. I am staring the monster dead in the eye and doing my best to learn what happened to us in hopes we will heal—mind, body, and spirit. Don't give up, whispers a flickering light on a dead battery, let the thoughts come. Answers will bring closure and protection in the long run, but for now there's cancer inside the ravaged shell. Welcome to your crash course in psychopathy—put your seatbelt on, because it's a brutal ride. We now step into the realization phase. Cognitive dissonance. Watch your step, it's going to hurt like hell as it crushes you from the inside out. Close your eyes, rip off the electrodes, and let's find out who you are. We don't bury memories in this sobering abyss. My ears bleed as my heart listens to everything it knows but doesn't want to understand. It has a name now, a sequence, and a chill to the aftermath. She challenges me, the mother part, she begs me to let her protect me. The sirens are piercing as reality blazes. The merry-go-round of flashbacks is like a non-stop slideshow that fits perfectly into place. Nothing makes sense, yet it's all right there. Everything I thought was, wasn't. I'm dizzy. I always pictured the beginning as a gentle shining thing, but that's not right. God is a woman with sweat on her skin, blood on the floor, and no honest man to be found. So here we are, moving back and forth in the stages of grief, but this is not like normal grief that others know. This is the insidious type—unique to the encounter of a psychopath. It's a spiritual malady, a soul rupture if you will. The poison that's been bestowed upon us is called PTSD, and all its symptoms are vile. This is about what is the same, familiar, and repeated. It's complex to live in a house with a security system that is always scanning for threat. The house was the abuser, the alarm system is you, and once you moved in, the security was broken and replaced with coercive control. The eye of this storm is ugly, nasty, cunning, baffling, and powerful—it lives in your mind, body, and soul. This is with you at the doctor, you see it in the mirror. You hear it alone in bed at night. It haunts the pages in your journal, rolls around your tortured mind, and cries through your voice in the moments you feel like dying. But none of that, not one bit, is as horrifying as watching someone benefit from consuming your daughter's soul and tossing her aside like roadkill. This person is no person at all, but a parasite—self-centered, self-serving, and devouring. She's living this experience right along with you, as it tries to kill her too. I cannot express the brutality of witnessing that the most important thing in my world is the exact thing he infested. That's what evil looks like—the greatest trick the devil ever played, convincing the world he wasn't real. As a mother, this is the blunt force that leaves no visible mark. This is the gentle force into acceptance. Please stop, it says. You cannot make them understand. They must seek it on their own. Only if they do will you be safe to give them pieces of your story. This is the uncomfortable mothership of truths about human beings. Those who don't educate themselves as passengers on this flight will continue to inadvertently trigger survivors with insensitive responses. That won't change unless they do. Where there's no lived experience, there's no understanding; understanding is the necessity for connection—and connection is life. And what a disturbing realization: you've been caught in this endless loop. Crumbs of attention were the only hope you had to cling to. Trapped in desperation, you've been searching for something to make you real, but it doesn't sit right anymore. Survivors don't thrive held in purgatory. The stars look very different today as we step into the unknown. Floating in the most peculiar way, it's time to exit the painful space of bargaining with others. My dream for you is that someday you'll be able to talk about trauma from your core self with clarity, serenity, and certainty. It will glow with the resilience of new limbs you grew from a deadly climb. Those willing to hear will learn from you, but for now, we stop translating while we're drowning and we start sitting still in the muck. When we don't sit with our parts, when we give them away, we cannot fully integrate them; when we cannot fully integrate them, we stay fragmented. We are not the professor, we are the student, and our spirit is in line. I release you from the job of hurting, healing, and helping all at once. This was never a fair assignment. The mental torture you've endured was terrorism. You never had to apologize. You didn't take anything; it was taken from you. "They tried to bury us, but they didn't know we were seeds."

I don't know how in detail I can go here because I do not want to pursue legal action for anything. I truly do not know how bad everything was and how much is gaps in my memory, I only know that he hurt my dog in front of me and yelled at me and cursed at me and called me things at such a young age that I couldn't understand. I was a defiant child and I learned to be sexually exploratory at a very young age due to not understanding what was happening. I just knew I was forced to hug others without clothes on and that I was pinned down upon occasion for money incentives when I was really young and that I was touched by someone for something necessary and medial but that the wrong person did it to me and got carried away and made it about more than the medicine. I learned to be okay with it in my relationships as well and my first one was very weird, I was forced to act ways I did not want to and forced to go on dates or else the person would threaten to hurt themselves. I am in a healthy relationship now though. I don't really know how to describe what has happened to me because I don't think I have been raped per se but I feel like I have been taken advantage of my whole life.