Community

In my original shared story, IT STARTED WITH MY BROTHER, I talked about my abuse from a bird’s eye view. It was my abuse life as I was able to share it at the time. I have been working up to sharing 3 instances of rapes that I only avoided by allowing the men to take what they wanted instead of fighting. The most traumatic of the three incidents I mentioned involved a police officer. This is that account. I was pulled over on my way home from a study group as junior at the university on a week night. We had shared two drinks toward the end. I DO NOT condone driving and drinking but I was not drunk, as the breathalyzer later confirmed. I was pulled over and already had the nerves associated with that, amplified by the fact that I was under the legal drinking age for another three weeks. That is when I first met the cop I will just call SIK. He gave me a creepy vibe when I first saw him and that never stopped. Still, I flirted with him to an extent desperate to not get it huge trouble. He had me get out of the car, take of my hoodie, under which I only had a basic sports bra. It was only sixty degrees or so that night. I was cold and shivering from fear and the temperature. I saw him look at my body with no filter. Another cop car pulled up with two officers while I was doing the field sobriety tests. He had already searched me in an uncomfortable way. One of the officers who arrived was female and also searched me after he had said I had some problems with the sobriety tests. Walking backwards on an imaginary line heel to toe was the only thing I had trouble with. It is hard! The female cop brought out the breath test I had asked for. I blew 0.035. That is less than half the legal limit. At that point SIK said he was just going to follow me home, rather than arrest me, and the other car left. The whole stop took maybe an hour. Cars drove by on the side street I had pulled onto. Headlights and tail lights in the dark. After the other car left SIK talked to me more harshly and threatening than ever. He said a girl like me is probably used to getting away with everything. He asserted that he could still take me to jail anytime he decides as as he takes me home and makes sure I am safe everything I do is still a test. He could bust me for possession of alcohol and I would lose my license. I was scared. I told him my roommate was home. She was a student too and was supposed to be there. After following me inside my apartment I called out for my roommate. Then I checked her room. She was not there! SIK then accused me of lying to a police officer and locked the deadbolt from the inside. He made me stand with my hands on my own dining room wall with my legs spread. I wanted to call her so he could talk to her and confirm she was usually there, but he stopped me and made me just text her to see when she would be home. He gave instruction not to ask or say anything more and checked before I sent it. She was at her sisters and would not be back until late. At that point he took off his utility belt and put it on my kitchen counter. He told me after all he had done for me was no longer free, since I lied to him. His gun was right there next to us. He made sure I saw it and he even twisted it so it was pointed toward me. I was scared and pleading with him. I really was willing to do anything. I am not sure but I think I told him that. He radioed from his shoulder thing that he was taking a “lunch” break. What I definitely remember was when he said he was going to do a proper strip search this time, down to full nudity and asked if I agreed to that. At that point I no longer had a doubt what was happening. I made the mental adjustment but what he did was more than I had prepared for. He gave me vulgar compliments about my body as he blatantly molested me. He kneaded my breasts like dough. He fingered me as asked if you could use a special appendage he had that went farther in. I knew what he meant. I was repulsed but I agreed. After the initial eager sex with me still having my hands on the wall leaning forward he slowed down. I had been hoping it was almost over but he decided to prolong it. He commanded me to my bedroom. He took off all his clothes besides his socks. He complemented his own anatomy and made me agree. His member was well above average in size but I doubt, if he had not had a wedding band on, that he would ever get to use it. He was half bald, had a prominent eyebrow like a neanderthal, and a pale beer belly with lots of moles all over his body. He had a mustache and goatee that did not completely hide his poor complexion that looked like he had scars from severe acne. Almost all men all taller than me but he was short and only towered over me by a few inches. Never had I lied bigger than when I told him what he wanted to hear about being sexy and wanting him. The only truth was about his large penis. SIK spoke a lot, mostly degrading me and confirming that I agree with him. Cliche stuff, like me being a whore, slut, dirty, and liking what he made me do to him, but also asked about my sex life and abuse history. He wanted me to say that my dad and coaches abused me, but I would not lie about that. Instead I told him some of the truth about my brother abusing me. That was probably the worst part. Saying out loud to SIK what I never used to admit to anyone, for his great pleasure, harmed me. That was worse that the physical stuff. Worse than making me kiss him during parts of it. He was also cruel. He tried to gag me and push all the way down my throat while he made him do oral. He pushed my ankles behind my head while he pounded me with his abusing thrusts. I could see the cruel lust in his eyes. I could see his wicked smile. He slapped my face many times, just not very hard. He did spank me hard. He realized he had me captive and vulnerable to his whim and he was finally living his darkest fantasies. I was doing anything he wanted and encouraging it because I wanted it to stop. So many times he stopped himself right before he was going to climax! He did not want it to end. SIK tried to have anal sex with me and I was accommodating him but he was just too big to fit. I was crying during most of this out of pain but trying to act like an eager partner to make it end. I later thought that might have prolonged it. SIK was probably the time that would prefer I suffer more, like I was being raped instead of hiding my pain. It was not much longer than twenty minutes but it was so bad and I relived it so many times in my mind before I got smashed drunk and high the next night after work. So the memory lived much more prominently in my head than a simple 25 minute encounter. I do reach climax easily, but I never had one orgasm from him because of his preference for causing sexual pain. When he suddenly released inside me he got quiet and barely said another word as he dressed, gun belt and all, and left quietly. I have no idea what that meant. It scared me. I was afraid while driving for a while, and avoided sleeping at home as much as I could, which sometimes meant sleeping with men and even male friends just to not go home. It was the main reason I did not renew my lease and moved it to a smaller apartment by myself. This was the same roommate whose father had already slept with me without my initial blessing. I did tell my roommate a short version of it and she reacted like it was cool story. I did kind of tell it that way, as a way of dealing with it. The easy path of least resistance. To not admit it may have been the worse sexual thing to happen to me. The true worst things that happened to me in my college years were broken hearts from losing men I loved. But those are stories for a different forum. I don’t put my heart out there to be trampled anymore. This incident was one of the wake up calls that stood out as an omen for me to change my whole lifestyle and try to salvage myself. It was also one of the things that took me the longest to mention to my therapist even though I thought about it during sessions.

I’m writing to try and seek clarity over my childhood experiences. It was mostly with a cousin of mine (both f). Nearly every time we would meet from the age of about 4 we would secretly kiss and she taught me oral. Then it became reciprocal oral. I remember feeling sick and ashamed whenever I would leave her house but it continued about once a year or less until we were 12. She tried to initiate something even later with me in our early 20s. I’m confused because of all the mess of feelings I have about it. I felt terrible after. I remember saying to her I preferred the kissing and tried to make her the centre of what was happening so I could give more than receive. I knew it wasn’t right and couldn’t tell either of my parents who were separated for a lot of this time span.

TW: physical, emotional, sexual abuse Ever since I started primary school at the age of 4, I’ve been afraid of my dad. I truly believed I was the worst daughter in the world and that I was a huge disappointment to my parents. My Ukrainian immigrant parents were well educated and well respected people, they were quite wealthy and interesting people who had a “perfect” daughter. No one knew what happened behind closed doors, of course, and no one suspected anything as I was taught to hide my feelings and physical signs of abuse (still hate thinking about that word) really well. The physical and emotional abuse started as I started school and was a punishment for something I did or didn’t do, but looking back now, there was no consistency and no “reasoning” behind all of it. The sexual abuse started when I was 8 and stopped when I got my period at 14, when he told me it made me dirty and disgusting. Only at the end of high school I realised that not all fathers were like this and, in fact, this was very severe abuse. At 15 I was sexual assaulted by a coworker of my age at my job in a leisure center. At this point I was attracting the somewhat wanted attention of boys and I was naive. Even now, I am still trying to remind myself that I am not at fault. My 2 years at sixth form were made up of studying very hard and also trying to get help for ptsd symptoms. I met my current boyfriend of 2 years at sixth form too. I have told him about the majority of my childhood and he has been extremely supportive. I am so grateful for him. I am now having CPTSD support and, although I have bad days, I am keen to get better and to start a new chapter of life :)

My Story — I Just Want a Safe Life for My Children I am sharing my story anonymously because I am afraid that people from my past may recognise me. Some details have been changed or left out to protect me and my children. The experiences and feelings I describe are my own. For most of my life, I have kept my pain inside. I have carried things that I never told anyone because I was frightened, ashamed, or simply didn't know how to explain everything that had happened to me. Today, I am finally trying to tell my story. Not because I want revenge. Not because I want people to feel sorry for me. I just want someone to hear me. My childhood When I was a young child, I was expected to clean the house, wash clothes, iron and cook. If something wasn't done exactly the way my mother wanted, I would be punished. I remember being beaten with spoons and other objects. I would have bruises on my body and would try to hide them. I was frightened in my own home. Sometimes I was thrown outside without proper clothes or shoes, even when it was cold and getting dark. I remember hiding underneath a tree because I was scared. One of the few places where I felt safe was when my uncle would take me to his house. I looked forward to those visits because I knew I would have some peace. I also felt that my siblings were treated differently from me. I was made to feel that I was less wanted because my mother had wanted a boy when I was born. For years, I wondered what I had done wrong. I was only a child. I had done nothing wrong. A decision that was never mine When I was a teenager, my family told me we were going on holiday. I wanted to finish my education first. Instead, I was taken abroad and discovered that the real reason for the trip was that I was going to be married. I was still very young. I tried to convince myself that perhaps marriage would give me the loving family I had always wanted. Very quickly, I discovered that my new husband was not the person I had hoped he would be. When I told my family what was happening, I was told that things would become better. I didn't want him to come and live with me. My wishes were ignored. My first marriage When I returned home, I was expected to work and look after everything. My money was controlled. I was expected to work long hours and still cook, clean and look after my husband. When I couldn't meet all the expectations placed on me, I was shouted at, insulted and physically abused. I also experienced sexual violence. I did not consent, but my wishes were ignored. Eventually, I was thrown out. I managed to find somewhere safe to stay for a short time. I thought perhaps my life was finally going to change. But I was persuaded to return. Later, I was taken abroad again and left there for a long period because I would not agree to live with my husband. I was heartbroken and frightened. Eventually, under pressure, I agreed. My children I eventually became a mother. My children became my whole world. Their father was violent towards me, and there were times when I had to put myself between him and the children to stop him from hurting them. I was terrified, but I would never allow someone to hurt my children if I could protect them. After years of cheating, violence, shouting and fear, my husband eventually left. I felt relieved. Then he returned. People around me told me that he had changed and that I should give him another chance. I didn't want to. My children and I were frightened. Then came the night that I will never forget. While I was working, one of my children contacted me and warned me not to come home because they were afraid their father was going to kill me. When I returned home, I was attacked. I was hit, thrown against furniture and injured. At one point, a knife was held against my throat and I was threatened. My children were terrified. They helped me find a way to keep him distracted long enough for help to arrive. I remember praying that the police would come before something happened that could never be undone. Eventually, there was a knock at the door. The police arrived. He was arrested. I was shaking and crying. My body was hurting and I was terrified. I was taken to hospital. My children and I were then moved somewhere safe. For the first time in a long time, we had some distance from the danger. Starting again After many months away, we returned home. I hoped we could finally rebuild our lives. Instead, our belongings were removed. Furniture was thrown away. My children's belongings were sold. I was told that we did not deserve comfortable things and that we could sit and sleep on the floor. I was devastated. But the next morning, I got up and bought basic food for my children. That was when I decided I had to work. I found a job working nights. I arranged childcare and built my entire life around my children. I would work through the night, come home, get my children ready for school, take them to school, sleep for a few hours, wake up to cook and clean, collect them, feed them, take them to their activities, put them to bed and then go back to work. I was exhausted. But I did it because my children needed me. Losing our home While I was trying to rebuild our lives, I also suffered serious financial difficulties involving people close to me. I had worked hard to build a home for my children. I had invested years of work and money into making it a safe and happy place. Then I discovered that arrangements had been made for the house to be transferred to another family member without my agreement. I came home from work and was told that the house had been sold. I couldn't believe it. That house wasn't just a building. It was where my children had grown up. It was where I had tried to create the home and family I had never had as a child. I had spent years making it ours. Suddenly, it was gone. My children and I had nowhere to go. We stayed with family for a while, where we were made to sleep on the floor. Eventually, I went to the council for help. My children and I were placed in temporary accommodation. We had very little privacy and were struggling to cope. Eventually, we were given somewhere to live. I continued working wherever I could. I worked in care and took other jobs when I needed to. I did whatever I could to support my children. Trying to find love again My family continued to pressure me to marry again. I didn't want another marriage. I was frightened of going through the same things again. But people around me kept telling me that I should give someone else a chance. Eventually, I agreed to marry a man who had been described to me as kind and caring. At first, he seemed wonderful. I thought perhaps I had finally found the person I had spent my whole life waiting for. Then I became pregnant. Things changed. He began asking me for money. He became angry and verbally abusive. He wanted me to arrange for him to come and live with me. I was pregnant and unable to work normally. I couldn't understand why someone who had seemed so kind was treating me this way. I asked people for help and was told to keep him happy and do what he wanted. It felt like my past was repeating itself. When I gave birth by Caesarean section, I was still in hospital when he said something that broke my heart. I had just given birth to our son. Instead of feeling loved and supported, I was made to feel worthless. After that, he continued to be kind mainly when he wanted money. I was paying for things and trying to provide for my child. Eventually, I discovered evidence that he had been involved with another woman. Once again, my heart was broken. I had believed that this marriage would be different. Eventually, he left. Where I am today Today, I am raising four children. I have spent years working whenever I could to provide for them. But recently, everything changed again. I became seriously unwell and was diagnosed with blood clots affecting both lungs. Because of my health, I am currently unable to work. This has been frightening. Working has always been how I have tried to keep our lives going. Now I am unable to do what I have always done while still having the responsibility of caring for my children. Everyday life has become a struggle. After everything I have already survived, I never imagined that my health would become another battle. But I am still here. I am still trying to look after my children and find a way forward. For years, I blamed myself and wondered whether there was something wrong with me. I am beginning to understand that being mistreated did not mean I deserved to be mistreated. I was a child who deserved protection. I was a young woman who deserved a choice. I was a wife who deserved safety and respect. I am a mother who deserves a safe and stable home for her children. I don't want revenge. I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want pity. I simply want my story to be heard. I want my children to grow up feeling safe, loved and protected. This is my story. For the first time, I am letting it be heard.

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