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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 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.

At the age of four, my mom used to take me out to the trunk of her Jeep and beat me for 20-30 minutes at a time. She would hit me, pull my hair, and scream profanity at me. The physical abuse lasted until I was 11-years-old, and she only stopped once CPS got involved. My dad knew; he did nothing. At the age of 6, I got sexually molested at school by another female. My mother told me it was not molestation, and that I was just "playing around." At the age of 11, I was sexually abused by the neighborhood boys. They were in their mid-teens, and would touch me inappropriately, rub their penises against me, and tell me inappropriate jokes. At that same age, I was also dry humped on the face by multiple boys who I considered friends. At the age of 16, I was raped by a 26-year-old man. He groomed me beginning at the age of 14-years-old, and convinced me he was a safe person. At that same point in my life, I was raped by a 23-year-old that I had known for two years and considered safe. He took me to a room where we could "be alone" then proceeded to force himself on me. I was crying and telling him to stop, but he didn't stop. I dated him for three months after that, and he continued to pressure me into sex and emotionally abuse me. Starting at the age of 14-years-old, I began getting harassed online. I stupidly gave out my phone number and address to someone I had trusted, and they were posted on 4chan (a public image board). I was harassed daily: I received death threats; I received threatening phone calls; I would receive calls to my school. I then found out that the person I trusted killed a girl in his home city, and that they had proof I was going to be the next victim. At the age of 17, my step-dad physically assaulted me and almost broke my wrist. He put a cigarette out on my head, strangled me, and threatened me. My mom watched, holding the phone, and told me it was my fault for "not leaving when [she] told [me] to." The only help I got was from a neighbor who saw me run out of the house, covered in blood. That same year, I was kicked out because I refused to lift the restraining order off of my step-dad, and my mom gave me an ultimatum. I refused and went to live elsewhere. At the age of 18, I moved in with my first serious boyfriend. He was abusive and cheated on me multiple times. He would call me every name in the book and threaten to harm me and break my belongings. I did not get away until I was just turning 19. At the age of 20, I moved in with my dad. My step-mom was jealous of my dad and I's relationship and physically assaulted me and kicked me out on my 21st birthday. My dad did nothing again. At the age of 21, I developed life-threatening bulimia and anorexia and began drinking heavily to self-medicate. My fiance helped me through these disorders and saved my life. I am now 24-years-old and have many stable and healthy relationships--both in friendship and love. I am also receiving help via medication for C-PTSD, GAD, and major depressive disorder. I began therapy recently, too, and am learning to confront my traumas and move on. It's hard, and there are many things I remember each day that send me into a panic, but I want to heal and reclaim my innocence, power, and self-worth.

"She thinks he assaulted her." That's what my best friend in high school said to another friend of ours when I told her how my date went the Saturday before. He was a star football player on our high school team and I didn't "talk" to a lot of guys. We were never official after a month of talking because of that night. He came over to my house to eat dinner with my parents we had hamburgers and then cheesecake. I remember what I was wearing. That's kind of how I started to realize that what happened wasn't right, I remember so much. We started to watch a movie in my living room, my mom was upstairs and my dad walked through the back hallway occasionally, but never through the living room. I was shy, so I was sitting on one end of the couch while he was on the other. He began to kiss me, I remember thinking what a bad kisser he was. He started to go further, and I told him not to put his hand up my shirt but he kept trying. I would move his hand away but he kept moving it back. My puppy jumped up on me, to this day I think she knew something was wrong with me and with him, and then he stopped. While he was stopped I texted my mom and told her I was ready for him to go home and she came downstairs and we drove him home. I told him not to leave hickeys on my neck and he did, I was so embarrassed and I felt so gross. I took a shower and just thought about how gross the whole situation felt, and the next day, instead of telling him how uncomfortable I felt, I told him I "didn't think our personalities meshed." Which was also true. I didn't tell anyone for years because I felt like what happened was so minuscule in comparison to other stories of assault and rape I had heard of, so I didn't tell anyone, especially after I told that one friend. Recently, the guy posted something on his social media about consent, and it made me so angry and triggered me in a way I didn't know was possible. I was so mad at him for making me feel how I feel, for potentially being the cause of my current difficulties with sex, and now posting something about consent? On one hand, I was glad he was more educated than when we were younger, but on the other hand I was so so mad he couldn't have learned sooner, and that he probably doesn't even realize what he did or how he made me feel. To this day I still feel like I'm being overdramatic and that what happened wasn't wrong, just how guys are.. but that doesn't match with how that moment made me feel and how it continues to affect me.

I’m a 27 year old female now but when I was about the age of 6-7 my sister would kiss me on the lips. I vividly remember laying down on my bathroom floor (which she told me to do) and would just tell me to relax. She is 4 years older than me. I also remember one time I really wanted to kiss her and she said yes. I think it was a game to me at that point. She had left for a moment and I got naked. I remember she came back and said to put my clothes on because our dad was going to take us out to eat. Those are the only moments I remember but my mind might be pushing down other similar moments I had with her. I’m struggling now to have a relationship with her. She has never talked about it, but I feel like she remembers. It’s so hard to speak to her without getting annoyed or frustrated. She is annoying to me and never communicates well, she tends to always ask a question when asked a question. She’s never wrong and is hard headed. At this point I feel like I need to speak to her about this and distance myself to heal. I don’t even know what I want but I just don’t want to feel this way.

Each year it crashes in like the waves beating the stand. It brings a swirl of emotion and feelings unbeknownst to my fragile mind. My body seises as it struggles to stay afloat. I gasp as the sharp prickly water traps my body, unable to move, but only to breathe, breathe... breathe... and breathe. A calm air slowly comes over me as I become conscious of this storm. Sobering me, I remember that it will pass...

Im struggling to get my head around what to do and who to speak to. I was comfortably asleep and cuddling my boyfriend and had my head kind of on top of him, i woke up slightly and he was moving my hand to his crotch that was h*rd and at that point i was wide awake with my eyes still closed wondering what he was doing, i opened them a little and pretended i was moving in my sleep but he kept on using force moving my whole arm and hand to touch him and i didnt know what to do so i was still and he took out his phone like he was gonna take a picture. He knows i wouldnt want to do that and I dont know what to do or how to feel, i confronted him about it when i ‘woke up’ and i was in shock shaking, we were arguing and he started crying and long story short i ended up comforting him. he never truly said sorry once and i just feel lost because i have so much love for him but i genuinely never want to be with him again but the thought of never speaking to him again hurts me, and i know he wouldnt live without me. which is what scares me because im the only one there for him, i dont know what he would do without me. i just need help on a decision please im feeling very alone in this.

I can't remember the month I met him or the day he became a coworker. I just remember meeting him and thinking he was shy. I remember him having a friendly smile. Something about him made me feel safe. He was kind and patient and empathetic. I guess our friendship started when I needed someone and I was vulnerable. I've been happily married for over a decade. Even now, I've haven't spoken about what happened. I feel dirty. I haven't been able to write about what happened to me. For a long time, I blamed myself because I was high when it happened. I was so high that I couldn't feel anything. There are blank spots within my memory, but I do remember the first night. A few coworkers and I had decided to go out for drinks and play pool at a local bar. He offered to drive me home and we talked. It was nice. After a few hours, he picked me up again and we drove around the city. It wasn't long before the feeling on his hands were on my skin. I asked him to stop and he did for a while. He drove into an old church parking lot and we continued to talk. He knew I was married, but he wanted to kiss me anyway. When he leaned in, I told him no. I don't quite remember the rest of the evening but I remember reading the time and seeing 2:13am. I told him that I needed to go home, but he said I had to do something first. I thought he was joking. He placed my hand on his lower body. I pulled away and told him no. He said, "Please. It would feel so good and I really need this." I told him we shouldn't, but he was persistent. He continued to grab my hand and put it on his crotch. He said it would feel better if he was able to "take it out". I asked him to stop and he said, "Sorry." I was grateful he apologized. "I thought you wanted this, though. You got me hardd, so now you have to finish," he said. I kept saying no and he continued to be persistent. The only answer left was to say yes. Externally, I said yes but internally I was saying no. I figured if I could make the situation less unpleasant, it would end quickly. I laid in the passenger seat feeling his hands move from my upper body down to my groin. He asked me to turn around and bend over. I told him no. He said, "I'm almost done. Please.. I need this." Even after saying no, he was persistent. I should have walked away or called 911 or called my Mom. Anything to save me. But I knew if I did, it would cause chaos. I was located 30-45 minutes outside of town - it was dark out, and I was worried he was going to hurt me or kick me out. I feel guilty for allowing him to touch me. It's hard not to feel guilty even though I froze and did what I could to survive. I returned home confused about what happened and acknowledged that I had not consented to that encounter. I know what assault is. I didn't want this to happen and I said no. Yet, it happened anyway. I learned about sexual coercion a few months after. This continued for a few months. He told me that I was a cheater because I didn't walk away. I feel like a cheater. I feel useless and powerless because he told me I had no choice. I feel responsible for what happened, but confused because it was unwanted. All along I've been wondering what he took from me. He took my consent.

I've been psychologically abused by my mother since I was little. Because of this, I have a habit of always thinking about what she thinks, and I feel like I have no self because I'm so devoted to her. I work at a restaurant, but I'm exhausted from trying to avoid creating a bad atmosphere at work and making sure she doesn't dislike me, and even working is painful. I signed up for a dating app hoping to get away from my mother, but I've been taken advantage of and rejected constantly, and I can't see any hope for my life.

You think your age makes you less to blame, But I carry the weight, I bear the shame. You crossed the line — no excuse to hide, No softer words can wash this tide. I’m not the one who should feel small, You built this cage, you made me fall. No matter your years, no matter your face, You took from me my safe, my space. But here I stand, I claim my voice, I break the chains, I make the choice. I won’t be silent, I won’t back down, I wear my courage like a crown. So hear me now, and hear me clear, Your actions caused this pain and fear. Age won’t protect what you have done— I am the survivor, I have won.

I was raped by my uncle when I was 11 years old. Most of my family didn't believe me. That was really painful and prevented me from getting the support and help I needed at the time. I developed an eating disorder and started self-harming as a trauma response. I had no other way of coping. I wish I had known more about SA when I was younger. Not to prevent it because I believe that it's the perpetrator that makes the choice to harm. But to understand that it wasn't my fault, that I was a victim and to report it when I still had time.

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

Many years ago When I was 18 my friend and I met some guys while being out. They invited us to their house and we were naive enough to go with them. They got us very drunk and I didn’t even know where the house was, I didn’t know this part of my city. I reached the point where I was very drunk and a guy pushed me into a room and against a wall and kissed me. He undressed me and we had sex. I did not understand what has happening. It was my first time ever. After we were done I felt dirty and I didn’t know what to do so I just ran out of the house and just kept running away. I called my friend and she left, she was too drunk to notice that I was gone for so long. I did not understand what happened, he told my friend that I consented so I must have. I never spoke about it, it was shameful. I didn’t even remember his name or how he looks like. I just tried to forget it but sometimes I remembered it. I never understood. It was almost 10 years ago and a while ago a friend and I were talking about our first time and how it usually sucks. I told her a little about it and she took my hand and told me that I was raped, I did not consent, I was too drunk to consent. Since then I haven’t spoken to anyone about it either. I do not know what to do ten years afterwards. Thinking about it now makes me want to cry, realising that this happened to me and I was told that I consented that I very clearly now know that I did not. I never talked to anyone about it but I rewatched Barbie today and somehow it got back into my head and I feel so sad and tired. I just had to tell my story. I hope everyone is doing well.

I don't remember the exact age I was when it happened. I(female at the time) was no older than 9 which would have made my sister(F) at the very least, 13 as she is 4 years older than me. She found out that I had been watching videos of girls kissing on youtube (back before there were harsher guidelines in place) and told me that she wanted to do that with me. I didn't really want to, i wasn't interested but didn't really even consider the entire 'we're sisters" part to be an issue. She told me if i didn't, she would tell our mom. My mom was a scary person, i never wanted her mad at me and she knew that when she threatened me with it. So for that entire Summer vacation, whenever we spent the weekends at our dads house, she would make me sit on her lap and make out with her. I told her multiple times i didn't like it, i wasn't having fun, i wanted to stop. She told me it was good practice for when we had boyfriends, which i also didn't really care about. She would tell me I wasn't putting enough energy into it and scold me, if I didn't use tongue she would get mad at me, she would give me the silent treatment the next day if I didn't do 'a good job' and she was only really nice to me if i *did* 'do a good job'. Her being nice to me was almost entirely foreign, especially when we were young. I am now 24 and i cut her out of my life several years ago when I fully registered the impact that her actions had on me and what they meant. I never felt comfortable alone with her again, i was constantly attacked with mental images of what happened and would feel sick to my stomach when i spoke to her. Neither of us ever spoke about it again and i didn't tell her why i blocked her after she left state. My mother asked relentlessly and i only ever told her "i'm sure she knows why." I sometimes feel guilty for what happened, i sometimes think that it never would've happened if i never looked up videos of girls kissing. I blame myself still even tho i'm sure my sister never thinks it's her fault- she has never been the type of person to take accountability for anything in her entire life. We were both minors but she was old enough to understand it was inappropriate, and i was young enough to believe anything my older sister told me. I've never told anyone the details of what happened until now. I'm too ashamed and too scared. Thank you to anyone who reads this and i hope anyone who experienced something similar is healing along with me.

I can't remember all of it. I didn't remember it at all until a few years later, when it all came flooding back. I was back in my bedroom at my parents' house, I had woken up early and I saw the dim light of morning through my window blinds. Suddenly, it was like I was right back there. The only part that is still clear (and always has been) is how after, he asked me "Why did you try to push me off?" He never mentioned how I asked him to stop. I told him "Because I wanted you to stop." and he shrugged while walking to the shower. I didn't move from the bed. When it happened, I didn't understand consent. I was 16 and thought it couldn't be a crime because I initially consented, he was my boyfriend, he loved me, and more importantly, I loved him. It wasn't violent, so it was easy to tell myself that it was just a miscommunication. Again, he said he loved me, and I couldn't fathom how someone who loved another would willfully harm them. I dated him on and off for another year. I fell a part whenever we broke up. I needed him to love me so I could continue ignoring what I desperately wanted to deny. Whenever we'd had sex after (many of our "dates" were just him driving me to a dark street, having sex, and him bringing me home), I'd cry almost hysterically. I didn't understand why that happened, and he never asked if I was alright. He'd side-eye me from the driver's seat and I'd pretend to not notice his judgement. After I'd remembered it (2~ years after the fact), my mother watched a news story of a woman who had been assaulted and waited years to disclose. "She's obviously lying. Why bring it up now?" I felt stricken and bold, so I asked how she'd react if I was that woman. She said "You'd never wait that long to tell someone." I am now 20, and my mother still doesn't know. I don't think she ever will. I was deeply hurt when I heard this, but I've realized with time that this situation is extremely complex. So complex, that even those who've experienced it (& as a result, understand it more than most) still struggle to comprehend it. My mother's ignorant and cruel words are from her lack of experience with this topic, and that is a blessing. My memory is still hazy and will likely be forever, but regardless of how poorly detailed my memory is, I know I was raped & that what happened to me was wrong. I can see the consequences of it now. My rapist doesn't know he's a rapist and it's been far too long for me to be able to stand up for myself. No court will aid me, I cannot loose my anger on him (I couldn't contact him if I wanted to & I don't.), and I cannot tell those around me without blowing up my life. I have shockwaves on consequence, and he does not. Even still, I refuse to allow that pathetic man's actions harm me further. Progress is not linear and I am doing fine. I am struggling, but I am coping, I am surviving and soon, I may be thriving. My body is mine, and I say this with a renewed fierceness.

It's been 2 years since I got away from my abuser, he was the first to abuse me and I have struggled through my recovery from all of it and learning to live my life on my terms has been both amazing and scary I am a survivor of physical, sexual and mental, emotional abuse my abusers this is the first time in my life I am free of abuse and living my life the way I always dreamed of, please don't ever give up I didn't and now I have the most amazing life I still have things i am working through but i am a survivor and I am happy

It was the mid-90's. I am not sure of the exact year or date, yet I am trying hard to figure this out. I have recently been trying to go back a fit the pieces together - I am told this is part of the healing, although I would prefer to just keep it tucked away - way back - in my head, so that I do not have to process it. Yet I want to move on from it. For years, I kept this to myself. I am a strong woman. I survived cancer at the age of 23. I traveled the world by myself - I moved to Australia by myself, I put myself through grad school - by myself. I got married, got divorced and then adopted and am now raising my daughter - by myself. But I am not someone who likes being alone. I am an extrovert. I love people. I love being n partnership with a man. I always thought I would build a family together with someone. But, here I am. It happened right after grad school. It was the early 90's and the job market was tight. I tried so hard to find a good job. I believed n myself. I had a Masters degree in international business from the top business school in the world. I came back to my hometown of Location and joined the international business committee at the Chamber of Commerce. It was there that I met Name. He offered to help me find a job in my field. He was a powerful man. He had been one of the founders of Organization. I was in my early 30's and he would have been probably in his 60's or 70's. He offered to meet for lunch, and said to meet him at his office near Street Address. I was excited to have someone of his caliber believing in in me and in my court. I wore my business suit and drove to his office. It seemed strange that it was a small older building. I parked and went inside the building. There was no one at the reception deck. In fact, the building seemed really quite - there seemed to be no one there. I say "Hello" and Name said to come on back to his office. I walked down a short hall to his office - which was a big office with his desk at the far end and in the middle of the room. I said hello, and we made some small talk, before we were going to head out to lunch. I was sitting in the guest chair on the other side of his desk. He got up to get his coat (I thought) but then I realized he had actually closed the door. I felt trapped. I was trapped. WTF! He came back towards me and told me he wanted to have sex with me. I was stunned. I did not know what to do. I was so confused. He walked towards me and started to touch me and leaned in to kiss me. I pushed him away and was able to somehow get around him. I ran for the door. I ran outside. I ran to my car and drove a block or two away. And I sat in my car for hours and cried - too paralyzed to move. I did not know what to do or who to tell. It would be my word against his. He was rich and super powerful. I was just starting my career. He could ruin me. No one would believe me. I told one or two friends at the time, yet I cannot recall which ones. I carried it with me, and stuffed the experience further down as time went on. Or so I thought - but I had a hard time trusting men. Then the Me Too movement happened and it all started to come back to me. I have struggled to fit the pieces of that day and time back together. Certain that he must have died by now, why speak up? Because it was so premeditated, so calculating, so intentional - I am certain I am not the only one who was the victim of his abuse - his sexual abuse, his manipulation, his abuse of power, abuse of trust, abuse of authority, etc. I want to expose him because the world needs to know what kind of man he was. And because my voice could give rise to other voices - it could empower other to come forward. It makes me so angry that this mans abuse has affected my life so much. Yet by sharing my story, I am further along in the healing process. And I hope that by speaking up - I help to create a slightly safer place for my daughter to grow up.

i'm so nervous this afternoon, i'm finally going to the police to share my story about a guy at school who assaulted me over the summer (i live in the southern hemisphere, so around january). he's a school captain, and i'm vice-captain so he's already in a position of power not only over me but the entire school, and the teachers practically worship the ground he walks on (last time i reported verbal harassment from him, the teachers blamed me) so i'm hoping something changes. i'm terrified, and anxious, but i'm also proud. knowing that i'm doing something a lot of victims don't get the chance to do. i'm going to share my story, and i pray to god that he faces the consequences because this isn't the first time he's done bad things, and won't be the last. stay strong my lovelies, you can share your story too <3 if you wanna chat at all, you can dm social media handle on instagram (my assault awareness page) - a survivor

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