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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.

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.

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.

If someone wanted to understand who I am, they would have to know that… I wouldn't know how or where to begin. I suppose I'd start with the foundation of everything: my childhood. My name is Name. I was born in Venezuela, but I grew up in Spain, well, from the age of eight. My childhood… what can I say? I was happy. I was happy. Or so one believes at that age. My first eight years in Venezuela. I suppose I was happy. A family that loved me, a brother, a mother… although never a father. My mother always knew how to manage on her own with us. She always instilled good things about my father in me. She even showed me letters and photos of him. I grew up loving my father, even without ever having met him in person. I had a school that I liked a lot, although I have to say I caused a lot of trouble. It was too noisy for such small classrooms. I have many beautiful memories, and others that I now know as an adult weren't so wonderful. I was given everything, I had everything. Despite coming from a humble family, I never lacked food, I never lacked love, I never lacked anything. Everything gets complicated… When I turned four, when you're just a little bit more aware of life, everything gets complicated. My mother stopped studying and decided to work. That meant seeing her less. That meant being cared for by other people. That meant many things. From then on, my life fell apart. From then on, it marked a before and after. From then on, my adult life would be different. I saw the gravity of it all as I grew up. Although I must say that I had a small reaction even at such a young age. I could say that something inside me told me: this is wrong, this can't be like this. I've always wondered: where was God? I am a believer, or I was a believer, but little by little all of that disappeared. The more pain life caused me, the more I stopped believing. I won't go on any longer… let's go back to the beginning. Well, yes, I had a pretty nice childhood. Although the bad part is there, and I think it will always be a part of my life. I suppose writing it down makes me feel a little better. Reflecting on my whole life makes me feel somewhat better. I was raped. Yes, I was abused when I was just a four-year-old girl. From then on, my life was shattered. I grew older, and it kept happening. I suppose for me it was normal. A child, having suffered that, could never truly grasp the gravity of it. The person who was supposed to take care of me was the cause of my traumas now that I'm older. My brother and I, always together, always united, hand in hand. He went through the same thing, only I gave in. I gave in many times because I knew it was the only way, the only way I had to protect my most precious treasure: my brother. Where was my family? We were just children who needed an adult's help. Where was everyone? Why did no one ever notice? We just needed an adult to help us. How could we help ourselves? My life changed. My aunt gave us back our lives. The decision to come to Spain changed our lives. It was a short trip. We never thought we'd stay here permanently. Ed and I were happy, with our small suitcase, knowing that one day we'd return to Venezuela, that in a month or so we'd be back. And here I am, twenty years later, grateful every day for the decision to stay. That's where my truly happy childhood began. They gave us everything. My aunts gave us everything. I had never been so happy. Mom fell in love. That's where she met the man I thought was my father. It's normal, isn't it? You grow up without a father figure, and when someone comes into your life with so much love to give you… how can you not believe he's your father? A thousand trips, so many beaches, so many plans, so much of everything. He gave us so much. He was there for everything. How could I not love him so much? It's true that I didn't like school that much. I suffered a lot of bullying. I suppose they weren't used to seeing a Latina girl with curly hair and Black features. I'd rather leave that part out. The truth is, it really affected me. I always thought that's where my insecurity came from. I grew up. Or so I thought at fourteen. I thought I was the queen of the world. I wanted to live fast, I wanted to be an adult, I wanted to do a million things. I started to lose myself. To be irresponsible with my mom. To be rebellious. The more I was forbidden, the more I wanted to do it. I think it was my worst time. I never felt understood by anyone. No one ever sat down to explain to me step by step how life works and when I should start living it like an adult. My mom always did her best, but I have to say she didn't know how to deal with a teenager full of anger, full of rage, full of hate. I was my worst self. But I was a teenager, who realizes that at that age? Because I didn't realize it until I had a reality check. My first love… Yes, I had my first love. It was the most precious thing life had given me. Your first times doing everything, your first "I love yous," your first feeling of love, your first everything. It was a failure. I suppose we were very young and inexperienced. I wanted more, to go out into the world, to meet people. Nothing was good enough for me. I had more than one love. I failed with all of them. But I keep what I learned from each one. I learned what I deserve and what I don't. I learned to love myself a little more. I learned not to tolerate things I shouldn't. I learned not to settle for crumbs. I don't know why I was never lucky in love. And the little faith I had left was shattered. I turn eighteen. Finally an adult. Finally, I could do whatever I wanted. That's what I felt, and that's what I believed. My rebellion lasted quite a while. Until… It would happen again. Mom leaves her husband. My life changes. Everything changes. My supposed father is still my father. We still love him as much as the first day. We still see him. We continue everything with him, despite not being with Mom. But I had a shock to reality. I thought my partners had broken my heart, but I was wrong. He broke my heart. I stopped believing in love. If the person I loved most, the one I considered my father, broke my soul, broke my heart… what was I supposed to think of the rest of the world? What was I supposed to be like? And then that day came, the second worst day of my life. I suffered domestic violence. My supposed father was capable of destroying my life. Attempted rape. Once again I felt that fear. Once again I felt like my life was slipping away. Once again I felt disappointment. Once again I felt my heart slowly breaking. How could I believe in people? How could I believe in life? Then Brother was born. I started to see life a little better. Brother came into our lives, my little brother, and I changed completely. He gave me the happiness I didn't have. He gave me the peace in my soul that I so desperately needed. Seeing him so small, so beautiful, those little hands… My brother gave me back my life and the desire to love someone with all my heart. I never told him. He's too young. But someday I'll sit down and talk to him. I dropped out of school. My studies went from bad to worse, so I decided to enter the hospitality industry. I really grew up. My mindset changed. I started being a better person to my mom, a better person to my brother Edy, a better person to everyone. Working made me realize how hard life is. How much my mom has had to work to give us everything. Working made me grow as a person, as a woman. Time passes. Life goes on. And yes, I'm still stuck in the hospitality industry. But I have to say that I've earned everything I have through hard work. Grateful for everything I learned. I move on with life. I move on with my life. Time passes. I have relationships again that go nowhere. More disappointments: from family, boyfriends, friends. But I guess I could always handle it all. It was like my heart was bulletproof. Like anything else just didn't matter to me anymore. I was so used to bad things following me that it was totally normal for me. But hey, I never stopped being good. I never stopped having this noble heart, like Mom says. I always gave my all to everyone. I always acted with the best intentions. I recently read that the people who are always being funny are the ones who are saddest inside. Nothing has ever resonated with me so much. Like I say, I'm the class clown. I love seeing my friends laugh at my jokes. It makes me feel a little less bad. It helps me a lot. I like to be funny all the time, just because. It helps me forget everything for a little while. Time passes and I'm at peace. I feel like I won't have anything else to suffer about. And then an unexpected message arrives… I've always been in contact with my father, the same one Mom always told me about and who always instilled good values in me. I love him so much that it would never cross my mind to hate him. And then a message arrives: “Hello daughter, God bless you. I’m your dad, your mom’s brother.” My mind couldn’t grasp anything. Dad, mom, brother… I thought it was fake, but I investigated until I uncovered the truth. That day, that blessed day, my heart was broken once again. But this time, it was my dear mom. It turns out that this man was my real father. It turns out that my mom wasn’t my biological mother. It turns out that I grew up believing lies. My biological mother abandoned me. When I was just a month old. She abandoned me like a dog. My dad, afraid of life, afraid of continuing with such a young child, only sought help. Help from his brothers. And that’s where my mom comes in. As she tells me: “Daughter, I fell in love with you. Seeing you so small, so vulnerable, with that little face, that nose, those curls… how could I not stay with you?” Mom didn’t give me life. She gave it back to me. I'm grateful for the life you gave me, Mom. You'll always be my mother to me. My one and only true mother. But my soul aches. Everything I had worked so hard for came back: my fears, my anxieties, my traumas, my insecurities, my rage, my anger. And then he came. Someone came into my life to help me understand that life isn't always so bad. Someone who would help me understand why it never worked out with anyone else. Someone who would give me all the love in the world. And then you came, right when life was hurting the most. You came, and I forgot for a little while everything that was happening. I started believing in love again. I started believing again that there really are good people with beautiful hearts. Sometimes I feel like I don't deserve it. Sometimes I feel like it's a trap life has set for me. I sabotage myself a lot. I don't know how to process it. I feel like at any moment everything will fall apart. I'll feel fear. I'll feel anguish.

When I was a child, probably 4 or 5 years old, I started getting involved in sexual play with my female cousin who was 6 at the time, we rubbed our parts, she made me lick her tigh once, and other stuff that I cannot remember clearly, some of that felt good, but I remember discomfort if I refused, I think she hit me or hurt me if I did not want to play, generally speaking she used to beat me or pull my hair. Soon I searched on tv things that resembled the things we were doing, nothing explicit from what i can recall, things like sensual play between partners in movies, people making love, etc, I was ashamed at the time and hid this behaviour from my parents, i dont remember when it stopped but i remember the shame and fear that it would happen again, specifically one time when we were older and playing and she pinned me to the bed, i got nauseus, fortunately by that time I was strong enough to take her off me. I dont know if this was abuse, but certainly shame and guilt never went away while I was a child, even on my first communion I remember wanting to tell the priest this story in my confession but stopping myself because felt it was too much. I was 10 by that time. I dont blame my cousin and i really like her. I hadnt visited this memories till six months ago while watching " the perks of being a wallflower" where the main caracther is abused by his auntie and while remembering this I wonder if my sexual behaviors (huge shame, guilt and incapability to relax) now are influenced by this experience.

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.

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.

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

A friend and I dated within the same friend group, and I used to hang out with the guys a lot--I considered them as my brothers. One night when we were altogether, I felt too drunk to take myself home and felt safe with my friends ex to get a cab and drop me off. He came in uninvited and kissed me, then all I remember are flashes of us being naked, him being inside of me, going down on me, etc., but I felt like I couldn't move. I woke up to shower, my bed was broken, and he was gone. I called him the next day to confront him about it, and that I don't even remember what happened. He said he thought "i enjoyed it" (I was unconscious half of the time), and only stopped because the bed broke. Although he apologized he had the audacity to tell me not to share this with anyone, and to this day only very few close friends know about this incident. It truly broke my trust even with platonic guy friendships.

I need to tell someone this, I haven't told a single soul not my parents, friends, partner, no one and I need to get it off my chest. I want to start this off by saying I've never had a good family bond, my father was a stoner and barely there, my mother an angry drunk, 2 older sisters who hated me and a twin brother who treated me like a maid. I've had an eating disorder since I was 8 years old, I used to leave the house at 6am everyday, run around the block far too many times and then work out for 2 hours before returning home and starving myself. This went on for around 4 years. One Saturday morning when I was 11 I decided to change it up and ran to the park to run laps of it, I was running circles of the park for around 10 minutes before I was grabbed. A man dragged me into the bathrooms and forced himself on me, I was so malnourished and weak I couldn't fight back. I sat there and sobbed in pain as he did what he wanted, once he finished I thought I was done but I was unbelievably wrong. The man left the bathroom as I laid on the floor sobbing, he came back but with a friend. I was horrified I knew he brought his friend to have 'his turn' but I was also wrong about that. They ended up picking me up and carrying me into a car, they threw me on the backseat and told me to stay down. I complied, afraid of what they would do to me if I didn't. After god knows how long of driving in pure terror they parked and yanked me out. I didn't know where I was but they quickly dragged me into a house where they would then take turns raping me for a few days. After I was all 'used up' they threw me back in the car and drove back to the park and released me; I am still shocked as to why they would release me rather than killing me cause I could have told someone. My parents didn't even notice that I was missing for a few days, I stumbled in the door, bleeding, sobbing, and begging for help. My dad was out with some friends and mum just drunkenly yelled at me to clean the table. No one cared where I had been or what happened to me. Sometimes I wish those men had killed me, I began self harming at only 9 years old and attempted to overdose at 10. Many years later and I still self harm and my most recent attempt was only 2 months ago. I have caused permanent damage to my liver and kidneys from the medication I over dosed on. I wish they killed me.

At the age of twenty-six I was raped by a stranger. It took me many years to name what had happened to me as rape. Although, distressed when it happened, I blocked it from my mind for a number of years before going to a therapist for support. I decided to attend therapy as I was struggling with a deep depression. I didn't attend a Rape Crisis Centre. It took me a number of years before I disclosed to my then therapist that I had been raped. I had buried what took place deep within myself and I had never disclosed to anyone what happened that night. The person who raped me was a friend of some friends of mine. I was away for the weekend and thankfully, I never saw him again. While my healing journey has been long. It has been deeply supportive and has allowed me to heal from many different issues within my childhood and to heal from sexual violence. I no longer carry guilt or shame for what took place that night and would encourage any man or woman who is a survivor or sexual violence to go to a therapist who specialises in sexual violence and allow an experienced professional to support you on your healing journey. I have no regrets and am grateful to a number of wonderful women who have supported me to heal from a deeply traumatic experience. Healing can and does happen. Don't give up on you, as I have never given up on me. I have learned that I like so many survivors of abuse am a very resilient woman. I live life today, from a very grounded place and although, I remember what happened to me in the rape I have emotionally healed from the hurt and the pain of that traumatic experience.

When I was eight years old, I used to go play at the house of a friend who was the same age. I don't remember how it started; I know it happened, but my memories are hazy. I remember her undressing me and touching me, and her making me do the same to her, while a Jesus Christ figure hanging on the wall watched me. I don't remember that house, or how many times it happened. I wish I had told my mom, but I was too scared. I think children often go through things that are too much for them. Feeling scared all the time isn't normal. I hope no one ever goes through the same fear of the world growing up that I did.

I feel like nobody talks about COCSA. And I feel like no one talks about female perpetrators. I’m not necessarily here to talk about the abuse that happened to me, but for context, I was nine and the other child was a nine year old girl. What really haunts me is what I did after. I inflicted this pain onto someone else, I figure I was probably about 10 and she was 9. She was my mom’s friends daughter. My mom’s best friend, actually. And I’ve been thinking a lot about how much that must’ve ruined their friendship when they found out what happened. How much anger my mother must have deep down felt towards me. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. And I tell myself “I didn’t touch her I didn’t actually lay my hands on her I didn’t do it” but I did. I hurt someone like that and maybe I have an excuse and maybe I don’t but all I can think is how horrible I feel to have done something like that to another person. It was never about getting caught or getting in trouble, im just disgusted with myself. Just recently I remembered that I was raped twice that night, not once. And now I’m terrified that maybe I’m forgetting something and maybe I did this more than once, but how could I have forgotten doing something like that? I would never harm a child today. Never. There is not a single doubt in my mind that I would ever hurt anybody like that again. All I think about now is if I’m this awful person because nobody ever talks about this side of childhood SA and the people that do are treated like monsters. But maybe that’s what I deserve.

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

When I was 18 I was raped and physically assaulted by a friend of mine at the time. He was 3 years older than me and it was his 21st birthday. It took me a year to accept what happened, and 4 years to get help through counseling. I used to feel a lot of guilt for not getting help sooner and the way my trauma affected other people in my life/people I was in relationships with. I also hated and still sometimes hate the way it affects me 6 years later, but I’m learning that things don’t always go away on their own and it’s okay to reach out for help, no matter what stage you’re in or how long has passed. You will find people who love and believe you, and you’re more than worthy of that. They say skin completely regenerates every 7 years, so by this time next year I’ll have a body you’ve never touched, and that’s comforting.

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.

I was with my ex and I had just started some new tablets that made me sleepy. I tell my ex that I’m going to sleep and he continues to play his video game. I wake in a daze around an hour later and he is raping me and enjoying it. I react by making noises out of fear and wait for him to finish up the act , I just froze in fear. Once it was over I was mad he never got consent but he told me that he thought I wanted it. It’s been nearly a year and I’m still not over it

I got out of an abusive relationship. It wasn’t till I left there was physical abuse and emotional abuse. Even if the physical was minimal. I’m so glad to be apart of a group of women who are healing. Healing is hard, it’s been countless sleepless nights, extra periods, and nightmares over and over. But the reward of being free is so much better than anything I could’ve imagined. I don’t wish to ever be back in that, and am glad I left every day

Help me please I found out i was assaulted when i was ten or so by my older half brother. I woke up to him in my bed, and i was a child so i didnt think much of it, but i always had this rule where i didnt want anyone in my bed because it was mine and blah blah, so i told him i was gonna tell on him later and he ran back to my brother bunk bed where he originally slept and didnt say anything. I ran over to tell my parents, and in the morning yhey obviously knew something was wrong so they asked him why he was in my bed and he admitted that he been using my ass to masturbate for months. And i got memories to when i would wake up in the middle of the night where he’d be walkong back and forgh with paper tissues and my butt would feel wet and i always thiught i was just seeaty and stuff but it then clicked and i remembered all the tomes he would grind against me randomly but again i didnt think anything of it and he got beat for three days and he had to applogize to me and i saw him pleading for forgiveness cause they forced him too and i was so scared but i always thiught it wasnt that deep cause it wasnt actually rape and i was jever conscious for him doing that and now im much older now but this week has been really hard and even to this day it turns me on so much to think of me being assaulted like i hate it when i hear of of others getting hurt in that way but it arouses me so much and i thiught it made progress but during this period it turned me on so much and its terrible and i dont know what to do its still haunting me when i didnt even really go theough anyrhing and ive been telling myself that im fine for the longest time and that everything is okay but this is jsut revealing that in not okay and that im judt some sicko who gets off to other people hypothetically assaulting me whats wrong with me i dont know what to do please help me llease validate me please do something i dont like feeling like this what should i do