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Hello, this is my first post and I wanted to share what happened as a female on female SA victim (I think, not sure tho)... When I was 15 at the time my then firend took advantage of me. She offered to give me a massage at a public pool, but her touches became inappropriate and manipulative. At the time, I didn’t realize what was happening, and I even defended her when my parents noticed red flags and tried to protect me. And since then my parents developed prejudices against LGBTQ+ people, which I don’t agree with. However, that trauma made me reinforce my heterosexuality and influenced my vews. Even now, I still struggle to set boundaries, even after what happened.

Hi, I dont know if, as a child, I performed COCSA on my far cousin or if it was just natural children curiosity. Im four years older than her and when this happened i think i was around 9 or 10, I dont really remember. I remember one summer I hit my knee with a rock and that have me a scar and I even hit my clitoris. I thought it was broken because it had a slit. I dont remember if this was the same summer or the next one but i remember always thinking my clit was broken and i remember playing families with her and her older brother who is 2 years younger than me. I would want a sneek of what her vagina looked like just to see if it looked like mine so when we were playing she was my child and i would do the movements as if i had to change her undies, so i just pulled them down, did the mimick of cleaning and pulling them back up. She never said no and i never touched her but i dont know it this is abusive behaviour or just normal curiosity bc i felt shame to tell my parents that i thought my clit was broken. I feel a lot of shame and i plan on telling this to my therapist but for now i dont know who to tell it.

Victim Impact Statement I am sharing this victim impact statement in English because I want my real words to be heard. During the trial, I didn’t have the opportunity to fully express the depth of how this has affected my life. These are my words, my truth, and my experience. I hope they will be considered with the seriousness they deserve. I have translated it with AI but I feel like words are more powerful in my native language. Estoy compartiendo esta declaración de impacto como víctima en inglés porque quiero que se escuchen mis palabras reales. Durante el juicio, no tuve la oportunidad de expresar plenamente la profundidad de cómo esto ha afectado mi vida. Estas son mis palabras, mi verdad y mi experiencia. Espero que sean consideradas con la seriedad que merecen. Voy a traducirlo al español y lo incluiré también (con IA), pero las palabras no serán las mismas. Como siempre en mi caso. Here’s where we begin: My life has been utterly destroyed since Month Day, Year. I have had to miss work at the job I love, and it has taken a toll on my relationships with my friends and family. I have developed PTSD. My depression has worsened. My anxiety has become unbearable. My mind is like a mirror with a crack running through it—each side reflects a version of me, but the pieces don’t quite fit, and the fracture distorts what’s real. Deep down, I KNOW it was not my fault because I said no. Twice. Yet, on the surface, I feel at fault because I went there. But I said no. Twice. I’ve been on strong medications for my mental health. I am a shell of the person I once was. It’s affecting my work because I can’t sleep. I have had to miss days because I self harmed. I’ve been overwhelmed with stress about the trial. I can’t get over the fact that I feel it was my fault. I am scared to be alone. I am scared to go outside alone. I am terrified of men on the street. I don’t trust people easily. When I can sleep, I have nightmares where I wake up screaming, crying, and inconsolable. Honestly, I can’t be alone. I spiral into anxiety and obsessive thoughts when I am. The harassment and seeking justice has become an obsession, but when I spiral, I turn to self-harm. Since the assault, I’ve had to go to the hospital at least eight times for self-harm. I have gotten more than 50 stitches in my left arm. It looks like I’ve been attacked by a tiger. During the trial, I believe I had 25 stitches. Since the juicio, I called an ambulance and admitted myself to the psychiatric ward at La Princesa on Month, Day. The day after I voluntarily left because I was terrified, I went back to the hospital for self-harm on Month, Day. Why do I do it? Because it’s like the broken mirror I look into the half where I feel it was my fault. Since I received the sentencia, I have been in a horrible state. I haven’t been able to sleep, eat, or do anything. I cannot be alone because I fear I might hurt myself, again.The trial only confirmed the feeling that my sexual assault was my fault. It destroyed the progress I had made in therapy. I feel failed by the system. I understand there were doubts, but I believe I have been denied a fair trial due to linguistic barriers and the misapplication of Ley Orgánica 10/2022, de garantía integral de la libertad sexual (“Solo Sí es Sí”). This law is clear in stating that consent must be affirmative, clear, and continuous. According to Article 178.1 of the Spanish Penal Code, modified by this law: “Solo se entenderá que hay consentimiento cuando se haya manifestado libremente mediante actos que, en atención a las circunstancias del caso, expresen de manera clara la voluntad de la persona.” My understanding is that consent is only understood to exist when it has been freely expressed through acts that, considering the circumstances of the case, clearly express the person’s will. I said NO. Twice. There was no affirmative consent. The absence of continued, explicit consent should have been enough. The court seemed to focus on perceived doubts in my memory and inconsistencies rather than the absence of my consent. This is a violation of the very principles of the “Solo Sí es Sí” law, which centers the lack of affirmative consent as the key factor—not the victim’s behavior, not emotional reactions, not the aftermath. I know my truth: I was raped. I said no. Twice. Now I have to face my life, living with mental and physical scars that remind me of November 18, 2022— without justice. Declaración de Impacto de la Víctima (en castellano) Aquí es donde comienza todo: Mi vida ha sido completamente destruida desde el Day Month, Year. He tenido que faltar al trabajo que amo, y esto ha afectado mis relaciones con amigos y familia. He desarrollado TEPT (trastorno de estrés postraumático). Mi depresión ha empeorado. Mi ansiedad se ha vuelto insoportable. Mi mente es como un espejo con una grieta que lo atraviesa: cada lado refleja una versión de mí, pero las piezas no encajan del todo, y la fractura distorsiona lo que es real. En lo más profundo, SÉ que no fue mi culpa porque dije que no. Dos veces. Sin embargo, en la superficie, me siento culpable por haber ido allí. Pero dije que no. Dos veces. He estado tomando medicamentos muy fuertes para mi salud mental. A veces soy solo una sombra de la persona que solía ser. Está afectando mi trabajo porque no puedo dormir. He tenido que faltar algunos días porque me autolesiono. Me siento abrumada por el estrés relacionado con el juicio. No puedo superar la sensación de que fue mi culpa. Tengo miedo de estar sola. Tengo miedo de salir sola. Me aterran los hombres en la calle. No confío fácilmente en la gente. Cuando puedo dormir, tengo pesadillas en las que me despierto gritando, llorando e inconsolable. Honestamente, no puedo estar sola. Entro en espirales de ansiedad y pensamientos obsesivos cuando lo estoy. La angustia y la búsqueda de justicia se han convertido en una obsesión, pero cuando entro en ese espiral, recurro a la autolesión. Desde la agresión, he tenido que ir al hospital al menos ocho veces por autolesiones. Me han puesto más de 50 puntos de sutura en el brazo izquierdo. Parece que me ha atacado un tigre. Durante el juicio, creo que tenía 25 puntos de sutura. Desde el juicio, llamé a una ambulancia y me ingresé voluntariamente en la unidad psiquiátrica de La Princesa el Day of Month. Al día siguiente, me fui voluntariamente porque estaba aterrada. El Day of Month volví al hospital por autolesiones. ¿Por qué lo hago? Porque es como el espejo roto en el que me miro: en la mitad donde siento que fue mi culpa. Desde que recibí la sentencia, he estado en un estado horrible. No he podido dormir, comer ni hacer nada. No puedo estar sola porque temo que pueda hacerme daño otra vez. El juicio solo confirmó la sensación de que mi agresión sexual fue mi culpa. Destruyó el progreso que había logrado en terapia. Me siento defraudada por el sistema. Entiendo que hubiera dudas, pero creo que se me ha negado un juicio justo debido a barreras lingüísticas y a la mala aplicación de la Ley Orgánica 10/2022, de garantía integral de la libertad sexual (“Solo Sí es Sí”). Esta ley es clara al establecer que el consentimiento debe ser afirmativo, claro y continuo. Según el artículo 178.1 del Código Penal español, modificado por esta ley: “Solo se entenderá que hay consentimiento cuando se haya manifestado libremente mediante actos que, en atención a las circunstancias del caso, expresen de manera clara la voluntad de la persona. ” Según mi comprensión, el consentimiento solo se entiende que existe cuando ha sido expresado libremente mediante actos que, considerando las circunstancias del caso, expresan claramente la voluntad de la persona. Dije NO. Dos veces. No hubo consentimiento afirmativo. La ausencia de un consentimiento explícito y continuo debería haber sido suficiente. El tribunal pareció centrarse en las supuestas dudas sobre mi memoria y en inconsistencias, en lugar de en la ausencia de mi consentimiento. Esto es una violación de los principios fundamentales de la ley “Solo Sí es Sí” , que se centra en la falta de consentimiento afirmativo como el factor clave—no en el comportamiento de la víctima, ni en sus reacciones emocionales, ni en lo que sucedió después. Sé mi verdad: fui violada. Dije no. Dos veces. Ahora tengo que enfrentar mi vida, viviendo do con cicatrices mentales y físicas que me recuerdan el Day Month, Year— sin justicia.

Hi, I don't know if it counts as abuse or not; I just recently (about two months ago) remembered a bit about what happened. It happened when I was 8 years old. I used to have a "friend" who was 9 or 10; I don't know what he said to me that day that made me say "No, that's not from God," although at first I "gave in" and had said no. I'm not sure if that really happened or if it's just my imagination.

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.

I take the last line, drink that last sip of beer from the dented can. I feel another piece of my consciousness float away. It doesn't matter what has just come before though. I feel a sudden grip on my outer leg, it wakes me. I start to blink, try to get rid of my weary vision. I pull my body away from this grip, he pulls back harder. I start to use my voice... repeating the classic "no" "stop". my already limp body starts to struggle; pushing, elbowing and scratching. My wrists are met with yet another, tighter, grip. I feel his digging in, between my tendons. he pushes his weight inside and upon me. the consistent "no" coming from my mouth is answered with a soft "shhh" like an attentive father to a crying baby. After five or so minutes it is as if he can hear me; "should I stop" he says. "please stop, stop" "ahh, a little more" he responds. He goes harder. Maybe my voice is bothering or worrying him. He jams his hand deep into my mouth, clawing at the back of my throat. I start to splutter and search for air, he pulls out his hands and places his grip around my mouth and jaw and vigorously shakes my head around. "are you mine" "are you mine" he asks me with a low volumed rage, while his body still beats fiercely into mine. I start to wonder how these same hands that must have once combed through his young daughters hair were the same ones ragging and tearing at mine. He finally takes a break, the mass of his legs still crushing on top of mine. While I think he's sleeping I throw off his arm that is wrapped around me. Not yet "heyy" he says as he hurls it back around me tighter. As if I am his sulking lover upset by his late arrival home from a night of drinking. In those minutes, while I can only stare into my surroundings, I start to think of this setting being my new life. I will physically remain like this, a worn out body to be misused and wounded by this creature forever. Until I am so damaged that my body and my mind become numb and irreparable. He's awake and ready for round 2, I still have fragments of fight left. He pulls my legs apart as I use all of my strength trying to keep them together. he is completely on top of me , his sweat smothering my skin. His face above mine but his gaze is somewhere; anywhere except into my eyes. he goes again, each thrust more painful than the last. His heavy painted body sagging over me again and again. He pauses again. The sweat drips from his hair down the side of his face over his pulsing veins. I look at his eyes, hooded and bloodshot with an emptiness I have never seen before. I have seen spite from people who didn't like me, but I have never before felt that someone wanted to destroy me like this. I have heard this man say I was pretty before, but I know in this moment that his pleasure comes from damaging me. Round three. He goes again, this time he squeezes my neck. He starts to shake me, his grip still firm, my weak body stops its fighting. I start to hear an echoey voice of my mother, as if she is here but just not in my sights. I start to see an image of a friend of mine, as if he is standing on a balcony looking down at me with either pity or disgust but I don’t have the capacity to tell. I gasp for air in away I have never felt before. Some time has passed , I don’t know how long. Some ten seconds I stare, I see the door half open to a room where there are several hanging patterned shirts. I look at the floor and see a pair of crumpled jeans, I don’t yet realise they are mine. I start to hear a faint voice, saying my name. It reminds me of a time in hospital, awaking from anaesthetic to a doctors voice. I start to put the pieces together and remember where I am. He looks at me. “You scared me” he says, as if he posits some kind of care. Although I am breathing again, I am just a small mass of flesh, slowly decomposing into the sheets under his heavy body. Eventually I notice him sleeping, this time deeply. I get up quietly and pick up my clothes, feeling my jeans scrape across my bruised hips. I pass by the mirror in the corner of the room, I almost cannot recognise the reflection that is there. My hair sticks out, matted and messy. I pat it down and try to comb my fingers through. I feel my face is dirty, it is rough and red where his hands have corroded. I look over at the disheveled bed, the sweaty sleeping body upon it. I notice a slight grin on his face as he continues sleeping soundly. I look at my own eyes, smeared outlines of mascara, I can tell something in there is missing in this moment. I go to the door, open it with my shaking hand and o down to the street, and I hope that no one notices my hair.

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

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.

Just words. You have trouble talking about these things. You realize you have trouble talking about a lot of things. You remember being excited about your first job at Company Name. One of your friends works there and you know a lot of people work there as a summer job. It’s the 1990’s and it’s been grandfathered in that they can pay you less than minimum wage because it’s like a part time training experience for students getting their first work experience. Like a newspaper route. Those are for boys. You got so excited after being nervous you asked for an application along with your friend. You don’t remember meeting him then. So many people want to get chosen for that crap job because for some reason it’s become a sought after thing among the cool kids. You do remember the phone call that you can come for an interview. Walking home you wonder if being cute and having larger breasts than most almost freshman girls had something to do with it. You met Name and remember him for sure this time. The way you look has been a curse far more than a blessing. One reason people would not feel that bad for you. 'God sure blessed you, honey." You have so many bad memories, blocked memories, repressed memories because of Name. You are having second thoughts as tears build up. You need a drink. You quit drinking years ago and today you have three months and eight days sober. Your record is nine months and two days. You are strong. Most of the time. You are hollow. All the time. Name wasn’t the last but he was the first. You change his name although you don’t want to. He is the symbol of your hatred of all that is wrong with men. You were tricked. Name got what he wanted from you. Too many times. Too many times before you stopped going back. Just stopped. You could have just stopped after the first time he held you close and caressed you before your mom picked you up that night. The first time. You still don’t understand or forgive yourself for that. You had let a boy at a party and a boy at an 8th grade dance put their hand up your shirt. You had liked it so much those times. It had been exciting and happy. Name did not make you happy. You went back. You want to talk about something else now. Not the other men who thought your body was their plaything. Not the time you went to Ireland with your Aunts and mom. You miss mom. That was a good trip. You got back to that a lot. You sat down to talk about things you don’t talk about. On a family trip to Adventureland you asked your cousin if was considered losing your virginity of a boy did it to your boobs. You pretended it was a cute boy, not Name. It was hard to breathe with him sitting on your torso thrusting. You sometimes break things and scream. Never when your son is around. You have two jobs and don’t really like the one that pays the most. Your college degree does not count much. How much life is wasted on despair and doubt and taking the wrong path? You feel relief when he finally finished. You hate when he finishes because you know he is stealing his ultimate pleasure from you when he has a wife. He acts like it was just another day at work to keep you on his leash. You are pathetic. His remnants are inside you every time you go home after closing with him. Just another miserable day in the life. You say nothing. You tell no one. You are worthless except as a vessel for him. Your parents say nice things to you, about you. They always have. They have to. They don’t know what you really are. A black shame is the times you felt pleasure in your body while he was doing it do you. At least while you remained quiet and motionless there was some dignity. Defiance. Insult to him. When your body and voice reacted like you liked it it was a betrayal. Like you liked that tub of disgusting man on top of you and inside of you, fucking you on that tile floor, kissing you like a lover. You befriended a group of guys by mid high school. Over a year after Name was more than thorn in your soul. A deep callous. The group figured out what you were. They played football. They were important and had strong will. They shared you and passed you around. They told you they loved you. That you were the coolest girl. They took what they wanted when they wanted. Why? Name 2 was you lab partner for biology. He was the first. He was the only one your age. You went in his car for lunch and met some others. They wanted you. You volunteered. It is all you are good for. Draining them of their juice so they can be happy and feel like men. So you can feel empty and dirty. Even after they graduated they got together for group fun, or had you sneak out at night to go for a ride. You headed far west after you graduated. A fresh start. An exodus. An escape. You went to one reunion. The ten year reunion. Name 2 came with his wife. He introduced you as his ex-girlfriend. You let hm take you to the disabled restroom and have his quickie. You went to the bars afterward and ditched your real friend and let Name 3 take you back to his hotel room to live his fantasies just because he claimed that he always loved you. They say attractive people have sex more frequently with more partners than normal people. The darkness behind that statement is that for females it is no always because they want it that way but because of the relentless pressure from men and how they will do anything if they get the opportunity. You are not a nice innocent girl. Would you have been if it had not been for Name like you want to think? Would you have let your much older cousin you barely know take you back into the woods with him behind their house to the shack where he smokes pot after a wedding. Then wait there for him to call his friends after he found out you were a bad girl and wait for them too. Swatting flies in your underwear while you waited for them. You did not drink because your mom did not allow it even though kids younger than you were. But your cousin and his local friends did. Four of them counting your cousin old enough to be your uncle. Still, you acted like you liked everything they did. They took it so far like you were the world's greatest toy. Porn star, they called you like it was the best thing you could be. The anal was excruciating. It was easier to just wash off all your makeup than to try to fix it after all the sweat and sticky. Smiles and complements followed by the deep hollow feeling of total isolation in the station wagon on the way back home from Kansas city. Hating Name and feeling like you betrayed your aunt because one of them was her fiancé. You got an infection and it was embarrassing when the doctor told you. At least it was a female doctor. The idea of a male gynecologist is unnerving. The one time you were examined by one was terrifying. You were in college. He was way too thorough and talkative like he was working up to asking you out on a date and you decided never again. The only one you ever had that did not wear gloves for the breast exam. The most sensual digital vaginal exam you ever had to check the cervix and ovaries for pain. Was his thumb supposed to be brushing your clitoris? You even wonder if he was recording it on his phone that you saw him adjust twice as it was peaking out of the breast pocket of his lab coat. His stupid November mustache he asked you if you liked. So some days you don’t eat. You exercise to maintain the body they want. It gives you value to them. You are nothing. People always say nice things. Hollow things. What if you had never met Name? What if you never got fucked on the floor for $3.45 an hour. On your back, on your hands and knees, sometimes even on top of him. Your first orgasm on that floor that smelled like stale milk and bleach. Having to tell your mom pick you up 45 minutes after the place closes for your cleaning duties. You used tampons just to keep from his semen leaking out on the way home. You pretended to be a virgin when you were far from it. He told you not to worry because he had a vasectomy. That part must have been true. You don't got on dates even though they always try to set you up. Not a chance. Your son is a good excuse. And a real reason. Real love. The Earth spins in space. Why can’t it just freeze and die like me? Your boss doesn’t go all the way with you because he won’t cheat on his wife. You give him oral because he doesn’t think that counts. Preserves his purity. He says he wants to so badly, like he can take whatever he wants from you but he is strong and valiant. You are nothing. He is handsome. You let him kiss you and fondle you. You long for his touch. He is not a great man but you long for him. The closest thing to a good man you have known. A father figure. Your son needs a father figure. He is everything. He deserves better. He loves you. He tells you are a good mom and that is worth enduring the world for as long as it takes. You put on a good face but he knows you are hollow, deep down. A wounded duck pretending to be a swan. Always pretending. Was there no pretending before Name? Maybe not. The days begin and your mind pretends and it is hard and the days end. Bad dreams on both ends. Will he be a good man? The funny thing is you want him to be a prince because he is your prince but even if he is like most men you want his total happiness. You want beautiful girls, good times, and strong friends for him. You exist to fake it and to have let those men enjoy you but mostly to give your son the best life possible beyond you. You are not worthless. It is not your fault. You are stronger than you know. Hollow words. They have to say it. They always have. No creativity. No insight. No truth. Just words.

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

I used to think rape was what you'd see in movies. Jumped on by a stranger and violently assaulted. Turns out I was wrong. I have been raped on multiple occasions and didn't fully understand it until I got older and wiser and also found out that I'm autistic. This is what helped me to understand what had really happened. I learned and studied autism in girls and women and figured it out from there. I was vulnerable and impressionable and masked so much that I was a completely different person on the outside than who I really was on the inside. When I was younger and had no clue that I was being preyed upon due to my vulnerability and started to pretend as though I just liked sex and was willingly promiscuous. It was a lie I told myself and my friends so that I didn't have to face the fact I couldn't and didn't know how to say no and mean it. There is flight, fight and also freeze. So many times I was telling them no and when they didn't stop I just froze and realised that my voice was pointless and they weren't listening to me. It was easier to allow them to finish without fighting and having it be violent too. I didn't realise how badly the mental impact would be. One particular night I was out in a bar and a few of us went back to a house party. One guy was showing interest in me and I actually liked it. We kissed and had fun and then he led me to a bedeoom and I hesitated but ended up going in. When he started to undress me I held my dress and said no. I said it so many times and he started to get really rough and forceful and started saying things to me about leading him on and what did I think was going to happen and I just wanted it rough. I realised that no matter what I said, sex was going to happen so I had two options, fight and be both violently and sexually assaulted or just have the sex without any further resistance which would mean that I'd be only sexually assaulted without the extra violence. I chose the latter and for a long time I believed that I just had sex that night. I now realise that was absolutely rape. It's played with my mental health for over ten years and I'm ready to acknowledge what happened to me instead of being in denial.

The dark parts don’t trigger me anymore. I know I’m safe now—in myself, my mind, body, soul, home, relationships, and life. It wasn’t always that way. I can talk about it if I choose to. Not everyone gets to hear my sacred story, and that’s how it should be. I’m no less worthy, and neither are you. Naturally, it took time to recover. The past could be unsettling during the healing process, often in unexpected ways. One day, I opened a social media account, and an acquaintance from my soccer community posted a team picture of his latest league victory. There, kneeling in the front row, was the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I once lived through. Seeing him smiling while standing dangerously close to others I knew was unnerving and reminded me how effortless it was for Hyde to convince people he was something he wasn’t. I left that relationship. More accurately, I secured my safety and Hyde’s departure, changed the locks, and blocked any way of contacting me. I thought I had to do it that way, on my own, but that wasn’t true. I painted the walls, but it would always be a trauma environment. Despite my efforts to see past the wreckage, open up, and have conversations, I often felt criticized and painfully alone. If you are unaware of the long list of reasons why it’s difficult for women to speak up, inform yourself. It wasn’t until much later that I experienced solidarity's power in such matters. We scrutinize and scowl at these stories from afar, my former self included, with an air of separateness and superiority until we experience them ourselves. For, of course, this could never be our story. But then it is, and now it is. Other women sharing their sacred stories were the most significant to me in the healing years - confidants who embraced me with the most profound empathy and stood and breathed in front of me with their scars that were once wounds. And my mentor of many years who held hope when I couldn’t and taught me how to give that to myself. Over the years, I have often asked myself if I would ever be free - truly free - from the psychological, emotional, physical, and spiritual damage that had occurred. Would my wounds heal? Would I always have some adaptation in my body from holding my emotions in a protective posture? Or could I get it out and be released? Would my stress response and anxiety always be easily heightened? Would my PTSD symptoms ever go away? Would I ever trust myself again? Trust another again? Would I always be startled by loud noises and glass shattering? Would “normal” ever be normal again after being exposed to such severe abnormalities? Would I ever forgive myself for how small I became during that time? Would the anger, confusion, disorientation, sadness, and grief abate? Would the dark nights ever end? Would I ever be held again, be myself again, or was I changed forever? The thing about liberation is that it can seek justice that doesn’t arrive. I was in a relationship with Dr. Jekyll, who hid the evil Edward Hyde, his intimidation tactics, wildly premeditated orchestration of lies, manipulation, and gaslighting. A part of me wanted clarity until the truth was true, and my mind could unfuck the mindfuck and rest again. Don’t wait for clarity that is never coming. Some of us must live big lessons to break patterns and cycles of this magnitude, even to believe again that it’s possible. But let me be clear—no woman, no person, wants to live these types of lessons. If you understand nothing else from this essay, understand that. If you are one of the lucky, privileged ones to sit on your throne of judgment when hearing these stories, you don’t understand. You don’t understand that what you’re misunderstanding is not the woman or victim in the story, but it is yourself. That’s the harshest, blindest truth. Another truth about this all-too-common story is that the parts of the victim stuck in that situation do not belong to the public to dissect. That’s her burden to bear. And it will be. In actuality, each individual walking through abuse is trying to stand up and say, “This happened. It is real. I am alive. Please breathe with me. Please stand there near enough so I can see what it looks like to stand in a reality I am rebuilding, in a self I am reconstructing, in a world I am reimagining. Because if I hear you breathing, I might breathe too. And if I see you standing, I might pull myself up, too. And, eventually, I’ll be in my body again—I’ll be able to feel again. Not surviving, but piercing through my life again.” For the victims, I’m going to be honest with you: the meandering process of recovery is ultimately up to you. It’s your responsibility. Therapists, books, podcasts, and support groups can help but can’t heal you. You have to heal yourself. You have to accept the victim's role to let it go. You have to feel—to struggle through the feelings. It’s daunting and scary. You’ll want to give up. If you have people in your life who are stuck in their shallowness while you’re trying to go to your depths, let them go and let them be. Pivot and seek the sources and people to show you how to stand and breathe. You have to start thinking for yourself now, caring for yourself now, and loving yourself now. But trust me, you’ll need people, and you’ll need to find them. You don’t have to be strong; you can be gentle with yourself. Often, the intelligent, empathetic, and enlightened part of a person gives Henry Jekyll a second chance to work on himself and make things right. I must acknowledge a narrow and perilous line between the resolvable, troubled soul and the soul that spills over into malice, rigidity, maladaptiveness, and steadfast personality. Most people never encounter evil and retain their naivety, while victims lose this innocent vantage point of the world. It’s not the victim’s job to rehabilitate or reintegrate anyone but herself. Our stories are pervasive, and we come from all walks of life. On March 9th, 2021, The World Health Organization published data collected from 158 countries reporting almost one in three women globally have suffered intimate partner violence or sexual violence. That’s nearly 736 million women around the world. We need more voices of survivors—more voices of the human conditions we let hide in the shadows for fear of discovering it in ourselves. I lost parts of myself during that time with Hyde. The destructive consequences of this style of person are astounding, and the impact on my connection to myself and others was among the most challenging aspects to overcome. The rage that boiled in Hyde resulted in outrageous displays of public humiliation, screaming, and, on one drunken occasion, physical violence. If Hyde had called me a stupid bitch before grabbing my neck, throwing my head against a stone wall, and my body across a room to smash into a bedpost and break my ribs while we were in the United States, I would have been able to call the authorities. And I would have. But because we were in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country, vindication occurred through the fog of shocking circumstances I didn’t deserve. After years, Hyde popped up in a picture on social media. He plays soccer on the same fields I used to play on with joy in the absence of hypervigilance. It’s that disparity in fairness that can grip us in bewilderment. I’m on another path now—one where my trust and love are respected. I remain open and available for peaceful, constructive ways of being, relating, participating, and having a voice. I hope you’ll embrace my sacred story with sensitivity and compassion as I offer it to those in need so we may come together and let her stand up and live.

This is my story at 72 sitting here all alone because I allowed my self to be abuised physically and verbally for over a 25 period of a 36 marriage. I lost both my daughter's respect and grandchildren because of his action but blamed for my actions I didn't know what was going on. I found out in 2006 my husband was a drug addict and where he was working gave him the best place to obtain it at state housing project. He was a thief from stealing at work, a liar, a user, drugs addict, gave me herpe.s , kept money from me and the house he could have his stash . Cause me to have a breakdown , I didn't know I part of his plan. He was the good stepfather and neighbor everybody like made up stories and made you feel he was a great guy who loved his wife and family. I was busy raising my family and working. Then I was hit with major medical problems, a brain annersyums which I had surgically fixed but recovered alone and with 36 stiches in my head I was knocked into my kitchen cabinets. I had my rotor cuff torn, I was hit by ball lightning in my basement, my foot broken all well raising a 3 yrs and 8 week grand children with months of each other. I was over whleemed. He left for many weeks and days at a time but I had all I could do was to be standing medically and raising my grand babies. I stayed alone did 10 years of therapy, and also went to a clinic for abuise. Nothing made a difference how I was living the abuise continued. Courts cops, etc. Until just recently I saw they only abuise you when no one is around. My god how true. They run away instead of solving a problem as they are guilty for what they are being accused of. The money, missing the drugs, the liars , stealing , the dead animals, physical and verbal abuse abuses. I was raped , sexually abuised strangled,beaten blooded, and broken . Didn't matter if I got pushed or knocked into something even after 13 hours of a back operation. I could had been parlayed. . I once tried to end my life many years ago just sitting outside in the morning in the sunshine on my deck looking up at the sun and feeling the warmth I couldn't stand the lonelines, the abuise of my marriage and man I loved and the loss of my most precious daughters. I just got up off my deck took my bathrobe rope tried to die. The rope broke . That's strange . My life didn't improve it got worst. I was a beautiful strong independent woman, mother,grandmother. who now wants to die and will all alone. I saw something the other day I had packed from my daughter she wrote look up to the sky, I had a federal law passed for child support They were so proud and made this picture book for me. The news paper said one woman fight became a nation law. 992 I fought for them to get this law passed. They were important and needed to be recognized. Now I sit here crying everyday in pain with no one to talk to embarrass no one comes home and no one cares for me. Every holiday I spend alone and birthday. My only question is why my children who are 50 and 45 don't care about a mother who gave everything to them against all the odds years ago. They know what I'm talking about. I kept a house they grew up in with no skills got a good job had insurance . Not much else but we made it by hard work. What is left of my life is 3 journals-protecting my grandkids while watching them dates and places and their questions about the abuise. I recently found out thru a aaa self analysis he stated he hated my grandson who I raised as a baby. Now I know why he tortured him with unkindness. My daughter has no idea how much I protected that baby. He stopped talking to me over 5 years ago who knows why. I did my job then very well. Why question is why doesn't my daughters understand what happened. I've tried to make contact with them don't want any anything to do with me for over 13 yrs. All because I loved the wrong man who abuse me and I allowed him to. I ruined their lives they believe I think it's the other way around. . I lost my best friends . I thought they were. You can't replace a mother . What happens to me now ? LOVE IS NEVER SUPPOSE TO HURT.

I didn't know what I was being asked to do. I was 6 years old. I didn't realize what had happened to me until recently. I tried to walk out of the room but I was manipulated into staying. He was my cousin. I didn't think he would use me. I didn't know what he did was wrong until about 1 year ago. It disgusts me to be around him. I have always felt for SA survivors, without knowing that I was one myself. I have taken the path of healing silently. Knowing my experience I know that there are children that are affected by this every day. I hope that by sharing my story, I can help young children know what is happening to them.

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

They say that the people you love are supposed to protect and care for you. I believed that for a very long time, until January 26th, 2021. That day changed my life forever. I had been talking to this boy on and off for over a year, and I loved him very much. Looking back, I was very naive and oblivious to the fact that he was manipulative, spiteful, and all around just a horrible person. He would control every aspect of my life. What I wore, who I hung out with, what I did everyday, what I ate. I was a prisoner. I had him over to watch a movie, and told him before hand I didn’t want to do anything. He came over, snuggled up with me, and we began watching a movie. You know that feeling you get when something wrong but you just don’t know what, I had that feeling, but ignored it. He kissed me, which was okay with me. Then he started groping me and pinning me down so I couldn’t move. I froze up, I had no idea what was happening and I was so scared that if I tried to stop him, he would get angry and just do whatever he wanted to me. So he kept going and I was in such shock I couldn’t move or speak. I finally got him off of me before he could, you know. But he left after he realized what had happened. I have been traumatized in my own mental prison and I didn’t tell anyone. His parent is a cop and I didn’t think anyone would believe me over him. I feel so trapped. Over the course of two months, I’ve developed an eating disorder, insomnia, and I have at least four panic attacks a day. It’s actual hell. Only one person knows what happened, my best friend. She’s been my rock through this. I’m starting to not blame myself as much and point the blame where it’s due. I don’t want him to control me anymore than he used to.

Pretty much everything about me is apologetic, but especially the opening passages of my writing. I start with why I’m here, why I’m not somewhere else, why I’m thinking about this, why I’m not thinking about something else, why I think about it in the way I do. I always swear that this time its different, and it never is, and I keep trying. I’m here to talk about something I call my bed statistics. Since my moral watchdog is a Rottweiler that was abused, starved, and neglected as a puppy, it tells me that I’m seeking pity, secretly I love the role of the victim, and I’m no better than the people I’m planning to speak about. It feels damaging to say those words, and I said them anyways. See how I always explain? See how my explanations are apologies? On my childhood bed at home, my childhood best friend and neighbor name came onto me while I was blackout drunk. Premeditated, drunken, horny, and careless. Worse than careless. He put his hands down my yoga pants, pulled them down, ate me between the legs, fingered me too urgently. It was painful at times, uncomfortable most of the time, disorienting all the time, and at times even neutral. I didn’t say yes, and I eventually said no. I’m not sure to what degree I participated, and I interrogate myself about this all the time. But I since I can’t remember because of the time and the alcohol, I don’t think I was capable of much. I remember that he asked me to suck his dick and I declined. He went home. I thought it was my fault. I thought I should have done more to stop it. I wondered why I didn’t do more to stop it. I thought since I didn’t do more to stop it that meant I had given my approval. I didn’t know that how I felt about the situation mattered at all, I was only after facts and I didn’t have many. All this happened on my childhood bed. There’s no concise way to explain what happened afterwards. I kept his secret for months. I finally came forward because I couldn’t bear lying to His Girlfriend (who was a close friend and in the same friend group) about it. The safe unlocked and the feelings came out. I let him talk to her first. He lied to her about how it happened and when. Or at least he told her how he saw it, maybe it didn’t feel like lying to him. My opinion about whose fault it was had changed by then, but I was terrified to own this. I knew intuitively what he did to me. He used alcohol and isolated me to make sure I wasn’t coherent enough to refuse him, but it took awhile to come to this consciously. He was my best friend after all. What kind of person had I been friends with all this time? It was easier to think it was a mistake both of us made. Now I want as much distance as possible between the kind of person he is and the person I am. What kind of person is he? Perhaps he wasn’t coherent either, but I don’t make moves on my friends and cheat on my significant other when I’m incoherent. At least I hope I won’t. In my dreams I do, and my moral watchdog still tells me I’m no better. The Rottweiler says I’m the same, a liar, a cheater, and a coward. In weaker moments my mind rots, and I agree that I’m awful and to blame. But by the time I could bring myself to tell The Girlfriend, my opinion about whose fault it was had changed, and I was terrified to own it. My persistent nightmares confirmed my new opinion, but every waking moment there was someone telling me it was equally my fault. A Close Friend, name himself, The Girlfriend, and most frequently, myself. My sister was the only person who told me it might not be my fault. I clung to that. It was a train wreck when I tried to defend my thesis to The Girlfriend in the coffee lounge of a bookstore. I didn’t have the strength to convince her of something I was still convincing myself, let alone figure out how to apologize for what I was willing to accept. She didn’t believe my thesis and this shattered me. I shudder thinking about what my mind was like during that time. With time and distance it doesn’t matter as much to me that she doesn’t agree. It matters less to me now that my moral compass and perception of people wasn’t enough to accurately interpret name’s actions for what they were in the immediate aftermath. I wish I could have seen, but I guess this is how I had to learn to see the bad in people. It matters less to me that name doesn’t acknowledge the truth about his intentions. It matters less to me that after he texted me “I’m sorry Lik I’m so sorry” the morning after, and then around the time we separately told The Girlfriend he said that I always lie and try to get out of situations blame-free. Those words are less damaging to me now, even though they are still the most damaging things that anyone has ever said to me. My watchdog uses that same idea as fuel; it catches me in small lies and equates them to name’s actions. It doesn’t matter that much that name strikes up friendly conversations with me to save face in front of our families and his New Girlfriend. It matters less to me that he called me a bitch and a liar to my brother. Thankfully my brother punched him for that. It matters less to me that A Close Friend told me I was equally to blame the first time I opened up about that situation to anyone. She apologized for that when I asked her to, and I forgave her. It matters less to me that I couldn’t apologize better to The Girlfriend (now ex-girlfriend). It matters less to me that I avoid connecting with the village I grew up in and people from high school because of their proximity to this situation. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t matter to me at all. All this, because of something that happened on my childhood bed. On a different bed in my childhood home, the guest room bed, I told This Highschool Asshole I Dated while making out I didn’t want to have sex. He said verbatim: “If you don’t want to have sex with me, then get off me.” I let him cuddle me and apologize instead of kicking him out. Apparently kissing means you want to have sex, and if you don’t want sex then kissing is indecent and misleading. I really internalized this message at the time since I was having my first sexual experiences. I was a virgin when I met This Highschool Asshole I Dated and he was much more experienced than me, so he put a lot of pressure on me to move very quickly to things I wasn't comfortable with. I tried other sexual stuff that was new to me on that same guest room bed with That Same Highschool Asshole I Dated. I told him to stop moving because it hurt and he heard me and continued. His excuse was something like, “I’m sorry it just feels so good.” Eventually I had sex for my first time ever with him, but I don't even remember how it happened at all. It''s like a blank wall when I try to recall. I told him I wasn't ready clearly and verbally many times. He told me if I didn't want to then I must be scared, implying that no other reasons for not wanting to were valid even when I told him not being ready wasn't the same thing as fear. He constantly pushed my clearly communicated boundaries in "the heat of the moment," and broke my hymen in one of these occasions. When I bled we stopped and he said that "he just got psyched out about the whole pregnancy thing." He never asked how I felt about it. I always felt like he was trying to do things he knew I didn't want just to see if he could get away with it, and simultaneously he acted like it was the most normal thing ever that he was so insistent and manipulative. Eventually we got to the point where we were having sex. Not on a bed, but in the back of That Same Highschool Asshole I Dated’s car, he got angry when I told him he had to use a condom because by his reasoning, it should be okay since we had done it without a condom before. He asked for one quick raw stroke, which once I relented turned into three and four. I didn’t say anything to see what would happen. It just continued until he decided he had had enough or maybe he thought he couldn’t possibly get away with more. We never talked about this. On my parents’ bed while no one was home (I know I’m a sick bitch), That Same Highschool Asshole I Dated pulled my cotton shorts that be bought me from his travels abroad and my underwear to the side and plunged his raw dick into me. I’m not sure to what degree I participated, and I interrogate myself about this all the time. I’m sure I kissed him and rubbed myself on him, but when it came to sex, he didn’t ask. We never talked about this. I wonder what went through his mind when he did this, and I honestly think that nothing did. I wonder what went through my mind when he did this, and I honestly think that nothing did. It feels weird to wake up from numbness. I doubt he has thought twice about this. On my freshman dorm room bed, I had sex with a virgin boy I was dating named name. I was nervous and dry but did it anyways. It hurt, but I didn’t tell him that. At least we used a condom. At least it was consensual. I had more painful sex with name on several dorm room beds over almost 2 years, and I still didn’t say anything, until eventually I did. He didn’t like to hurt me and told me to speak up more. I thought it hurt because I was doing something wrong, but it turns out I wasn’t. A year later in the bed in my apartment that I go to sleep in every night, name raped me. I thought he was different. We had built trust. I didn’t have to pretend to enjoy sex with him. He detested name and That Highschool Asshole I Dated, but he hated when I talked about them. He preferred not to hear about it. He wanted my present not my past, and he didn’t want my present if I was too upset. He didn’t understand “what about my past was still holding me back.” We had both been drinking. He was choking me consensually and anxious to start having sex. I told him he could have one stroke, which has a scary common thread with another situation with That Highschool Asshole I Dated. At least he was wearing a condom. He had his stroke, and after that he just continued until he decided he had had enough or maybe he thought he couldn’t possibly get away with more. Except this time I was also being choked, so I really couldn’t say anything. After the rape, I was confused and slightly panicked and in disbelief, but my main focus was sadly on finishing the job. I wanted to be finished with my obligations. My screwed up face revealed my hurt, and he said I could stop. I was relieved and I put on my pajamas and rolled over to sleep. I told him I would do anything to help him finish so I could still fulfill those pesky obligations that came with kissing and consenting to sex. I felt very much like I had failed him for needing to stop and be alone. He tried looking at pictures of me, but when those weren’t enough, I offered and performed other tasks for him. He still couldn’t finish, and because of my reassurances that I would still do anything for him, he asked me to pull down my pajama pants and let him “fuck me slowly.” Those pesky obligations. I said sure. After he orgasmed, I rolled over to finally be alone. As I fell asleep he whispered to me, “You’re so strong. I love you. You’re so strong. I love you.” It took me most of the next day to realize what happened. Why did name break such a clear boundary? Did he hear me what I said to him so clearly? Why did I feel obligations after that? Why did name let me feel those obligations? What kind of person is he? The next day, I asked him if he heard me tell him just once, and he said that he heard me and offered no explanation for why he didn’t listen. I realized the truth about what name did more quickly (in a day instead of months) because I wasn’t going to give someone I loved, and who I thought loved me, the benefit of doubt like I once did. After I brought it up, name told me he wanted to “work through this until we become the ultimate couple.” He didn’t apologize until I asked him to. He said I should have told him that what he was doing was rape, to help him realize the level he fucked up. I broke up with him. He told me to wave, smile, and say hi if I saw him around. At least he acknowledged it? At least he apologized? And those are my bed statistics: my current bed in my apartment that I fall asleep on every night, an array of dorm room beds that many other 18 year olds will inhabit over time, my parents bed that I open stockings from Santa on every Christmas morning, the guest room bed where all the guests in my childhood home stay, the back of a car, and my childhood bed, the place I stay whenever I go back home for the weekend.

So here it is I was infant when it start happen and I was hurt by my hole family my mom and dad my grandpa and my grandma I was hurt to point that they were so toxic that they beat me when I was baby my grandpa did most the damage and he hurt me so bad that I gave in what he want but not a first he abuse me first then I got my revenge after that he beat me it hard to believe but I know and the fact that I been threw all this they said they did it so did my dad and so did my mom I was devastated because i start see clue like on my face i have cut sence i was child on lip and every single time i look in the mirror i get sad but i know now it feels good open up like this and there alot more i need to say get off my chest but it's so bad that this story I'm about tell you that I was in sex trafficking my grandpa use to have men around me and I would have sex with them because I was under of his command and he use to buy prostitute for me to have sex with them it was bad like he didn't get enough know what to do and how it start it was my first then my mom and then dad for sure and my grandpa and his wife my grandma I feel better letting this out more then ever thank you letting me speak because I didnt have voice and I couldn't find help but now this more then ever thank you

We met at a campus Christian fellowship meeting during my first week of college. We were introduced by a friend of his and he walked me back to my dorm. I assumed he would be a safe person since we met through a Christian entity. Up to this point, I had very little dating experience. It went from nothing to intense real quick. We never had the conversation about what we were and all of the sudden we were serious. It went from seeing him weekly at fellowship meetings to all the time, in no time at all. We were THE couple on campus. If we weren't at an event, folks were banging on my door asking where we were. Everyone wanted to be like us. There was never any “are you sure?” or “this doesn’t seem right” conversations from anyone. There was an expectation to see us at events around campus. The abuse was gradual – boundary testing and love bombing. Although I didn’t recognize it as abuse at the time. As far as the smaller signs of abuse, I remember I told him I thought hickeys were trashy and almost immediately he gave me an intense hickey and responses, “you mean just like that?” I thought it was just a dude thing to do but in reality he crossed a boundary I set on the spot. There were so many little things like that that didn’t originally feel like a red flag. If I knew what I knew now, that would have been an immediate no. He and I broke up after graduation. It felt like he dropped off the face of the earth. However, he literally showed up years later at my parent’s doorstep when I moved there to take care of my mother who was dying of cancer. Cue the love bombing again... I was already in a vulnerable place because of my mom. Once my mom passed on his birthday, he dropped everything to be with me. Looking back, he brought his baby sister and she made several comments about how I need to be “cheerful and smiling” because that is what my mom would want. It made me question why he brought her in the first place, because it wasn’t helpful. But, I still was in shock at how he dropped everything for me. We got engaged and married shortly after. The abuse continued. One day when I was heading to the grave site, I was sexually assaulted in the car and I tried to justify it by him not being used to me being dressed up and that I was being hyper emotional. These little escalations over time grew. The gaps between escalation got shorter and shorter and the escalation got more and more. He knew so much about my insecurities that he used it against me, by saying things like “who else will give you attention,” “I am the only man who has come back to you,” “you are hypersensitive just like your mom said.” He would also manipulate me and use intimidation knowing that the local DV shelter was not wheelchair accessible at the time, leaving me without a quick escape. It took me a long time to figure out how to navigate this and move forward. He enjoyed making me fear for my life, but then making me get my emotions together before seeing any of our friends. He enjoyed humiliating, degrading and making me fear for my life. One time he refused to help me accessibility wise (couldn’t get into a bathroom) and I had an accident – he enjoyed the ability to control things. More than a year before I left, I had a disassociation episode and lost hours of time. By the end of that day, I tried to leave and went to my church group for help, and they didn’t support me. So, I figured if they didn’t believe me or think that he is a good man being with a disabled woman, I thought I deserved to stay and I will likely just end up being killed. In fact, I am a strangulation survivor. He would put his hands on my throat and say things like, “you know how easily I can kill you” and once I replied, “just f*cking do it then and get it over with” – I was at that point where I didn’t care if I lived or died. Eight years later it was my birthday eve, we went to dinner – he had to work on my actual birthday – and we began to argue over him wanting to go to a friend’s house that night. Prior to this night, he would leave for three hours or more and I never knew what he was doing or if he was dead somewhere. So, I wasn’t fond of him going back to his friend’s house on my birthday eve and I muttered the statement “well happy f*cking birthday to me” and he replied with “you have only been ruining my birthday for the last eight f*cking years.” And immediately after he said that I unloaded on him. The last thing I said was – I know how long you spend at your friend’s house, and I will be gone before you get back. For context, in the past I tried leaving three times. I had been pulling away for a little bit to try and process what has been going on. Once after staying with a friend for an extended period of time I would question why I would go back but it felt like I was telling myself that it would get better. One time he and I had a nasty fight when he got home very late, and I said “are we going to talk about this or do what we normally do and sweep it under the rug.” His response made me fearful. I immediately dissociated as he banged his fists on the wall and was screaming over me. I curled up and time disappeared. His voice became just noise. Then something switched and he was back to normal. I knew I needed to do what he expected me to do in order to de- escalate. So we changed for bed and I didn’t sleep a wink. The next day I tried to get him out of the house and to church but it wasn’t happening so I just left. I dissociated and don’t remember driving into town. I made it to church and it was clear that I was unwell. That is when I finally made a full disclosure and it was horrible. My pastor said it was too busy and had me sit with his mother in law. After sharing my experiences with her, she said “Are you sure you understand what abuse really is? You just need to go home and be a better wife and appreciate how much he takes care of you.” as she gestured to my wheelchair. I knew I needed to get out of there immediately. I then found a friend and disclosed it to her. She had a similar reaction. This set me off. I got in my car and had self harming thoughts. But I made it home. He told me I might as well just stay. I thought I would just die here. There was more escalation and sleep deprivation - everything got worse. He told me if I went to stay with someone else that I would be a burden to them, and no one would help me due to my disability. Two days after I left, I went home for an already planned trip for Thanksgiving and folks knew something was wrong immediately. That part of the family was and always has been supportive of my divorce. They are two hours away so help is limited. The community I lived in and am back living in, so many people want to minimize abuse towards people with disabilities. They don’t want to see the severity of it. Other folks outside of my family were not that supportive. Many questioned my ability to know what domestic violence truly is. Most tried to justify his actions and tell me it couldn't have been that bad...after all, why would he be with someone like me if he wasn't a good man?!?! As if he must be a Saint to be with someone with a disability and “maybe he was just tired of taking care of me” – utter nonsense. I have had to make my circle small. I have learned which people get it and validate me vs those who made comments or don’t support me. The biggest thing for me was finding validating books and literature. Coming into Speak Your Truth Today and seeing similarities in stories and having that validation of not being over dramatic, over sensitive, and this is a reality I am healing from was a huge thing for me. I really hope to make it known what happened to me and make sure that even if you have the slightest inclination that you are not being taken seriously, find support elsewhere. You deserve help. Not all folks with disabilities need a caregiver. And not all partners are caregivers. This is a common stereotype/assumption that people can have. Validation was rare outside my family until I found SYTT. But know this – there is NEVER an excuse for abuse. Your disability didn't cause it, there's NOTHING you do to deserve abuse. Educate yourself on healthy relationships and know that you are deserving of a peaceful, loving, committed, happy relationship. Educate yourself on the nuances of abuse towards those with disabilities. Abusers use a completely different set of tactics. We have different barriers, complex needs and shame/ ableist mentalities are deeply influenced by our abusers.

I am a female, 28, very happily married. My husband was out of town three weeks for a program at Harvard over the summer. We were told that we had to replace our air conditioner units, so I had a salesman come out to quote us on two new units. He had to come in my home to see duct work and thermostats. He was here from 1:45pm-4:22pm. As the appointment went on, he would ask about pricing. I would mention that I’m back in school, so we’re on a budget. He would then ask what I’m in school for. I left out my camera on a nearby table in another room he could apparently easily see, and asked about it. I’m a photographer and he asked if he could see what I shot, because he used to be a photography gear salesman. I shoot wildlife and landscape. So while the conversation stayed mostly business-like, personal things came up as he typed up things in the computer for us for our quote. After I asked if we should not replace the unit and when we sell the house just take less money and the next person can replace them (we move in two years), he mentioned that he has five properties he rents out, so he loves quirky houses and ours is and at the end he asked if he could take a look around. He would have had to go upstairs anyway to see the thermostat, so we went upstairs. After seeing my husband’s office we turned around to go back downstairs. We have a small landing at the top of the stairs and it is met with three doors. The first on the left is the bedroom. The door was open, I didn’t think we’d be going up there. As we turned around to come back downstairs, he stopped me, where he could see well into the bedroom, I was right at the top of the stairs but against a wall. He started saying something about the house, then interrupted himself: “I find you very attractive, may I touch you?” His eyes grew large, he was reaching for my breasts with his arms outstretched and kind of moving around his fingers. I took a step or two back onto the stairs and he then motioned to the bed. I said “okay, let’s go this way” as I headed down the stairs. “I need to let the dog out soon” (who at that point was whining and almost barking, I think he could sense how I was feeling). At the bottom of the stairs he was just standing there but wasn’t leaving. I said “thank you for the quote, I’ll call my husband and let him know the prices” and as he heard “my husband” he responded “oh, yeah!” as if he forgot I was married. “Okay, well, let me grab my bag and I’ll be on my way. It’s so nice to meet people who like the same things and are good quality people.” I couldn’t get him out of the house quick enough. Once he was leaving, he saw I had a package on the porch and picked it up and handed it to me. I had to still be kind because I didn’t want him to react any kind of way toward me for basically turning him down sexually. He finally left, I called my husband who told me to call the police. The police came over, were in shock, and said they would track him down. I luckily have a doorbell camera and they have his car description and face, personal phone number and name. He is 58 years old, rotund, shorter than me by a few inches, and was a pervert. I hate to admit it, but if he were closer to my age I like to think it would feel less disgusting. I have photographic memory, so my flashbacks are very detailed. I journaled but it only helped a little. I have therapy tomorrow and my therapist is aware of what happened. My husband is being fantastic, asking that I tell him my triggers and if we need to move the bedroom around or anything to let him know. It was all I could do to not slap or punch the man as he said what he did to me, but if he had the gall to say that and do that in my home with barely knowing me, I don’t know what else he would have done. I got very lucky.