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

If there's one thing that I've come to understand about survivors, one thing many of us have in common, it's that we weren't equipped with the language to understand that what happened to us was a specific crime or immoral action. We knew it was wrong because of the visceral, bodily reactions we had, but we didn't have a reliable way to describe why our bodies did that. We questioned ourselves in the absence of safety to question the experiences. We stayed quiet many times because we doubted anyone would listen if we screamed. By the time I found out that what had happened to me was a crime, the statute of limitations had long since passed. I knew all too well that in a place like my home state, where I grew up in high-control religion, more people would worry about ruining a bright young man's future than about the nightmare I lived in. I thought about pursuing a criminal case, but it was such a brief thought and shut down so quickly by my own conviction and insistence that nobody would listen to me. It happened on the love seat in the living room of my parents' house, with my whole family downstairs, and I hadn't screamed out then because I knew, sick beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I would be painted as the reason it happened. I would be questioned about what I'd done to lead him on and make him think it was okay to do that to me. If I couldn't have cried out to my own family, what made me think I could cry out to the courts and be heard? I try to come on here when I think about how it messed me up. I try to come here and make a few encouraging posts, uplift other people who may not have anyone who sees them as they are. Recently I had this incredible moment out in public, at this craft supply thrift store in my hometown. A teenager came in with her battered guitar case and her dad, who hovered at the edges of the store to let her browse for patches and embellishments for the guitar case. I ended up chatting with them, and halfway through the conversation I saw her scars. Before I left, I told her that the real secret of learning an instrument is that it has to sound noisy and terrible before it can sound good. "Don't be mad at yourself when it sounds noisy and terrible," I told her, laughing as I said it. "It has to do that first before it can sound good!" I cried the whole way home thinking about how I'd been that teenager once. I had needed someone to say something kind to me, to see me and offer me something warm and genuine, and I didn't have anyone. I tell you all of this just to say: Keep going. If you can't do it for yourself, don't do it for me. Do it for the small reasons that make you smile and cry bittersweet tears all the way home. Do it so you can offer to someone else what you didn't get yourself. Do it because it would feel amazing to outlive the person who hurt you. Do it because they would hate to see you thriving, and it's not wrong to be petty and thrive just to drive them nuts. There is no stupid reason to keep going. I'm in this for the long haul because I like living, and I especially like living so that I can prove wrong everyone who thought I wouldn't make it this far, including myself. No stupid reasons to keep going here. So keep going.

I want to be a source of hope to the hopeless

When I was a very young age, (around 4-6 years old) I became friends with another boy on my street about 3 houses down. He was the same age as me, and had an older brother, D, who was probably about 16-17 at the time. There was a time we were watching the movie Movie in the basement of their house with the older brother there, and I had told them about how I walked in on my parents naked and how I thought it was funny. D used it as an opportunity to explain to me what sex was. He had me and his little brother take our clothes off and touch each other and said it was just a fun game and that he was teaching us. I don’t recall anything beyond that. A lot of this day is blocked out of my mind and something tells me that more even happened beyond this as I still continued to hang around here. There was a specific incident where me and the boy my age got naked together and laid in bed and my dad came in and caught us. I felt so much shame. I felt like a creature. My nephew is 2 years younger than me, so we grew up together sort of like brothers. He would often spend the night at our house. When I was somewhere between 10-13, there were a couple of times that I would touch him inappropriately in his sleep. I don’t know what my thought process was, and I honestly didn’t even process that I did these things and what they meant until I was much older. I’ve felt like a disgusting monster for it. I love my family more than anything, and the kid that did that is no where near the man that I am today. But I did that. That was me. And I’ve found it hard to process and realize. My nephew has struggled with alcoholism and drug abuse for a long time, and even though our family has a long history of the men in the family having addiction issues, I can’t help but think that I did that to him. I changed the trajectory of his life because I was a sick abusive little kid. His mom, my sister, is officiating my wedding soon. My nephew got drunk and for the first time confronted me about what happened when we were kids and just texted me “I’m not coming to your wedding. you touched my dick when I was little and I remember. Fuck you. Bitch.” And I felt my life flash before my eyes and all of a sudden this shame and hate towards myself boiled completely up. My first thought was that my life was over. My second thought was what the fuck have I done. I’m not sure how to heal from this or how to keep going. Hopefully therapy will help.

I Saved Myself Every system that was supposed to protect me failed me. My family. The police. The courts. Children and Youth. I had to save myself. This is how. I met him in 2016. After my son was born. He came in like a knight in shining armour. The devil was hiding inside him. I moved in with him the day I met him. The control started right away. One summer day he went through my phone. He threw it and it shattered. He pushed me on the porch. I fell with my son in my arms. My body became his shield. The neighbors called the police. They arrested him. His mother showed up and asked me what did you do. Not what happened. Not are you okay. What did you do. Then she turned off the air conditioning and left my son and me to sweat in the summer heat. She was our landlord. I should have left then. I did not know how. One year after the porch I stood in Walmart with empty pockets and a hungry three year old. He had made sure there was no food in the house. Not because we were broke. Because he did not care. I stole an entire bag full of food. I did not make it past the door. Security stopped me. The police came. I broke. They put me on a 302 hold right then. And they took my son. Not to family. To foster care. The system does not ask why you stole. It just sees a crime and punishes you for surviving. A month later my mom got him. She fought through paperwork and background checks from out of state. She brought him home. I stayed behind. I did not know how to leave anymore. He decided we were moving. Hours from my mom. Hours from my son. Hours from anyone who could help. Then I was raped to have a baby. I tried to get an abortion. He refused. He abused me for trying. He drove me hours back home against my will instead of to the appointment. I told him I could not do this. He said we are keeping it. I said I do not think I can. He said you do not have a choice. Four words. Final. When my daughter was born they put her on my chest. I felt nothing. Not love. Not relief. Just emptiness. I thought I do not know how to love you. I do not even know how to love myself. A few days after we got her home he grabbed my weeks old daughter from her crib and threw her into her swing. He called her a fat fucking pig. He propped her bottle on a blanket so he would not have to hold her. I stood frozen. If I moved it would get worse. We moved to city, state. The house had holes in the floors. No heat. It was winter. We lived in one room with a space heater. Two days after we moved in I could not take it anymore. I left her in her swing. He was home. I walked to the nearby school and called an ambulance. I told them I slapped my daughter. I lied. It was the only way to get a 302 hold. The only way to be taken seriously. They kept me for weeks. I finally slept. Then Children and Youth knocked. The caseworker said his mother had temporary legal guardianship of my daughter. I believed them. I had no lawyer. I was drowning. So I complied. What I found out much later is that it was a lie. She never had guardianship. But by then I had acted like she did. And the system called that abandonment. We moved into a camper on his mothers front lawn. My daughter lived inside the house. We lived outside in the cold. They expected me to visit her. I could not walk through that door. His mother was in there. Watching. Judging. The woman who enabled everything. So I left. A few days later he texted that I could get my things. Everything I owned was destroyed. Clothes ripped. Photos torn. Deliberate. A message that said if I can not have you you get nothing. Everyone asked what are you going to do about your daughter. Not how are you healing. Not what do you need. I fought for custody because that is what mothers are supposed to do. Then the court gave me a choice. Sign over full custody or keep fighting and lose anyway. I signed. He texted me. If you want to see her you have to pay. He turned my daughter into a transaction. Years later I tried again. Every other weekend she came to my apartment and screamed for her dad for hours. He had told a four year old she was not allowed to like her mother. Then I found out I was pregnant. Not forced this time. Chosen. With someone safe. He started texting me constantly. Telling me I was worthless. Telling me to kill myself. Just off yourself. Everyone would be better off. Over and over. I was pregnant. I called Children and Youth. The same system that failed me before. They said there is not much we can do unless there is immediate danger. And just like that I was the problem again. Not him. Not the system. Me. So I made a choice. I stopped seeing my daughter. I stopped answering his texts. I stopped performing. I moved three hours away with my partner and had the baby I chose. The baby I wanted. I pay child support every month. On time. Because that is my legal obligation. But I do not call. I do not visit. And I do not feel guilty about it anymore. I am writing this from my living room. My baby is asleep in the next room. The baby I chose. For the first time in my life I understand what people mean when they say motherhood is beautiful. Because it can be. When it is chosen. When it is supported. When it is safe. People ask if I regret it. I regret that she exists in pain. But I do not regret leaving. I do not regret choosing myself. I do not regret finding peace. This is not a redemption story. Forced motherhood does not always end with healing. Sometimes it ends with walking away. And that is okay. Because my life matters too. My survival matters too. If you are reading this and you see yourself in my story. If you were forced into motherhood. If you are drowning and no one believes you. You are not alone. You are not broken. You are not a monster. You are surviving. If you need permission to choose yourself. If you need someone to tell you it is okay to walk away from something that is destroying you. I am giving it to you. You are allowed to survive. You are allowed to choose peace. Healing is not the ending. It is the direction. And I am still walking it.