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One of the most difficult parts of my healing journey is that I’m not exactly sure what is ‘my’ story. The sexual abuse of children is a routine part of my family, on both my mother’s and father’s sides. I was 13 when I learned that my grandfather had sexually abused my mother, her sisters, my sister and likely other girls in the community. My world really shattered that day. The way I felt about and connected to my family completely changed. I feel like I have been screaming for years, for anyone to notice, to care that this happened, for it not to be normalized. It was later in my adult life when I learned of abuse my cousins on my father’s side had endured. I could see this pain woven into the narrative of woman. For many years, I believed this was the “plight of womanhood” -that we must endure men’s every whim and behavior because they either know more or didn’t know better. The irony in growing up Southern Baptist is that men are somehow closer to God and thus holier and smarter than women, but also they cannot control themselves when it comes to women and sex. As I grew and reflected on this hypocrisy, I realized that I too had been sexually abused. I was in preschool when it started. We would visit my mom’s oldest sister’s house for Christmas every year. She had two sons that were in pre-teen and teenage years at this time. The younger son had many behavior issues, and I was convinced that I was an angel sent by God to help my family. My brother closest in age to me is disabled, and at this early age, his symptoms were just beginning and unexplained. I saw my parents under duress, and even at such a young age, I was trying to do everything I could to be perfect. So when my cousin identified me as his “special friend” and shared his unbelievable, immense collection of legos with me, I felt this was another use of my skills -a calling from God. I was blessed to be able to connect with and influence ‘the bad kid’. Now, in hindsight, I feel like any adult or even my teenage siblings should’ve questioned why a 13 year old would want to play with a 5 year old exclusively, but here we are. I’m lucky in a lot of ways. I never experienced penetration or any obvious violence. For a long time, I just thought it was a normal part of his sexual development. So it started when I was 5 and ended when I was in about fourth or fifth grade, so around age 10. At this point, he would have been 17/18. We would play “pretend”. I can remember specifically pretending to be Jack and Rose from Titanic. He would have me pose naked, kissed on me and humped me. This sort of “play” occurred over holidays, special events, graduations and such, at my house or his house. I can remember a specific instance where he and my aunt visited us. I think her and my mom were just hanging out which was rare. My mom desperately sought the approval of her sisters, so this visit was crucial. She and my aunt talked to me about how incredible it was that my cousin would behave better when I was around- they also used the term “special friend”. They seriously warned me about letting him play with my Barbie’s. He had been getting in trouble for sexual deviance and under no circumstances was I to let him touch my dolls. Well I was about 7/8 at the time and him 15/16 so you can imagine how that went. He mutilated my Barbies -cut their heads and faces, stripped them all, made a ‘naked Barbie van’, enacted sex acts between them. I remember trying so hard to redirect but he had the perfect tool to control me. I can still hear his voice, “The adults will be angry with you if you tell them about our special make believe. You’re such a mature girl for your age.” I knew I didn’t want my mom to know that I had been pretending to have sex. I was in trouble after the Barbie incident too. My mom was disappointed in me. I can’t remember the exact punishment, but I likely had more chores and wasn’t allowed computer time for some period. I could only imagine if she knew the extent of our “play”. Around the age of 10, we went for Christmas. I remember the feeling in my stomach, that sinking burn of guilt. (It’s still there to this day. Fighting waves of nausea and getting sick after almost every meal. Gotta love IBS) I was dreading having to play with him. That year, he exposed himself to me. He wanted me to touch it , but I think he knew he went too far. I was getting older, there was hair on my underarms, and my mom had talked immensely to me and my brother about our private parts because of her own experience. I don’t think she considered another child could harm us though. I was taught to be weary of adult men, strangers. So my birthday is in January, and I can remember this guilt eating me alive after that Christmas. He had doubled down on his intimidation tactics, and I knew I couldn’t go to an adult. I can remember thinking that I really wanted to feel better before my birthday came. So I had the idea to tell my brother; after all, he wasn’t an adult. He immediately told my mother who then called her sister. I can remember sitting at her feet in the kitchen floor as she argued with her sister. She didn’t say much or offer any sort of explanation. She made me swear to never tell my dad, and we stopped visiting my aunt as much after that. When I was in high school, my mom got cancer and died. She was really, really sick for about 9 months, and during her initial hospital stay, they wanted me to stay with this aunt. I was petrified. My cousin was home from college and would also be there. I remember just immediately tears started pouring out, and I’m begging my mom not to make me go there. My dad is in the room, so I can’t really explain myself. My mother scolded me for being selfish and told me I had to do this, to be easy on her and my dad. I can remember he very awkwardly touched my butt in an office supply store, and I surprisingly told him that he couldn’t touch me, that I wasn’t a child anymore. I have no idea where that autonomy came from, but I’m so proud of 15 year old me! My aunt offered for me to stay in a larger room downstairs during this time, but I made sure to stay in the guest suite adjacent to the master and locked my door every night. Here I am, 17 years later, and I had to see him for the first time since I graduated high school last year. My siblings, father and I have been mostly estranged from my mother’s family since her death. We were all shocked to see my aunt and her family attend the funeral of one of my siblings that passed. It was mortifying seeing him again. This electricity was buzzing through my entire body. My leg shook uncontrollably. I was sobbing so hard I had to leave the room. And yet again, I felt that disconnection from my family who continue this narrative that I’m selfish, a liar/exaggerator, overly emotional. Family is the hardest part of my healing journey. At this point, I’m not even sure I have a family. I end almost every call with my siblings shocked, worried, belittled and exhausted. I can’t have healthy relationships with my nieces and nephews no matter how hard I try. I am forever the deviant to them. Today, I live across the country from everyone and am establishing my own tribe. I want to be surrounded by people who understand unconditional love and want to protect children. My mother’s, sister’s, aunt’s, cousin’s stories are all mine. Just like my story is theirs. This abuse is passed on in our DNA, is shared amongst us despite the differences in our perpetrators and experiences. For the longest time, I downplayed what happened to me as normal sexual exploration of a young boy. And while I recognize that my abuser’s behavior was a sign of abuse he was experiencing, it doesn’t gloss over the impact of being exposed to sex and intimacy at age 5. I have struggled so much interpersonally and developing relationships. For the longest time, I didn’t think I was capable of or deserved to have healthy relationships. I thought my family was healthy. If there’s any big message I want to share with other survivors, it’s that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel! There are people out there that will believe you and protect you. There’s space for you. Acceptance is hard, and I’m not sure I’ve fully accepted what happened to me, to my family. But it helps to see so many others speak up. To feel like we finally have a platform, and maybe people aren’t quite listening like I’d like, but the conversation is happening. Even powerful men shouldn’t get away with this!!!!

Hi, I'm from South Africa, I'm a redhead. I feel its important to know that I was middle class, white and supposedly fairly protected. Yet this happened to me anyway. This was not some stranger who caused "one night of violence" but a far more sinister kind of abuse, that lasted four years, one that has messed with my head my entire life. It started when I was 14yo, I'm now 46, and I'm finally ready to speak up. Im still scared to do this, I am still afraid to put my name on it. I'm so conditioned to believe I'll be persecuted more, that no one will believe me or that I'll be villanized again. But its also the reason I feel I absolutely have to break that hold on me now and tell the truth of what happened, for the first time ever. I want to help girls find their voice faster than I did. I want them to not suffer for years, the way I have. If my story can help just one other person...then it was worth telling. I'm not ready for a blow by blow, we've all been there, we know how our minds leave when we cant deal with the rape. My mind blocked so much of it that my testimony would be disjointed, dates are gone, I'm left with images and feelings that resurfaced about 10 years later. They happened, but I couldn't accurately put it together in a timeline. So instead, a run down. My group of friends all hung out on a farm after school, horseriders. One girl's older brother took an interest in me. I was 14yo, socially awkward and pretty quiet. It was nice having the attention, my mom thought it was cute and melted at the idea of young love. I remember not feeling much of anything really, my heart didnt skip a beat when I thought of him, but everyone else seemed to think it was a great idea and I was getting included a lot more, so we started dating. I remember the beginning was pretty text book, he treated me well, and I actually cant pin point when it started to change. We had sex before I turned 15, I can say I was not particularly blown away by it, it was messy and uncomfortable, and not something I wanted to do again. I think that was probably the start of issues going forward. But though coerced, I wouldn't have used the term rape there. What came after was him wanting more, when I didnt. What started as coercion got more intense over time. On one hand I was getting status from friends for having had sex, but on the other, it was not something I looked forward to, but I didnt want to lose my friends, status, invites to parties, approval from my family and his, etc, so I didnt want to lose the relationship necessarily. But I remember that it actually started to hurt, probably because I was not invested at all, and having it hurt made me even less keen, I'd try to say no, but he'd wear me down with things like 'but you love me, dont you? When that stopped working, he started hitting himself, until I caved. And when that stopped working, the violence came my way. Now it was full blown rape. But seemingly endorsed by family and friends. Like no, I didnt speak up about it, I didnt have close friends I could confide in and my family seemed fine with the pairing, seemed like no one particularly cared what I thought. Bear in mind, I had no idea at the time that this was 'rape', I was most definitely under the impression that this was a normal healthy relationship as I had nothing to compare it to. I did however, start to get angry that I was not being heard, I'd said no, and he was ignoring me. He made me bleed down there. And I'd had enough of it. I was 17yo now and had realised my friends weren't my friends because they were ok with this. My parents approval felt like betrayal. I finally decided the supposed perks were not worth this. Of course getting away would not be easy, he was now central in my life. I remember particular things, like I said no sleeping over on Friday, so he asked my parents and they organized. He could drive now, so Igot home from school and guess who was already staying for dinner. I went out with the group of friends and he was there. When I kept ignoring him, he pushed me down a flight of stairs in front of everyone. He decided to go for a walk to cool down. When I got home, guess who was already in my bed. At this point I was truly confused, no way could people not have seen I was in trouble. The bruises, the outbursts, these were not confined to the bedroom anymore. I know I would have seen it in someone else, but no one came to my rescue, no one defended me from him, I was on my own to fight this. I tried to set boundaries, I would not go to group events if he was there. So he organized a day at the park and got everyone to say he wouldn't go. When I got there, he had a picnic basket and a blanket and insisted I sit with him while everyone else went to play soccer. This was his attempt to win me back. To have everyone lie and to isolate me further. I thought I did a good job of making it clear that we were over, that I didnt want to see him ever again. That I was prepared to lose my 'friends' over this. He had one more trick up his sleeve. A Dinner for the yard. Everyone was going as a group to a restaurant, parents kids, everyone. I tried telling my parents I didnt want to go but they said I didnt have a choice. I couldn't make them look bad. I asked my more trusted friends to please not let him sit next to me. They tried but he literally pushed them out the way. He whispered to me at the table that he would kill himself if I left him. That was the moment I remember so clearly, no one was coming to save me, I had to decide my own worth right there. I first thought about suicide, if I took my life, this nightmare would end, I could be free. Then I thought what made his life worth more than mine? And why should I stay because of a threat like that? Like what were the chances that he'd actually do it? And would I care? Part of me did think that he should, because what he was doing to me was so unfair. I just wanted to be allowed to walk away. But it seemed those were my choices, stay and die, or fight. Him or me. This was now life or death. Fight or die. I turned to him and called his bluff. "Do it then, because Im not your property anymore" I could write essays on what I meant in that moment, but the shift was clear to him too. I was now prepared to fight, no matter the cost. I flat out ignored him, so much so that I do not recall the things he said to me at all. I know someone must have heard bits, they were all there, but I'd never felt so isolated. So he could not deal with being ignored, he grabbed my arm and bit me. The searing pain jolted me from my mental castle and I did something I'd never done before, I made a first and swung the back of my hand into his temple as hard as I fucking could. And chaos erupted. Everyone jumped up and grabbed him and I and separated us. The girls took me to the bathroom. To be honest, I was surprised, like what's all the fuss about, they'd never cared before. (Yes, maybe they didnt know till then, though in my mind, I still cant understand how that was possible). Turns out they all saw the punch and wanted to know why I'd done that, I asked if they saw the bite...no one had seen it....wtf. I lifted my sleeve and exposed the already bruising and bleeding bite mark on my arm, with his actual teeth marking my skin, I have never seen such a bad bite from a human being in my life ever again. It was vicious. I said I was not going near him again. The boys had taken him to the other bathroom. I dont know what was said or discussed that side, but they were taking him home, and would come back. I even checked, his home, not mine again. I made it very clear this time. So the night finished, and finally we were home, I had a friend sleeping over, but I cant really recall what we talked about whilst getting ready for bed, I just know I felt so relieved that now I could break away from him. I'd done it, I'd stood up to him. But then my mom knocked on my door, get dressed, we need to go to the hospital, he hurt himself. Mom took my friend aside but did not give me details. I just remember being completely crestfallen, how could this not be over? Now everyone would take his side again, how dare he do this, why cant he just leave me alone. When we got there, everyone was crying, except me. Only then did I find out that he had taken his dad's gun and shot himself, but he was still alive. I was very shocked and stuck in my own head, I dont recall much of what was said, I was fighting my own internal war, I felt angry and cheated. News came that he died on the table. Everyone ugly cried, except me. I think already this was being noted. I fell into depression, not because he was dead, but because he had robbed me of my victory. The months afterwards were a blur, but a few highlights stood out. My friends blamed me of killing him because he had told them too that if I left, he'd kill himself, and of my harsh reply. When I tried to talk about the abuse, I was called a liar and accused of speaking ill of the dead. They said I made it up for attention. No one could look at me anymore. My own parents couldn't just talk to me about it, they kept taking me to strangers (phycologists), but I didnt know them and talk about what??? My mind had hidden so much of it that I couldn't explain if I tried. That group of friends continued to attack me for years afterwards and they are why I still feel I cant talk about what happened without retribution. I tried to fake sadness, but how could I? I didnt pull the trigger, that was his choice. And I feel he did it out of guilt and revenge, because he knew I'd found my voice and was going to tell everyone what he had been doing to me. I also cant help thinking its better that he is dead because if not me, he was definitely going to do it to someone else. He didnt deserve to live (very unpopular opinion) I just wanted to be allowed to walk away. Instead he still silenced me from the grave. And this is the part I need to say most.... the not being believed caused more damage than the actual rape and abuse. In the end, not one person believed me, except my younger brother, who was also powerless to do anything to help me. I dropped out of my matric year, I was failing everything anyway, like after a fight to the death, school just seemed pretty silly. I think there was like 3 months I just didnt get out of bed, I stopped showering, I just didnt care. I'd systematically been told that I dont matter by every single person who was supposed to protect me, so what was the point of trying? I did eventually get up, but I was a teenager full of angst and anger, I disrespected my parents, drank heavily, tried drugs and did a lot of stupid shit. And often was blamed even more for it. People would sympathize with my mother, or with 'his' family. I was a bad seed with a bad attitude. And I still cant understand how no one could see how much pain I was in. I pulled myself together and have tried my best to have a good life, but the feelings of not being worthy of love, of not being able to trust and assuming that I'll never be believed anyway, those feelings have never left. I still dont know how to undo them. This programming happened at such a crucial stage of my development that my whole world view is tainted with trauma. No one should ever have to go through this. That man took my innocence and self worth. Everyone else took my trust and confidence. Things you just cant get back with a snap of the fingers. Im broken, and most likely always will be, by something that happened when I was a child. Something that was never my fault. I know evil exists. But....I became very good with helping problem horses, because I know tantrums and outbursts hide pain. Ive helped a lot of young girls through to adulthood, because I know the signs of abuse. I have dedicated my life to trying to help those with no voice, because I know exactly how that feels. I hope thats enough to counter all my brokenness. My reason for telling this story is to is to highlight the damage done after the fact. In a lot of ways I think I could have stayed strong despite the abuse, its the not being heard after that broke me. Not being believed hurt the most, and being accused of murder is ridiculous, I was just a young girl with no skills, who found herself in a nightmare, fighting for her life. I know that if I'd been there at his house, which could have been a plausable thing, he'd have killed me. But instead, the way it played out, his suicide robbed me of my victory. So fuck him, Ill say it, I won. Unfortunately what I won was a lifetime of feeling isolated and worthless. To anyone stuck in an abusive relationship, you life is 100% on the line, you fight!!!! But know that the real battle will come afterwards, when you try tell your story. Keep trying, find the people like me who will believe you, like I'm trying to do again right now. Because it is important. If just one person had stepped up to protect me, it would have made a massive difference that would have changed my life. We still need more awareness of the signs of abuse, because I still cant understand how no one knew what I was going through. There is no way there weren't signs, its impossible to comprehend. We need to be aware, we need to be prepared to stick up for those with no voice, see them, hear them, help them and defend them. Believe them. No 14yo makes up shit like that for attention, thats the dumbest thing I've e ever heard. And for me, even now at 46yo, still telling the same story, please believe me, I need it more than air

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

In my story, IT STARTED WITH MY BROTHER, I briefly mentioned 3 instances of avoiding being raped by letting men just have me when it seemed like they were going to do me whether or not I consented. I do think I avoided emotional and physical trauma at the time, but the anger, self resentment, and feelings of being wronged and about it did snowball after. I never shared or released those stories. Please read my original story for context. In this instance the sex was already happening when I awoke, and my reflex was to take the non-confrontational path. The easy way, not the right way. I had gotten home from work as a server at my bar and grill restaurant and my female roommate had her father staying with us for the weekend. I had already met him since they drove straight from the airport to the sports bar I worked at. That’s were he told me, “Just call me, ‘Dad’”. They sat in my section, ate, and left. No issues. Then, back at our 2 bedroom apartment there was a small party for his benefit with a couple of our friends. I had a couple hard ciders and chatted about college and my roommate and heard stores of when she was a kid from. I flirted and humored “Dad”’s sexual innuendos directed at me, and ignored his eyes all up and down me. I was used to it. I played the good hostess and waited until it was all dying down probably around 2 or 3 am, before I showered and went to bed. It had been a long day with both class and work. I was stirred out of my sleep a few hours later with "Dad" already inside of me, thrusting in and out between my legs! By the light streaming in through my dark blinds I could tell it was day. But WTF was happening?! My panties were off but my T-shirt was on. Underneath it the dark figure who I quickly was able to identify as "Dad" was caressing my breasts with one hand while holding me down with the other. Still dazed and confused, I guess I put my arms around him and responded like a willing partner. He soon finished and then it got awkward.  He told me "That really hit the spot". He started to make conversation! The longer I had to think, the more I realized what happened. That he had just helped himself as I lay sleeping. I was 19 and dating a hot university baseball player at the time and would not have gone for this fifty or so year old guy on purpose. He was sure drinking that night but I had only had a few ciders. So there I was, realizing I had been kind of raped but held hostage by a sense of politeness! Not to mention as I was 5'3'' 110 pounds, so there was the physical intimidation from a much taller man with a dad bod.  I always pee right after sex but felt captive by "Dad"'s ramblings as he propped himself up on one elbow hovering over me while he ran his fingers over me and stroked my hair sporadically.  I shared his cold can of beer with him that he must have opened right before he came in to rape me because I remember drinking deeply the cold liquid soothing my dry throat. I suffered through some dad jokes and stories I did not care about, as well as answering some personal questions about myself and my sexuality. I was looking for momentary pause to get up and away from “Dad” when he said, "I'm ready to go again, baby." NO! He moved on top of me! Instead of fighting him off me or even saying "no", I spread my legs to accommodate him! WTF! The second time did not have the desperate eagerness of the first, unfortunately. As he even said, he wanted to teach me a lesson this time. I guess about how good he was is bed. A definite case of ‘whiskey dick’. So I let this man I had never wanted or considered sex with jostle me into several positions. He was large man and so much stronger than me it was a joke. After the missionary he picked me up to prove some point and did me against the wall right next to my window. I remember seeing through cracks in the blinds and knowing it was early because the parking lot was full and nothing was moving. Then SLAM onto the bed. We did 69 with me lying on him where I sucked him with all my might wanting to END IT while he was licking me. I failed! He had me being on top riding him at one point. I was on my hands and knees with him ramming behind me when I collapsed under his weight to flat on my face. He enjoyed never letting up on the thrusts as I was completely pinned down by him. I let him give me two or more orgasms in hopes he would just finish. I was so loud I was embarrassed my roommate would come rushing in my room any second. She was passed out drunk. He finally left as soon as he finished. I am sure his ego was massively inflated and the terrible man still thinks of me today! I lie there in my bed catching my breath and getting more anxious. I got up, pulled on some sweats, and B-lined straight out the door to my gym. I wanted to get away so bad. I drank water like I had just walked out of a desert. I showered for so long at the empty Saturday morning gym without any products but hand soap. Then I started to work out like crazy, on three hours sleep and exhaustion. I was trying to sweat him out of my system, to scream and thrash through my exercise. I showered again then went out and fell asleep in my car in the back of the lot. The rest of the weekend I only went to my apartment for minutes at a time to pick up things I needed. I sure as Hell did not sleep there! When he was gone I answered my roommates questions that I had been blowing off with lies and short answers. I told her the truth. She shrugged and looked at me skeptically, like it was just one of those things. I was promiscuous in college and she knew it. We sort of made a joke out of it and moved on. The easy way, not the right way. I still have big time guilt at how I was back then. At the time my things was not that "I wish I had fought him." What I wished was that I had been too drunk to remember!!! So that was that. Something I kept inside, festering. Other things added to it and it got swept under the rug of my damaged psyche. Not one of the worst skeletons in my closet but what I was willing to share for now. I am working up to the others. My first story I shared helped a lot. I hope it helped somebody else too. I thank all of you and I empathize. I will read your stories and support you in my thoughts and prayers.

I was used by my brother who has grown up a lot but I still carry scars. My brother is four years older than me and when I was going from elementary school to Junior high, that summer, he made me think that girls in junior high need to know how to give oral to boys. First he did oral to me to show me it was not a big deal. I thought it was a huge deal. But I did it and he got me trained and had me keep it a secret, except from by best friend. He had his friend over when I had a sleepover one night and had her do it to his friend. Then they would have us do contests where they wear blindfolds. At least I was not alone then. It changed me even though seventh grade itself had nothing to do with anything like that. It was a lie to get pleasure from me. My brother still had me doing it at home. And sometimes he would do it to me and I did climax. So I had this weird secret sex life and felt really messed up about it. Then in eight grade I had my first real boyfriend. My parents are so strict, even though they both worked and left me alone with my brother. To go to the movies with my boyfriend they made sure it was with a group and took me there and waited outside the theater. Well one time when we went to see Snow White and the Huntsman my same BFF and me went through with our plan to go down on our guys in the last row of the theater and we did it. It was only a month later I started having sex with him which never would have happened if not for what my brother had done. We snuck out from her place during a sleepover and met the boys outside and went to the nearby park and did it in the grass. That was my virginity. The really bad event, where my life got knocked off the tracks, is when we tried it from my house, sneaking out the window and going just out farther into my big back yard that opened into nothing but the side of a big hill and my dad caught us. It was awful. The world ended. I was treated like a huge betrayer and almost all my privileges were revoked and essentially I was grounded without any end date. And still by brother would make me do the oral. I was broken hearted because I was not allowed to have my boyfriend to the point my parents made me go to the school and talk to the principal and vice principal and they made sure I would not have any chance to ever see him alone. And my brother kept creeping in at night sometimes or when we were left alone expecting me to do what he had trained me to be used to. The next really bad part was two months into my new restricted life. My brother started doing his oral on me one afternoon after school and decided to take it farther and got up and started kissing me and had sex with me. I was in the moment and did not do anything to stop him and even participated. No condom. It was an afternoon when my parents were away and so we did not have to keep quiet or worry and he did it so much longer than my few times with my boyfriend, because he was older and knew more from being with other girls that I got sore for my first time and got a urine infection. I did not eat my dinner that night and pretended to be sick and cried myself to sleep. My brother really wanted to do it again, telling me it was the best sex he ever had, but I refused and one thing I could say for him back then was at least he was not a rapist. Even though he pressured me he never tried to force himself inside me. Four months after I had lost my incest virginity the school year ended and he graduated. I went to high school and he moved out to live in college dorms 120 miles from our home town. Public school was over for me, as was planned as soon as my dad caught me on the hill. I went to an all girl’s Catholic high school. My dad had to drive me a half hour every morning and my mom picked me up from my whole first year. Then they got me a car so I could drive myself but the mileage and my times were closely monitored. I did not have an intercourse throughout high school but seven times total I did oral on my brother during summer and winter breaks when we were both at home. That was the end of incest in my life. I went to college in Atlanta but not the same one as my brother. I rebelled against my parents and even though they tried to keep control, as a legal adult I did not let them. Turmoil and sadness lasted months until they finally got it. I separated from them financial and worked and took out student loans. I was very promiscuous in college. I drank, partied and used drugs recreationally and had several guys I was seeing on and off for mostly sex. That was my life and I thought I enjoyed it at the time. I became stronger and more assertive and when my brother first hinted during a Thanksgiving meeting at our relative’s house that we go for a drive I told him I never wanted to touch him again in such a powerful way that he knew I was off limits and even seemed like the scared one in our relationship. I didn’t enroll in classes for two nonconsecutive semester just because my party life was so much more fun. I traveled on and off. Sometimes with friends, sometimes with men, usually older, who invited me to exotic places. The Maldives, Portugal, The Virgin Islands. I let my married boss use me for a weekend in Key West. I had an affair with my Spanish teacher, who only took me as far as Panama City, Florida. So many risky one night stands. My identity was that I was not looking for anything permanent, a child of the universe. While I was used as a plaything so many times and believed I liked the game. I would tell them things about wanting to make their dick happy and stuff that would inflate their ego. I’m sure there are so many text messages out there that they saved about the size of their D fitting in my little P, about being a little girl wanting them to teach me to be woman and other depraved fantasies I thought they wanted to hear. Obviously directly related to what my brother did to me. I am almost positive I avoided being raped more than once by going with the flow when I did not expect to or probably want to. It may be good that some of them I probably don’t remember. Once was at one of the few fraternity parties I ever went to. It was three guys, not my usual style. Once was with my roommate's father who was visiting her at our rented house and found his way to my bed in the early morning. One of the more extreme traumatic events was with a police officer who pulled me over for driving when I had been drinking but was under the legal limit on his breathalyzer. He followed me home, like a mile away, “for my safety” and even followed me inside. I was in an apartment then and I thought my roomate was home and told him so. But when she wasn’t there he said I lied to a police officer and he had to do a more thorough search if I wanted to avoid being arrested. He was not attractive or nice. He had a gun thought he never took it out. You can guess what happened. I finally shed that wild life during my second to last semester when I saw the end of college coming. My G.P.A was 3.3. and my major was philosophy and it dawned on me that the future was not bright in terms of what I would do or how I would pay back my loans. I buckled down and decided to change. I had an offer to strip and ‘make a lot of money’ but thankfully not only did never considered myself like that, but when I went with a friend for her interview and they tried to recruit me they were so sleazy we both ran out of there disgusted. I reevaluated my whole life. I considered ending it, but some survival mechanism did not allow it. I did not want to be the person I had been for a few years. I looked ahead and saw it was not sustainable as I aged and had no real love or stability. I quit serving when I got an offer to work in a legal office. I slept with the manager who hired me as a receptionist but it was a drop in the bucket of things to be shameful of. He was the last one like that. I got all A’s and graduated cum laude. I got promoted in the firm mostly by title but used it to spring away and take a lower paying job in a nonprofit law firm where I had not slept with anyone. There I did sleep with a lawyer but I am married to him still and my life is back together. I love him and he loves me. He does not know the extent of my sluttiness in college or about my brother and I doubt he ever will. That darkness is fading and it is not part of my life now. It is not who I am. As for my brother, he has a family now and we are on good terms. We did talk about it once while I was studying like crazy my senior year, although it was not a big deep talk. I did mention that he used me, he apologized, we hugged, and that was it. Not the cathartic confrontation some might expect. My catharsis is my husband, and my life now that I am grateful for. We adopted two toddler brothers and I am their mom. Maybe we’ll have one of our own. Maybe we’ll adopt again. I was used and introduced to sex too young and early and it strained my relationship with my parents for a long time and I’ll never get that back. It derailed my life. I was set adrift for a while but God or the universe or random luck finally put me in a good place. Everything that happened led me what I have now. I can’t say I never contemplated suicide in darker times. But like in the move Cast Away, if I may quote, “I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am.” Thousands of hours spent studying philosophy and I quote a movie that was not even based on a book. But it’s perfect.

I have recently decided to write a book on surviving abuse I spent four years in a various sexual physical and mental abusive relationship i've already wrote in that memoir on my experience itself and I'm willing to let anyone read it I would like to write a book that should help everybody I would be putting in my own experience and would appreciate if there's anybody here that would like to help me share their experience with me to add to my book to reach those people that don't understand what they're going through yet I promise your name will never be used Just your experience

Hello! I don't know how to go about this at all, but I know I need to put it out there. I am a lesbian over 21 years of age, and I experienced rape and sexual assault by my last lesbian partner. I apologize if this is long, but if anyone reads this, it's greatly appreciated! I met my ex last January, and we texted for about a month before we had our first date. the first date went well, nothing concerning. The second date, which was 2-3 days after our first one, was where it all started. I didn't mind that she kissed me first, but I got nervous when she told me she wanted to take it to the backseat. She started to grope me and to palm me through my clothing before eventually trying to get her hand in my jeans. I stopped her and told her I wasn't comfortable doing any of that yet. Her response was "Oh, but eventually you will want to, right?" and to that I said "yes, but not right now." She continued anyway. That's the moment I look back on and wish I had left. I stayed. Maybe a date or two pass without her doing anything concerning again before there's another incident. We are in her car outside her workplace for an event we chose to go to. There are people on the street. She starts making out with me, to which I feel icky about bc people can probably see us and it's not appropriate. This time she starts to palm me through my skirt again, and at this point I kind of don't remember much other than me saying that I was scared and nervous, and it doesn't seem safe, and her coercing me. Before I know it, she has her hand down my underwear and is raping me. we didn't go to the event. we left and she told me next time she could find a secluded place. she never did. and that's where it all started. over the next 5 months she would rape me in her car every single chance she could. every single time I told her I wasn't comfortable. I would wear tight underwear, but she would still do everything to do it. if she didn't, she would get mad and stonewall me. but there was never once where it wasn't attempted. the worst night was maybe a month after it all started. again, in her backseat. it was in a fairly public parking lot, she tried to cover the windows with clothes, but it was still obviously visible. she made me lay down and take off all my bottoms and completely spread open. it was so humiliating. she then proceeded to violently rape me so bad and painful I was crying and holding on my screams bc I didn't want to bring attention to the situation or possibly get in trouble. I told her I was comfortable and that I wanted to scream but she just threw a cloth over my face so I wouldn't focus on it. after I had to put my clothes back on and I ruined them. I was in pain for maybe up to a weel after or a bit more. now I wish I had gotten evidence of that night, but I have none. In total I think it happened around 14 times. the same care situations in public that I hated. during the relationship I was blinded to an extent, and I didn't realize it counted as rape until after we broke up. At first, I had accepted what happened but now I have a new partner. my new partner coincidentally works with my rapist ex. ever since finding that out I feel completely distraught and suffocated by what she did to me. Not only that. before finding out they worked together they sat next to each other and were becoming friends. so my ex told my current gf how I am a terrible person and that she's afraid of me. they don't speak anymore. I don't know I just feel suffocated by it all. she also has a new gf. I wish I could tell her new gf to be careful, but I'm scared. in my community there's so much stigma around rape and homosexuality. I don't think I could ever safely publicly come out with my story as much as I want to. she completely changed my life. it's like I don't know how to be myself anymore and I feel like I'm going insane.

Hello. I am a woman and a survivor of prolonged childhood rape by a very close relative. He was someone very loved by the rest of the family, someone who was "loving" with me, and that's why when everything came to light, almost no one believed me. I wasn't the only victim, and yet they still treat him as if he were untouchable. That scarred me deeply. Today I am a mother. I love my children deeply and I am very protective. But for some time now, I've been having intrusive thoughts that fill me with fear and disgust. They aren't desires; I don't want to hurt them, on the contrary: just thinking about it distresses me. It's harder with my daughters, even when bathing them, and that makes me question myself and feel guilty. I never crossed any boundaries, nor would I, but my mind sometimes attacks me with the "what if?" I would like to know if anyone else has experienced something similar: this fear of becoming what I suffered. Thank you for reading.

I was raised by a misogynistic narcissist so in my early 20s I thought my boyfriend's behavior was at least better than I was raised with. His behaviour spiralled over the years and there was gaslighting, financial abuse and finally rape. I didn't see the warning signs, sex would be very rough but I thought I enjoyed it. He had lost his job and had not worked for a year at 23, he used to smoke weed and stay up all night playing videogames. More than a few times I woke up to him masturbating so vigorously the bed would shake. One day I was sitting on the loo and I was in a bit of pain and I noticed semen in my knickers that I didn't know how it got there. I remember the ringing sound in my ears, but I decided to ignore it, I mean he couldn't possibly have. Then one night I woke up and he was rummaging in my pajama shorts and I realized he was penetrating me. I remember freezing in the dark and then calling his name. He said he wasn't doing anything, rolled over and went to sleep. I repressed this memory completely. I dumped him a few months later and thankfully moved on with my life. With my current partner (a wonderful man), we were having sex one night early in our relationship and the incident that happened with my ex hit me like a trolley and I had a flashback and a full body panic attack. I had to face what had happened to me then, I thought I was crazy and that no one would believe me, it's not your classic rape case. The incident tortured me mentally for about a year and thankfully I eventually sought help. I still think about revenge every day and am afraid to run into my ex in the city where I live. But we carry on. I am grateful to so many women who have shared their stories or managed to find justice when they report they were attacked in their sleep. We are a powerful bunch us ladies, and I am so thankful I could share my story here today. Bless you all xx

This happened when I was in grade 3, a boy and I had known each other since kindergarten. We went on the same bus, had the same teachers and classes and even the same stop. So obviously me and him were close. One day he brought his iPad on the bus, me and him had been playing around and I had said "If you win, I'll kiss you." It was a joke. I had been laughing and smiling nothing flirtatious just innocence. He won, grabbed me by my neck, caged me against the seat, and kissed me. Tongue and everything. He did this till the school year ended. Anytime I fought he'd bite me or tighten his grip on my neck. When I told teachers they didn't believe me. They believed his version, that it had never happened. When teachers started to wonder he'd say that I had consented. I didn't know what to call it for years later, until I saw a post on COCSA. I still struggle to call it that, because I worry if he was right and I had consented.

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.

The day seemed insignificant, much like evry other work day. I went from my work back to my apartment to make lunch at usual time. The year prior I was hospitalized for psychosis following my boyfriend breaking into my apartment and sexually assaulting me--he stopped when I awoke screaming loudly. I had fears people were following me in the weeks following. Most prominent were the sounds of my childhood sexual assaults. The bathwater flowing before my father bathed me for his commission of incest, all those sounds my protests, screaming, my mother asserting my father's right to harm, my brothers insults, my brother's request for me to participate in sexual abuse of a cousin with our other cousin, the voices of my parents and the men I was sold to have sex and be a household worker to in childhood, in general not great things. So many times I was told up to, through, and during that time, press the feelings down, no one has interest in you. It's far from the truth, there is a man I've never personally met who views me as his property. He followed me on the street waiting outside my apartment for me to go back home. Over blocks he followed, he took pictures, he took video, and most notably know all the steps I would as he followed. He then assaulted me once in my office building he put his hands up my skirt over my tights, touching while recording. People saw, it was on surveillance, a security guard is on video attentively watching the assault, no intervention. In the years that followed I suffered at the hands of the criminal justice system that worked to dismiss the violence and uplift the offender. At the plea agreement hearing he took no accountability for his actions. He now violates the protection order because to ensure my safety they will not tell him where to be or not be. I write this because I have been sexually assaulted too many times to count, only one of those sexual assaults was prosecuted. The prosecutor, victim advocate, judge, defense attorney, and parole officer, all tell me I need to be more considerate of the offender give him the freedom to interact with me, including asking me to drop the charges, consider how his childhood makes me a good victim for him, or be okay with his protection order violations. Don't be discouraged because you aren't listened to, accept as part of the criminal process you are not human, they will treat you as a commodity, necessary of abuse. The criminal justice system including victim advocates are not there for the victim support or justice. You as the victim must be dehumanized for the process, specific to sexual assualt. If criminal justice system does not prosecute the person who sexually assaulted you, remember that is the intent of the system. It's not about justice, it's about how to effectively integrate the offender back in to the community as soon as possible. Very few sex offenders are prosecuted. When sex offenders are prosecuted, few sex offenders face incarceration. Very few sex offenders are civilly committed. Sex offenders when prosecuted are often released to the community, general low income housing with supplemental income and government funded support. It is cheaper this way for the government is sexual assault is looked on as a civil issue that courts unfortunately get invovled in. Not one of my sex offenders including from childhood has ever, will ever face incarceration for the crimes against me. Out of almost a dozen offenders only one has faced prosecution. Know your healing and how you choose to move forward is on you. Some may be there to support you outside the system but you will not feel or ever see justice as you may need it. You offender likely won't be changed by prosecution either.

I wanted to start this assignment with a thought out and solid reflection that I can use as a milestone for my own memory in a visual form as my life’s purpose growth milestone. In my initial Learning Plan I chose to be committed to gain my knowledge by focusing on the Individual Meaning-Making plan. After reflecting on my first journal and the feedback from Discussion 5, I realized that my growth as a disruptor happens most deeply, emotionally, and internally/or spiritually, when I have legitimate space and time to sit with the texts and take personal inventory privately before sharing. This takes much awareness and consistent action from your body. Being in a state of observation, is exhausting at times, due to outside distractions/ & forces. As I grew in wisdom the patterns were hard to ignore, the synchronicities where hard to ignore, and the life force behind these supernatural and teaching moments became energetically strong that a coincidence would have been an understatement to the Creator of the Universe, and to ourselves. Give yourself the opportunity and love with daily purpose filled time for 30 minutes for 1 month, uninterrupted and free of digital distraction. Grounding meditation can restore and give your nervous system a reset and time back that you slacked off in the past. Many growing mature individuals prior to having healthy boundaries with positive reinforcements in their daily habits and lives needed to experience the lesson firsthand. These life lessons/ street smarts aka spiritual wisdom is transfigured for us to understand and process into words for teaching the people of our communities, as they hold the generations new leaders. A 6-month worth of 40 hour work period can accomplish the equivalence of 1 month of endless doom scrolling can. The focus and passion behind your self love is enough frequency and energy to shift a multitude of things in life as whole by showing up for thyself, first, naturally and wholesome. Healing takes place once we recover the pieces we allowed to be scattered by the unwanted distractions media leads us to believe are grandiose. This journal marks my progress in that commitment, moving from identifying the falsified labels of Journal 1 to unmasking the systemic roots that create those labels and life threatening constructs/ systems in the first place. In Journal 1, I explored Eli Clare’s medical model and how it exiles us from our own bodies by treating ourselves as broken parts. While we can be hurt from trauma and emotionally inducing experiences that strike our nervous system to go in defense. Its our body’s way of playing tricks on our minds, it does what it needs to survive and defend its vulnerabilities from reoccurring experiences, they may not always be healthy or positive either. But nonetheless, the innocence of your experience shifted, and the defenses are not malfunctions. We are not robotically “wired” like that, so broken we cannot be. Recovering the lose wire and restoring it can fix the little glitch in our thought processes when it comes to how we see ourselves confidently. You can say it took me going through my own recovery, to be in recovery, in a way for me to really understand it by. I went through life in a repetitive cycle, same spirit behind a person, different person/ body. At times the spirit and force was stronger than before, strengthening the skill/lesson. I had a hard time letting go of people in emotionally dependent way. Withholding care and affection from a child does tremendous disturbances to their brain development, temporarily having a negative affect in their efficacy in adulthood. The keyword was temporarily, because I want to emphasize the part I say, we can not be broken, as a human, as a spirit, as a person, as a live being. This week, I am expanding that lens. I see now that the exile isn't just a doctor’s note but rather it is an environmental reality. When I applied to college I did so only for the purpose of understanding if I was really “trippen” and psycho. My abuser and ‘partner’ roommate, baby’s dad sitter, had done enough damage to me verbally in what was already 3 years together. I was sharing with him a life altering and dark season of my life, I was 16, mom was in prison, and I was living in the home my dad worked hard for to psy off in 15 years what should have been the typical 30 year mortgage plan, without my dad, she divorced him with forged documents and signatures. Her friend Friend's namestayed there in the time she was gone, he was there to “hold down” the place while she was gone and my dad kicked out. I had my boyfriend at the time, over when a fire explosion came from the gas dryer.It took 3.5 hours and 2 attempts to shut it out completely. Well fast forward, I was sharing that with him and last thing I had said was “I would hate to ever experience that again cause WTF”. I was on my way to bed with the kids in their room and I had gotten a wiff of something on fire or burning. I mentioned to Namewhat I was smelling and was met with a dismissal of “your trippen I don’t smell shit”.. I did my due diligence and checked if I left any candles on to make sure my end was clear. Nameis a cig smoker, the least he could of done was give me the benefit of the doubt and at least say “ill check outside” or something reassuring, considering the ending of our conversation. Lame excuse of a man who says they love me but meet it with actions like that. I wake up to my daughter crying as the smoke comes out from underneath her crib and floorboards. It was God’s way of giving me the warning signs before knowing there was a war I was about to go head on with. I wasn’t so aware then, but surely that awakening was enough to clarify that I wasn’t trippen, he is dangerous, and needs his ass whooped. The cig he last smoked started the fire, the very action I told him is ugly to the environment and on himself, was the problem. “Flickering your cigarette butts like that is a big fuck you and is ugly to the environment” earned me the nagging bitch plaque. But was I wrong? His boy ego couldn’t allow him to simply humble himself to see where he went wrong on many levels. And my kids, man that was really the deal breaker for my heart and mind. I didn’t have the role model so I became my role model. I sat in the hotel room that same day after a long morning of betrayal and recovered myself and applied to college in 2022 to see the actions behind the “something has to change and give, cause aint no fucking way this is in my imagination or coincidence” self-revelation. I learned to unlearn so I can understand without barriers and prejudices. I needed to come back and save that young girl in me and validate her when she had none of her own. The courses ive taken over the years and the time gaps in between align in sync with the life changing experiences I have during those seasons. With Minneapolis’ events, and my personal events, and the timing of the courses, the time couldn’t be better. My voice is being used in a time that matters for many on a multitude of levels and dimensions. With the easing of ice pressures and outside noise, to the epstieen files and charges taking place, justice being served, it makes me happy because I too receive that justice. Namegets angry with knowing this. He asked even “why are people talking about it so much anyway? What are they really going to do about it, cus it wont be much” as I was tying my Discussion 5 draft about silencing, as it happened in real time. This is what I mean by my curriculum is in sync with my life, allowing me to get the most out of it. We cannot have a healthy Spirit inside the vessel if the vessel is submerged in a toxic ecosystem. The root of our ick or that intuitive nudge that something is wrong or slightly off is found in the Imperialist Logic of Extraction (as discussed in the works of Jensen and LaDuke). Just as the medical model extracts our authority over our health and wellness, our economic and controlling systems extract life from the biotic community for the sake of falsified luxury. We are told to take personal responsibility for our health while the man-made dictating systems poison the very air and water we rely on and deserve. Professor, You asked how we dismantle these systems and my answer comes from a perspective of a uncorrupted mother and a student of life. We as a society must stop accepting random chance as an excuse for systemic suffering. The molestation and ritualistic sacrifices from my ‘caregivers’ was not enough of an excuse for me to give up on myself. The robbery that took place within me is what I needed to ignite the flame in my heart and do what many wont do. If they don’t do it for themselves, how can I be sure they can do it for me. Is my new motto and affirmation. When a specific group is consistently marginalized or poisoned, it isn't a flipped coin, it is a weighted die. We dismantle the system by refusing the repetitive washed up apologies that have no action behind the verbal meaning of what is being spoken from the mouth. This is the slow violence of the systems, expecting us to accept a verbal apology while the environment is still smoldering. (Nixon 2011, Randall 2009) We move away from the arrogant ego of dominance and return to a meekness that listens to the earth by sitting still and listening to ourselves, allowing the Creator to guide our spirits and minds to a higher level of understanding and knowing. To be a disruptor is to stand in our authority and name the truth and expose lies. We are not masters of the nature, we are members of it. True healing is the return to our nature and doing so unapologetically. By following those little nudges from the Creator/universe, I am learning to slow down and recognize that my wellness is tied to the wellness of the whole. My authority isn't about power over others, but about the power to stay authentic to the truth and stewarding it righteously. This journal is my manual guide to what it looks like to act with effort as I reclaim my identity from the language and false beliefs of oppression and to stand with the truth in the name of love, because loves also needs love in order to heal and recover from this.

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

I was seven. It was my cousin who's one year older than me. My mother had invited his family over for dinner on Easter. It happened when we were playing alone after lunch. He introduced into our game of play pretend the notion that we were lovers. I didn't play pretend lovers, it has never crossed my mind to do so with anyone let alone my cousin. But I couldn't fathom something twisted beyond regular childhood foolishness being proposed by another kid, and to my child mind play pretend was all fake so I conceived of it as an innocent game. He then started giving me instructions. To remove my underwear. To lie a certain way on the floor. Spread my legs. Let me stress that I was ignorant of even the existence of sex, as well as in an environment where I felt safe -at home playing with my cousin in a culture that overwhelmingly promotes the exact opposite of weariness towards family-. I was utterly unsuspecting. I complied. By the way he was telling me to do things, it was obvious that he was fully aware of my clueless status. He expected it. Further than expecting, he clearly counted on it to be unopposed. He chose to keep me in the dark about what he intended to do to my body, inside of my body, until he just did it. He took out his penis through a gaping hole in his pants I hadn't noticed prior and penetrated my vagina before leaning on me to put his tongue into my mouth. I didn't know what any of this was. I didn't even register the latter act as kissing. My conception of kisses were pecks or smacks, which I've only ever given on my parents' cheeks. I hope that my insistence on my little girl mindset does not annoy you, it's just really important to me that whoever reads this understands how oblivious I genuinely was. I still thought we were just playing, so I rationalized it as innocent physical contact. I mimicked his tongue coiling against mine. He posed those actions in the game as proofs of love. I am convinced that he knew what he was doing. A kid truly mistaking sex for child play would have tried to approach the act with their peer on a somewhat equal footing on account of the heavy physical involvement, not the opposite by relying on the imbalance in their knowledge to get their way. His motivation was not to play with me, it was to use my body for sexual gratification and the game was just his angle to make that happen with me malleable. He manipulated me and abused my innocence. No matter how he first came into contact with sex, he demonstrated a vile entitlement to my body. The timeline of the assault is unclear in my memory. I remember him doing it twice that afternoon. I remember the housekeeper walking in on it and singling me out. She yelled my name and said she would tell my mother. I remember anguishing, fearing I did something wrong, feeling so confused and ashamed. I remember watching him and his family leave the house as I hesitated to say something (I don't think the housekeeper immediately went to my mother or maybe she was occupied). I kept my mouth shut in that moment, but after they were gone I sought my mother. I told her what he did. I was lost, plainly distraught, not far from sobbing my words out. My sister of twelve was in the room as well. She practically laughed at what I said and my mother exclaimed in shock and disgust. "How could you let yourself be fondled by your brother?!" (in my culture it's common to refer to cousins as siblings even if we really were not close). She continued to scold me. "Do you know what it's called, what you did?! It's called "incest"!" (I was so out of it, for multiple years after that I thought sex in general was called incest). "You know you could be pregnant right now?!" (that is how I learned where babies come from, also I'm still puzzled as to why she said that to me at seven). I was thoroughly mortified, panicked. I felt abhorrent and filthy. Her reaction impressed upon me that I was no victim, but an accomplice to abomination. Just as guilty as my cousin for letting him touch me. Her reprimands sealed self-loathing into my core. "Do not do that ever again or I'll tell your father!", and then it was never spoken of again. I suspect she didn't even tell my uncle or aunt about the incident, since while berating me she talked as if me keeping quiet when they were still there closed that door for good. One thing is for sure: he was never held accountable for what he did to me. He walked away scot-free and years later, my mother would sing his praises saying that God expressed to her that he has his hand on him and sermon me for not being warm towards him as he smirked at me in the spot where he raped me. Honestly, I think my mother and sister forgot this ever happened. The luxury of forgetting. Meanwhile, the memory and guilt of that day have been festering in my mind. I was brought up in thick purity culture, I'll let you imagine what kind of torment that sparked for the incestuous child sexual deviant I came to identify as. I've spent hours pouring over my sinful actions, crying, begging God for forgiveness. I lived in fear of my friends learning of what I've done and despising me. I even felt grateful my mother didn't disown me. Then I was hit at fourteen or so with the realization that I couldn't possibly have consented. And it did not relieve me. It dawned on me that I was raped, that my mother blamed me for it, that my sister (which I did love at the time, not anymore for various reasons) mocked me in my most vulnerable moment and my father served as a threat (rightfully so, he victim blamed me on several other non sexual occasions). I was terrified of opening up to anyone else lest I get another version of my mother's reaction. I was alone. This is the first time I share this ever since it happened. Along with my epiphany, a voice took shape in my head. It says that I'm worthless ooze in denial, that my mother spoke truth and I'm rejecting it. I began constantly obsessing over my rape. Dissecting it, reliving it in order to debate the voice plaguing me. Ignoring it does not work: I get anxious whenever I try to. When I do, it's like conceding the voice's affirmations which gives rise to a sense of precariousness and impending collapse in my interior world. The voice never lets up, springs out of contexts that aren't even related to my rape, yanks my thoughts towards there. I incessantly spiral in revolting places grappling with it, I'm psychologically and emotionally drained. I am unsafe in my own mind, awake or in slumber thanks to the frequent nightmares around my trauma I started having about when I turned eighteen. I just feel so intrinsically gross and fucked up. I am angry. I am sad. All the time. This condition has only worsened over the years, trampled my ability to do what brings me joy (learning, being a friend) and I don't reckon I have much fuel left to push through. I wrote all this so that my experience would not exist solely in my head, if that makes sense. If someone read me up to this point, I thank you kindly for your time.

This is the first time I am really telling my story and what happened to me. I was 6 years old and my abuser was 2 years older than me and briefly in the same Organization Group as me. It started off normal, we would hang out, play video games, play Barbie’s, etc. eventually though, and I’m not exactly sure when, she started to talk to me and coerce me into many different sexual activities. It went on for nearly 2 years and there were times when she would call and ask my mom if I could come over because she knew my mom wouldn’t say no. Then she would abuse me for most of the stay. She would assure me that my parents would be furious if they knew (I knew they would be) so I never told anyone. I just wanted this person who I perceived as cool to like me so I kept going along with whatever she said. I am now almost 30 years old and am speaking about this for the first time. I have struggled so much with whether or not I was a victim, if it was just normal curiosity, if anyone would even take it seriously or if it would be shrugged off as “kids being kids”. It has caused me so much pain in my life, but I am trying to do the work to process and let go of the guilt

Dear Strangers, I’m writing this letter because I’ve carried a lifetime of pain in silence for too long, and I’m ready to speak it plainly—not to dwell in the darkness, but to show that even the deepest shadows can give way to light. If my words reach even one person who feels buried under their own story, then they’ve done what I hope they can do: remind you that survival is not the end of the road. It’s the beginning of something stronger. I was three when my mother left me with my father. She walked away from the responsibility. He was a small-town jock, still angry from losing his own mother young, and he poured that anger into parties, fights, and me. I was supposed to be his little football player, but I never quite fit the mold. A few years later I was molested by someone connected to his family. They covered it up. The person never faced consequences. Then another family member—the one everyone adored—tricked me into sexual acts that went on for years. I developed a twisted loyalty to him, what I now know was Stockholm syndrome. I broke free later, but those years stole my childhood before I even knew what childhood was supposed to feel like. My father beat me with a belt until my skin welted. I hid seashells in my pants to soften the blows—my trauma made me fidget, made me “bad,” made the belt come faster. When he discovered the shells, the punishment doubled. My stepmother would eventually call him off, but the marks were already deep. School offered no safety. The principal screamed in my face and locked me in a closet. It turned out my dad had dated her daughter years earlier. Small towns remember everything except mercy. I fell in with troubled kids and got into trouble with the law. My dad blamed me for his failing marriage and threatened to send me away. I loved my half-brother—my stepmother’s son—despite being taught to hate him. At the end of elementary school I moved to my mom’s. I couldn’t brush my teeth properly, couldn’t make a bed, could barely read. My mom worked hard to teach me habits, and she succeeded, but her new husband—a cop—was cruel. He wiped pepper spray on my face as a joke, watched porn in the living room, cheated on my pregnant mother. The neighborhood was mostly Black; as a lonely white kid I was an easy target for violence. I came home with black eyes. My mom still denies it happened. Loneliness became chronic—not just depression, but the kind that makes you question whether existing is worth it. My dad kidnapped me back once, embarrassed by his own choices. More beatings, more isolation in new towns, more bullying. When he planned another move, I chose my mom’s again. That town felt closest to home. I made real friends there, but I remained the outsider most days. A close friend died in a car crash; his family treated me like a replacement, saying I looked just like him. It was strange and painful. I had a girlfriend. We were both survivors of molestation. We messed around lightly—nothing more than touching—and I felt a real connection for the first time. One night her mother invited us over. My girlfriend wasn’t there. Her mom looked at my mother and said, “Did you know your son raped my daughter?” My body froze in a way my father’s belt never achieved. I couldn’t speak. My head shook no. I looked at my mom—the only protector I’d ever trusted—and her face said she believed it. My heart shattered. They threatened charges but refused medical proof. Her parents later tried to lure my mom into an alley to beat her. My mom’s boyfriend turned out to be a meth addict and stole everything. My girlfriend spread changing stories around school. That humiliation broke something deep inside me. I became sharper, more self-aware than ever, but all I carried was anger and pain. High school was a mask: friendly, easy-going, pretending to be stupid so no one expected too much. Athletic but never fully accepted by teammates. Popular with girls, never the right ones. I wrestled—found something I truly loved in combat sports. I went to prom as a freshman with a senior, dated another senior until my dad moved us again. She broke up with me, hinted at cheating to hurt me. She took my virginity. In the new state I fought my dad for real—stood up, fought back, felt years of rage flood through me. I wanted to end him. My stepmom’s touch on my shoulder stopped me. I thought of my little brother in the next room and walked away. My dad shoved me over chairs afterward. I left planning to walk halfway across the country. I blacked out in the night. He picked me up later and talked trash for weeks. I didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. Back at my mom’s, she focused on herself and treated me like a burden. My stepdad kicked me out for smoking weed. I was homeless for a month during brutal blizzards, living in a friend’s sister’s garage. I moved back to my dad’s as an adult. I worked 70-hour weeks at a factory—became the youngest assistant manager. I could talk to ex-convicts without losing respect. I lived without heat. COVID hit. Panic attacks began. Isolation became addiction. I slept with the wrong women, stole a friend’s girlfriend (she came on to me; I fell). Guilt crushed me. I moved back to my dad’s, broke and barely eating. Trauma peaked. I opened up to my dad about needing help; he yelled that my issues didn’t matter. I worked in healthcare during COVID’s height—COVID ICU, 5–6 deaths a day. I did CPR, post-mortem care when nurses couldn’t. Nurses hit on me; I stayed cold, self-isolating. No friends, no family, no home—just work. A doctor offered to pay for my schooling because of my compassion. Then I took LSD and saw myself in the mirror for the first time—with empathy and sadness. Right before I broke completely, I met my wife pushing a corpse to the morgue. We fell in love. I quit, moved into her house. I drowned in agony, leaching off her income. Grocery shopping felt impossible. Eyes everywhere. Panic attacks stopped my breathing. I froze. It was PTSD. Close calls with guns, hostile intent—I should be dead multiple times. But it wasn’t the guns that almost killed me. It was existing. When I married my wife, I gave my dad one last chance. He no-showed the wedding. I promised her I’d be better than the day before. I haven’t broken that promise. I found God truly then. After years of fighting, I’m finally standing on my own feet—going to school, mastering trauma, getting back in shape, being a pillar for my family. I’m not the boy who hid seashells anymore. I’m not the teenager who shattered under false accusations. I’m not the man who almost snapped his father’s neck or drowned in guilt and substances. I’m the one who stayed standing when others fell in that church room. I was just a child, nervous and curious, standing in front of a chair while grown men placed their hands on me and prayed. Everyone around me collapsed under the weight of whatever power moved through that space. I felt it too—a rush, a presence—but my legs held. I didn’t fall. The men looked at me with wide eyes and said I had a very strong spirit. I didn’t understand it then, but I carried those words like a promise I didn’t yet know I’d need. That moment wasn’t magic or coincidence. It was the first quiet proof that something in me refused to break, even when everything else did. That same spirit is what kept me alive through every beating, every betrayal, every night I thought I wouldn’t wake up. It’s what let me choose restraint when rage begged me to destroy. It’s what lets me stand today. I carried brutality in my mind for decades, but my soul kept concluding the same thing: keep choosing light. Keep rebuilding. Never give up. The pain is still there, but it no longer owns me. It forged me. And now I’m using what it taught me—to defend the scared, to rebuild from ruins, to show others that even in a harsh world, the soul can still choose hope. If you’re reading this and you feel buried under your own story—know this: You are still here. You are still choosing. And that choice, every single day, is proof that you are stronger than the darkness ever believed you could be. There is light on the other side. I’m walking toward it. You can too. With hope that refuses to quit, A survivor finding his way

When I was 20 I was in college and I agreed to live with someone I knew name name for the summer while I worked a summer job. name had a number of disquieting habits that always kind of bothered me. He would tend to get into my personal bubble not my personal space too often. He also had a habit of seeming to get lost in the middle of the night going back to his bedroom from the bathroom. One night name opened my door and was standing in my room when I woke up and I said what's going on name? He said oh I must've gotten lost or confused getting back to my room from the bathroom, sorry. After that I started locking my door at night and there were a number of times when I woke up and noticed that name was trying my door knob in the middle of the night. And I thought what's up with that? But I didn't worry about it too much. One Friday I came home from my summer job and name was sitting out by the pool in front of the apartment with a pitcher of what he described as piña coladas. He invited me to sit down and have a drink. He poured a glass of piña colada's for me and said this is my special piña colada mix. I want you to try it. So we sat there and I was sipping on his piña colada and I got about halfway through and he asked me how I was feeling. I thought it for a little bit strong and I told him so. But name just said drink it up, drink it up, I want you to have another. I said I don't know name. This feels awfully strong and I'm feeling kind of funny. name said come on, this is my special piña colada mix. I made it just for you. You have finish it. You have to have another. I'll feel insulted if you don't. I don't know name, I said. I'm feeling kind of funny. But name got up in my face pouring me another glass and said you have to have another one. These are my special piña coladas. I made them just for you. You have to have another. So name poured me another glass of piña coladas, and took my empty glass away, and said drink it up drink it up. So I tried to drink some more. I got about halfway through the second glass of piña coladas and told name I just don't feel right. I need to get up to my room. I tried to stand up but was having trouble. name offered to help me get up and put an arm around me and helped get me up the stairs to the apartment. When we got inside, I told name I thought I needed to get to bed, I just didn't feel right at all. name got me into my room and set me on my bed and said here I'll help you get your clothes off. So he started taking off my clothes and then he pulled my underwear off. Then he pulled his pants down and had a big erection. I said name what's going on? He just started masturbating. My head was swimming, I was completely out of it, and I started masturbating too. Then he shoved me over on the bed. I said name, what's going on? I tried to push myself off the bed and turn around and he was trying to anally penetrate me with his penis. I shouted name stop, stop. I'm not a girl, I shouted. Stop! But I couldn't keep my eyes open and I just collapsed on the bed. The next thing that I knew I was struggling to breathe and it was pitch dark. I was on my back and something was in my mouth. I didn't know whether it was rubber, a piece of meat, or skin. But it was thrusting up and down in my mouth and hitting the back of my throat and I was gagging. And hair was brushing up against my lips. I was starting to come to rapidly. Suddenly I realized that name was on top of me and his penis was in my mouth. I started screaming. I may have bit him. I started thrashing and pushed him off me. I jumped up and realized I was in his bedroom and I didn't know how I got there. I was screaming and I ran to my room. I locked my door and started fumbling around looking for my clothes and my car keys. name was trying my door knob again. I screamed at him to stop, to get away from my door, to leave me alone. He's sad he was trying to check on me to make sure I was OK. I screamed what do you mean OK? What do you think just happened? What do you think just happened? This is not OK, I yelled. And then I yelled get away from my door I'm coming through! You stand back! I threw the door open and name was standing there. I shouted get back and brushed past him and headed to the front door. I ran down the steps past the pool and out to my car. I jumped in my car and started it as quickly as I could. I gunned the engine and raced out of the parking lot and onto the street. I was going too fast and I didn't know where I was going. I didn't know what to do. But I was heading in the direction of the campus. So I just kept driving. And then I turned on the street that my old dorm was on. There was an athletic field at the end of the street and I thought maybe I would park there and try to think. But as I was driving down the street I noticed the light on at this townhouse apartment where a woman I knew was staying. So I parked in front of her place and went up to her door and started ringing the doorbell and knocking on the door. She came to the door in a bathrobe and asked name 2 what's going on? I told her name just attacked me. She told me to come in and tell her what happened. I was standing in her living room just shaking and crying and probably not making a lot of sense. So she told me to come into her bedroom and she had me lay down on her bed where I just laid and cried and sobbed. She tried to ask me what happened. Between sobs I tried to tell her name attacked me. name sexually attacked me. She said she didn't think name was gay. name had a girlfriend. She asked me if I thought I might be gay. I said I didn't think so and I didn't understand what had happened. I told her I thought he drugged me. I just sobbed and cried and cried, and I wasn't making a lot of sense. So at one point she just pulled a blanket over me and laid down herself and turned off the light. I cried myself to sleep. I started stirring when it was getting light outside. I didn't know where I was. I was trying to understand what was going on. Had I had a terrible dream? Was it a nightmare? But when I opened my eyes I saw that I wasn't in my room and I was on this woman's bed. She was asleep, but it was clear this had been no nightmare, this was real. I tried nudging her and told her I have to get up and go get my things. I have to find someplace new to stay. Then she stirred groggily and said I'm sorry I have to go back to sleep, I can't help right now. So I got up and went out to my car. I sat out in my car trying to think of what to do. I didn't feel safe going back to the apartment by myself. I thought maybe I needed some kind of weapon to protect myself. The first thought in my mind was I've got to figure out how to buy a gun. I don't know how to do that. I've got to figure this out. But then I thought if I get a gun, I'll probably end up shooting him and end up in a jail cell and my life will be over, or I'll shoot myself and my life will be over. Then I thought maybe a knife, maybe I should get a knife. But then I thought I might turn it on him, kill him, and end up in a jail cell. So I settled on the idea of getting a baseball bat. I had to go find a sporting goods store or a store that would sell a baseball bat. I drove to the local mall and waited outside of a department store that I knew had a sporting goods department. I had to wait until they opened up at 9 o'clock. Then when they opened I went inside and bought a heavy wooden baseball bat. This is what I would use to go back to the apartment to pick up my things and protect myself. So I drove to the apartment parked my car and walked up to the apartment door holding onto my baseball bat in my right hand the whole time and I turned my key in the lock and name was standing there in the living room. I held up the baseball back and said name you stand back! You stand back! I need to get my things! name motioned with his hands that it's all right, and said everything's OK. I yelled it's not OK! You stand back and let me get my things. I'm not staying here anymore. So I went to my room and I locked the door and put the bat down so I could pack my things. I had a simple college trunk and a knapsack and I just filled them with all of my things. At some point name was fumbling with my door knob again. I yelled for him to get away. He said he just wanted to make sure that I was OK. I yelled I'm not OK what you did last night was not OK! I'm not living here anymore! name said it's OK, you don't have to live here anymore. I guess I'll find somebody else. I yelled what do you mean you guess you'll find somebody else? What do you think happened last night? Then I yelled you get back, you get away from my door! I'm coming through! I tried to pick up my things and my baseball bat and opened my door. I held up the baseball bat again and said name you get back! He was motioning with his hands like everything's OK, everything's OK. But I just yelled at him to get back and let me past. So I pulled my things to the door holding that bat the whole time and keeping an eye over my shoulder to make sure that he didn't come near me. Then I pulled the door open and pulled my things out and closed the door behind me. I picked up my things and headed down the steps looking back over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being followed. I headed past the pool, and out to my car. I loaded up the car got inside and started driving. I wasn't sure where to go or what to do. I needed to find someplace to stay. So I drove to the campus to go find a copy of the student newspaper, which often had listings for apartments for rent. I think there was an ad for one of the fraternities which was renting out rooms for the summer. I wasn't excited about that prospect, but I needed some place to stay. I needed to keep working my summer job and making money so I could come back and finish school the next year. So I drove over to the fraternity and spoke to the student manager and he said they could rent me a room. It wasn't clear if I would have the room to myself the entire summer, but they could rent me a room. So I got my things and I moved in. I wasn't comfortable that night. I couldn't lock the door and I kept thinking about name and worrying about somebody coming through my door in the middle of the night. Also there were people in the fraternity that were goofing off half the night going up and down the stairs, making noise, and it was hard to sleep. And I also laid in bed every single night thinking about what happened to me and wondering what does it mean? How did this happen? Am I gay? Does this mean I'm gay? I didn't feel like I could tell anybody anything. I spent the next few months socially shutting down. I didn't really see any friends. And I didn't talk to people. I couldn't tell anybody what happened to me. I tried to pretend that nothing happened to me. I kept repeating to myself over and over again. This didn't happen. This didn't happen. I felt like if I kept repeating this didn't happen over and over again then maybe I wouldn't feel like it happened. Maybe I could pretend it didn't happen. Maybe I could erase it from my mind. And I kept thinking that was the only way I could get through this, just pretend it didn't happen. If I kept telling myself over and over and over again that it didn't happen, then maybe I wouldn't feel like it happened and maybe everything would be OK. And that's how I got through. I eventually started socially opening up again. A couple of months later one of my friends told me that he was gay. He also told me that he was interested in me. I was still asking questions about my own sexuality. I didn't know what the sexual attack had meant about me. I didn't know what it meant about my sexuality. I ended up fooling around one time with the gay friend. But it didn't feel right for me. Slowly, I got on with things. I eventually got my own apartment. I met my college girlfriend my senior year. I finished up school and I went on with living. A couple of years later, when I had moved across the country, my phone rang one morning. It was name. And he just kept repeating I want to do that thing with you again. I want to do that thing with you again, he sad. I was in shock. I hung up the phone. How did he get my phone number? How did he track me down? I spent a couple of days reliving in my head what happened to me, but then I started to snap out of it. I still hadn't told anybody anything about what happened to me and I wasn't going to. I was going to ignore this. A year later, I was seeing a dermatologist about venereal warts. He asked me if I engaged in homosexual practices. He said he'd only seen venereal warts in people who engaged in homosexual practices. This is so triggering and brought back uncomfortable memories. But I just told him no, I'm not gay. Well I had to endure a series of painful chemical skin peeling treatments that went on for months. Every time I saw this doctor he asked me if I was gay. He said the question was nonjudgmental, he wasn't judging me. But I just told him no I'm not gay. I could not tell this man what happened to me. And I put it out of my mind, I tried to put it out of my mind. I tried to go on with my life. But I've endured plenty of triggering events, and suffered flashbacks ever since, During periodic physicals, things like prostate exams--the doctor poking around through the anus sets me off and leaves me depressed and miserable. I have avoided things that I like, like swimming, because I can't stand to use locker rooms where other males are in a state of undress. When I see naked men, my anxiety goes through the roof. I'm now working with a therapist trying to process what happened to me. I was sexually assaulted 45 years ago. Try as I might to forget, I've never gotten over it.

Recovery Cake Ingredients: ½ cup journal writing 2 whole, barely ripe boyfriends 3 cups stiffly beaten sister 2 tablespoons peer counseling (can be sour) ¼ cup spicy lawsuit 2 cups therapy 2 teaspoons college 6 heaping tablespoons organic employment small pinch lukewarm volunteer work 1 whole unbleached husband 2 ½ cups sweetened children 4 cups wholegrain therapy 5 tablespoons sifted friends 1 grated, sharp book Directions: 1. Preheat oven to 575 F. 2. In a large bowl, beat together journal writing, boyfriends and sister until poised. Slowly mix in peer counseling, lawsuit and therapy, beating well after each addition. Set aside. 3. Stir together college, employment and volunteer work in a large saucepan. Set over low heat and let stimulate. 4. Wash and dry husband and children thoroughly then add ½ husband and 2 children to saucepan until all scintillating. 5. Pour the contents of the saucepan into large mixing bowl and mix until barely unified. Refrigerate for 5 years. 6. In a separate bowl, whisk together remaining ½ husband and wholegrain therapy. Continue whisking until sappy. Add to large mixing bowl and stir for 6 months. 7. Pour batter into a lubricated 10-foot round cake pan. Bake for 32 hours and 13 minutes, or until a cake tester inserted in the center comes out uncontaminated. 8. Cool in pan for 3 minutes. Turn out onto a cake rack and cool completely. 9. When cool, sprinkle with remaining ½ child, friends and book This is an impelling, complex tasting cake for very special occasions; delicious any time of year. Its beauty lies in how different the texture every time it is made. Try swapping out some ingredients. For example, more college, less boyfriend, or you may want to leave out the sister and measure equal portions of additional friends. Be creative and give it your own flair. Serves 10 tons of childhood abuse