Community

I was sexually abused by my father when I was 8 years old. Once I got a bit older I realized the damage that it was bringing to my life. At 15 I finally told my mom what my own father did to me. In my early 30s I began going to church faithfully and that’s when I finally forgave him. Fast forward to when I turned 35 I received a phone call that my dad had been arrested for something similar. And currently at the moment I am fighting for justice once more. Hoping that finally this can be put in the past.

The Smoke and the Shield I grew up in a house where the air was always thick with the sweet, chemical stench of the meth pipe. My mother, stepfather, aunts, and uncles weren't just parents; they were soldiers in a war that didn't exist, and paranoia was our oxygen. I learned early that survival meant playing along with their ghosts, agreeing that I heard helicopters that weren't there just to avoid the jagged rants that followed if I didn't. I spent my childhood secretly praying for the police to raid us, not because I understood crime, but because I was desperate for someone to save me. But the sirens never came. Instead, I lived in the crossfire of meth-induced rage. I was accused of imaginary crimes born in their frantic minds, belittled until I felt invisible, and beaten until the fat lips became my only excuse to miss school. Neglect was my first language; I walked into classrooms smelling of that house while other children whispered about cooties and pulled away. My mother was so consumed by the pipe that she never taught me how to say no, leaving me defenseless when the betrayal turned predatory. At twelve, she served me meth in my coffee, trapping me in a nightmare of hallucinations. By thirteen, my protectors became my traffickers, selling my body under the guise of babysitting to a man twice my age. They groomed me to believe violation was normal, using pornography to distort my world before I even knew what a healthy life looked like. Eventually, something inside me snapped. I tried to drown the pain in alcohol and self-mutilation, attempting to leave this world numerous times because a life defined by their cruelty didn't feel like living. Even when hospitalized, the rule of silence followed me; I was too terrified to betray the family that had already discarded me. When child services finally intervened, my parents cheated the drug tests to keep the pipe lit, and rather than choosing me over the drug, my mother abandoned me to the system. I was angry, alone, and exhausted, but in the hollow quiet of foster care, I realized the only hand coming to save me was my own. I clawed my way out, fighting for my GED and stepping into a career that demanded the discipline and strength I had been forced to develop as a child. I made a silent vow to never become the monsters who raised me, but the trauma of my youth had broken my internal radar. I backslid into an abusive marriage that forced me to relive the nightmare I thought I had escaped. My husband tried to kill me twice, and when that didn’t work, he shifted to breaking me down mentally. He told me to kill myself because he didn’t want to do the dirty work of killing me himself. I became so broken that I almost succeeded, but after a medical crisis that should have been the end, I was told I was lucky to be alive. That was the moment the world shifted. I realized my life had value, and I took my kids and left him for good. Today, my life is dedicated to being the sanctuary I never had. I am raising my children in a home defined by stability and real love, not the chemical shadows or the violence of my past. I am sober, I am awake, and I am present for every moment they need me. I am constantly exhausted from the weight of the past and the effort of standing guard, but it is a fight worth fighting. The cycle is broken, and for the first time, my children are growing up in a house that is truly, deeply safe.

This happened when I was 16 years old and had just left a children's home and was returning to leave with my dad. On the first day back home, my dad came to pick me up from the children's home and we went back to his house and he showed me to my room and after unpacking my stuff,I said I was going to take a shower and I went to the bathroom to shower but realised my dad was peeking at me shower. I was afraid at the point of time and didn't know what to do and after rinsing off the soap and drying off I went to my bedroom to dress and my dad raped me and told me it's alright and that he loves me very much and alright. 3days later my dad invited 3 of his friends over for a drink and I said I was going to stay in my room and read. 2hours later,all 4 of the burst into my room and 2 of my dad's friends held me down while my dad and his the other friend started undressing me and my dad raped me while his friend put his penis in to my mouth and force me to perform oral sex on him. After what feels like forever,my dad and his friends exchanged places. I was blindfolded this time round by my dad's friend who initially was holding on to my hands. So I now don't know who was raping me and who is having a go in my mouth and one of the shoot in my mouth and forcing me to swallow his cum and they exchanged places again and when they were done,I was told to go clean up but I didn't,I just took a towel and my wallet and ran out the house and flag down a cab and went back to the children's home and when the staff there who opened the gate to let me in saw my in distraught called the police and I was taken to the hospital to be examined. 2 days later I was told that all 4 was caught.

My name in Name. Im a trans-man. This story happened she u was 13-14. I was forced to love my home country due to political repressions. So when we came to the city, I was completely alone. I didn’t know anyone and my family always have been abusive. Violence, alcohol, all that. And then I met her. She was four years older than me, in the last class. I don’t know what she found in me. I mean in a year, I would find out. So by the end of school year we became friends. So close, like I never had before. She was kind, understanding and generally nice to me. I never had this before. Next school year she went to college, but our connection only became stronger. She started saying things like “you are the most important to me” and even “I love you”. The first alarm bell was when I found out she was doing drugs. She casually mentioned it in a conversation. Something inside me screamed to stop it. But her “I love you” had me in a chokehold. I would do anything for her. I also knew she liked a guy, and I was practically the second option. Maybe that was the second alarm. In February we went to a concert. In the bathroom her and her friends started taking pills. “You want?” They asked. “Sure” I said. Didn’t even know what that was. Soon I started doing drugs too. She basically was my dealer, she had even more control over me.We would come to her room have these gatherings, where we did drugs, smoked and talked about nothing. What was supposed to be us together was one big loneliness. I hated that, I kept coming, just to see her. My parents didn’t even ask where I was spending nights. So one time after her friends left she sat close to me. That night from us two only I was high. She started kissing me, like she did before. But then she runs her hand across my chest and under my shirt. I got scared, I didn’t want anything like this. “Please don’t” I told her softly. She told me that it’s okay, and “you’re gonna like that”. After a few phrases I submitted. I hated the process, I hated myself in it. But now her. I said it, because I wanted to be liked my her. Next morning I was scraping myself in the shower, but I couldn’t feel clean. I felt her touch. Still do sometimes. A week after that happened she started ignoring me. Just became I ghost. Left me addicted not only to drugs, but also to her. I often feel, like it was my fault. I could’ve not done drugs, and not submitted to her.

It is with great shame that I confess here. I was a passive enabler of abuse. I had been molested as a girl by an older boy in grade school and should have been less of a coward. I finally turned in my husband and ended his incestuous abuse of his own daughter. I deserve the tears I cry. I was a swing shift nurse and usually slept like a rock with my pill. That night I got out of bed after a few hours and wandered past the kitchen to the other side of the house where my stepdaughter room was. It sounded a little like crying, or laughing.  It was hard to tell what was happening at first though the cracked door on the other side of house. My stepdaughter's room. But soon I made out that my husband was kneeling and leaning forward over the bed with his head between his daughter's spread legs. The noises were panting and squeaking from him performing cunnilingus.  This quickly concluded and he took a position lying in bed and although her body was mostly blocked because she was on the other side of him from the door, It was evident that she was giving her dad fellatio. Her head was rising and falling and he had his hand on her head. She was only nine! I left  and went back to bed, wanting to forget what I had seen. Why not talk to him and stop it right away? I should have. But my husband had lost his wife only a few years before, and my step daughter had lost her mother.  The woman had been paralyzed below the waist and had severe back pain.  She took her own life two months after the injury, days after being discharged home from the hospital. There was a lot between them because of their loss that I could never be a part of. The idea that sexual contact was a means of grieving did not sit well with me but I did not want to make waves.  It seemed voluntary on her part. I loved my husband. It had taken a long time to find him after much hoping and dating and heartache and searching. So maybe I was selfish for wanting to keep my husband. I did not know if it happened very often. I turned a blind eye..   For at least a year and a half I did not get out of bed if I woke up in the middle of sleep time. Then on a Friday night, after I had worked a night shift and stayed up to run errands during the day, then attended my stepdaughter's dance recital where she performed ballet, jazz, and hip hop with her troop, I crashed. But I got up, restless. This time the door to her bedroom was closed and probably locked, lights on from below.  The sounds of my stepdaughter in the throes were loud enough that I went out the back door and around to the window, and stood up on the central air unit to see through the large gap in the curtains.  I had a direct view of my esteemed husband, who is quite good to me, up on his knees on the bed, pumping back and forth. His daughter was bent over in front of him with her bare posterior in the air, down on her elbows.  I could see him moving in and out of her and shaking her whole body with his thrusts.  I felt sudden anger.   I regret that my anger was not about what it should have been about. My anger was jealous anger.  Thoughts of my thirty-four year old body and how it could not compete with the firm adolescent body I saw before me, and that we had watched this beautiful curve-developing girl while holding hands with my husband as she danced in different outfits. I was a little jealous then, not even knowing that he was thinking of her, that way. I kept watching him sex her, unable to consider looking away. He slowed his thrusts and collapsed on the other side of her. I saw her shiny body collapse too. Her breath was so deep and fast. They took a couple minutes to recover and I got more upset when I thought my husband was going to fall asleep with HER. But he got up, talking. He dressed and walked around the bed. She got up, seemingly at his command and they hugged, standing up. He smiled at her and turned toward the door. Only then was the spell broken and I hurried back to the door and went in. He was already showering. I never said anything and let it fade, pretending I did not think about it often. I was more passionate and adventurous with my husband, and colder with my stepdaughter.      A couple years later when I found her crying in her room one day while my husband was out of town, I went in to comfort her. It got around to me mentioning her sexual relationship with her father in an accusatory way. She broke down even farther and told me about how she asked him to stop when she started 8th grade. She had become aware how “crazy” it was and begged him to stop if he loved her. He told her he couldn’t stop because he loved her. Something snapped inside me and I helped her fall asleep and then drove to the police station. I turned myself in and my husband. It was very messy and my life has been since. But I don’t regret it. I only regret waiting five years to end a marriage that I should have ended after five months. I deserve all the tears.

My abuse started when I was 4 years old. By a grandfather figure of mine. He was a family friend that my parents trusted and he slowly worked his way into our lives any way he could. He lived with several members of my family, include my for a while. He helped us financially. Came to all our birthday parties. There's a weird line of love and hate when I think about him. It's mostly hate, but I remember watching him in court on his conviction day and smiling a little. Not because he was being sent to prison for what he did to me, but because it felt natural too. He continuously sexually abused me, my sister, and several of my cousins for years. There was this constant aura of fear and numbness in our family. None of the adults knew, but all of us kids did. It was unspoken but we knew what was going on. If it was physical abuse, it was verbal or emotional. In the car, in the house, out in public. I don't remember most of my childhood because I was constantly disassociating. It's hard getting older and realizing how much of who I am in either because of the abuse or in spite of it. It was just so constant in my life that there's no way to separate him from everything else. There is no before and after the abuse. It just was. The abuse was my childhood even though my parents thought they were doing everything right. It's a shit show to deal with, but I guess that's why it's called Complex PTSD.

I somehow got myself on Tinder at 16 years old. I know, not very smart of me but all my friends were on it at the time and I didn't think about it. I met someone who told me he was also underage, he claimed he was 17. He seemed perfect. We went on a date to a pumpkin patch, we got sushi at a restaurant, and after he came to my home to carve pumpkins. Everything was going so well. We were watching a movie and he asked us to move to my room. Honestly, I didn't really want to but I agreed and we went to my room. His demeanor changed immediately, suddenly he was cocky and dominant. We had sex which I had agreed to even if I felt pressured. Suddenly he put his penis in my anus, pulled it out after a few times, and put it back into my vagina. I was shocked, I was confused. Did that just happen? Is that normal? I am so grateful for the human survival instincts because I mostly checked out. But I remember him saying "You could at least act like you're enjoying it". Still, I didn't react. When he was done he got up and went to get a towel, I asked him to turn on the light and he said "Are you sure? You might not want to see the bed it's going to be graphic." I didn't understand and wanted the light on anyway. My white comforter was covered in blood and had feces stains on it. "wow" I felt embarrassed. He said it was normal. We went back into the living room and a few minutes later he left. Next, I threw out my comforter and went to my best friend's house. She had her older friend over. I told them what happened and they were shocked. Both of these girls were sexually experienced, and they told me that is not normal. You don't have anal sex by accident. You don't have anal sex without a discussion first. You don't "slip" into someone's anus which is the excuse I had thought up for him, "maybe he slipped?". They assured me it was not an accident that happens. I told the older girl his name, Name, it turns out she knows him and he is not 17. He told her he was 20. When he came over to her house before he was really pushy to have sex and her dog hated him so she kicked him out. My dog also hated him. Moving forward I reached out to him, he wasn't responding to my messages, then he said he was sorry but he's not looking for anything relationship-wise, he didn't want to see me again. At this point it started to become clearer "I might have been raped". I spent about 2 years going back and forth between did that really happen, was it rape, was it my fault, did I ask for it? A few days after the rape my vagina became swollen. I know, I'm sorry for the detail but it is crucial to the story. I went to the student based health center my school worked with because I did not want my parents to know I had sex. They did a test on me and I had bacterial vaginosis. The nurse said I had "bacteria that looked like a blooming flower inside of me.", this is because he went from my anus to my vagina a few times and I was bloody. Luckily it was an easy fix with some antibiotics. Another thing that confirmed something seriously wrong had happened. I spent 2 years of my life Junior and Senior years of high school in bed and I do not remember my high school time fully. I slept, I rotted, I removed my bed frame from my room in a mental breakdown, I rearranged my bed to different positions in my room, and I changed mattresses. Nothing was helping me. Eventually, I changed rooms. I began to resent my own home. I did not feel like I had a safe space. I started to be rude to my parents, I was mean when they would not let me go out, and I was snappy anytime. I skipped dinner, and avoided family time. In addition, I stopped going to school. I missed so many days of school, that they sent a letter that they might have a police officer come to our house to do a welfare check. My mom would drop me off at school, I would wait for her to drive away, and I would walk back home to go lay in bed. Until she started to wait until I got inside and then I would maybe go to one class and then walk home. My two best friends started to come to my window on school days and they would knock on my window to try and get me to come to class. One of them, my bestest friend in the world, would continuously knock on my window until I let her into my house. I also have barky dogs so they would be going crazy barking and I had to let her in, she also literally would not leave or stop knocking until I let her in. No matter how disgusting, and horribly messy my room was (I am talking can not see the floor, obstacles to the bed, garbage, huge piles of clothes, deep clothes on the floor) she would sit with me on my mattress on the floor. She would lay with me, she would cuddle me, she would make me watch videos with her on her phone. She would skip school for me. She would eventually coax me into leaving the house, going with her to get coffee, get food, go drive around, go to her house, go adventure outside in the woods together. I can't imagine what would have happened without her. She never made me feel like a victim, always let me talk about the gross details, and let me be my gross rotting self at this time, she made me laugh, she made me feel happy when I was so depressed, and didn't even really know why. As in I was still confused, still unsure if I was actually raped. Eventually, my school told me I would have to repeat my senior year. They never asked me what was wrong, they just told me I was failing bad. I had met a new guy at this time who became my boyfriend, he ended up cheating on me so I can't make him too nice in this story but at this time, he was really helpful, and beneficial, he taught me what real safe sex is and what it is supposed to be and feel like. It is communication, consent, mutual good feelings, and love. I want to add that when I did have sex with him for the first time after the rape my hands locked up. A physical result of trauma, I couldn't open up my hands, I was scared and not of him, but my body responded to this intimate act happening again. It was his first time having sex and I like to consider it my real first time too. He did not "slip" into my anus. Becuase that does not happen. After this, it clicked to me that I was anally raped. I had always searched on Google, Instagram, and anywhere I could for information on anal rape, and I could never find it. I wanted to be confirmed and validated. I wanted to find someone who had experienced the same thing I had and I still have not found it (4 years later). I only saw things about male prison rape. I am making a face right now that is not what I was looking for. Moving forward, one of my friends' sisters started dating the man who raped me a few days later. She messaged me and asked about him. I didn't tell her he raped me but I wish I did. Later on, I saw her at a party, a few drinks in, I went up to her and said I have a really personal question I need to ask. She said absolutely. I asked her if Name (the rapist) had tried to do anal with her. She whipped her head around and said "Yeah! He tried to during sex and I stopped him, I freaked out on him I was so upset.". Everything clicked for me in that moment and I am forever grateful for her and her honesty. She was a turning point in my healing. She confirmed what I had been questioning for years. My at the time boyfriend had gone to a high school that was inclusive, they had personalized education, and they really cared about their students. It was called School Name. He told me I should apply, they work with credit recovery and he thought it would be perfect to help me graduate. He was right. I applied to School Name, they asked me why I was failing high school. I told them I was raped at 16 and I stopped going to school. I told them I didn't want to repeat my senior year. I told them no one at my other high school asked about what was going on in my personal life. The woman on the phone said they could get me to graduate on time and that they could support me. My best friend who helped me through this time also transferred to this school. The two of us were in a new high school in our senior year. School Name changed my life. I enjoyed going to school again, I felt supported, and I was treated like I was smart and not like I was a delinquent who couldn't care less about their future. Every teacher in that building wanted me to succeed and I could feel it. I was in credit recovery programs, taking tests to prove I had the knowledge needed to graduate. My best friend and I finished high school early. It was a great feeling even though I graduated with a 2.3 GPA. Now I am sitting here writing this in a community college with my 21st birthday a few weeks away, and I have finally reached the point where I can think about the rape and not hit myself in the head until I stop thinking about it. I think about the rape and my rapist every day of my life since. I have always wanted to share my story and now I am looking for platforms to share it. I want someone else who was anally raped to be able to read my story, I want someone to be able to feel seen and heard like I wanted and needed. But for any rape survivor, I want you to know that eventually, you will be able to live with this new normal. I won't say "it gets better" because I am not sure that it does, frankly I do not think it does get better, it just becomes something you adapt to. I have gone to therapy and I am in therapy again now. I continue to try and put the work in to heal. I still think about it every day but I am finally less reactive. I still shudder and get angry every time I see his name somewhere. I will never be with someone named Name again. I shudder when I see someone who resembles him in any way. I am afraid of men. I don't like to go on dates, I don't like to be too close to a man, I don't want to be in a room alone with a man, I get angry or uncomfortable when a strange man on the street looks at me for too long, if they compliment me, if they try to have a conversation, or if they flirt. I have attachment and abandonment issues. I don't know if this will ever get better but it is a part of my new normal. Who I was before my rape is no longer me. I have accepted the fact that I am a new person and that I have to get to know myself again. I lost a lot of friends during my time of isolation, I have a hard time keeping a job, and I struggle to do well in school even though I really want to succeed. My depression is overwhelming most days. I want Name to be in a jail cell. I want him to be labeled as the rapist he is, I want him to suffer honestly. I want him to never be able to get a job. I hate him and I hate that he gets to live free and possibly enjoy his life. I hate that he probably still finds new victims. I did report him to the police, but nothing came of it. I also reported him to the Department of Human Services for abuse in my state, and nothing came of it. But I did my part, I can only hope that someone else reports him like I did and they see a flag in their system that he has done this before. I still see him on dating apps, he goes by his middle name now, and he is bisexual. I feel he used me as a test subject. When I was younger I would harass him online from fake accounts on Instagram. I told him that he was gay and that he should be a real man and find a guy to hook up with instead of torturing innocent girls. I told him I know everyone he has raped, even though I don't. I told him karma would catch up to him, and that someone will get you eventually. I told him he is a terrible person, but he never admitted what he did or owned up to it. I would like to think I can move on with my life but this is my story. It is a part of me now, it is why I act the way I do, and it is an explanation for most things in my life. I recently moved out on my own and got my own apartment. I thought I just didn't like having people over at my childhood home because it was the home I was raped in. My family moved out of that house and moved states. And now in my new house, my own personal space, I still can not invite anyone over. It is hard for me to have even just girlfriends, my friendly neighbor, or my best friend over. I do not allow guests to come over, and I never invite a date over. It is a huge step for me to have someone in my home and that is his fault. I only made this connection this year. I am afraid of having my space claimed by anyone else again. Wow, it felt good to get all of that out. It is hard to speak about and share my story when I do not have the justice I would like. It is hard to learn about the justice system when it is supposed to protect you and it does not. It is hard to think that so many people are raped so often. I am angry and I want change. I don't really know what kind of change but something. I wish I didn't have to live in so much anger and fear but that is also a part of my new normal. I am antsy, I can't help but look over my shoulder frequently when I am in public, and I can't help but worry about unlikely things. But I am adapting and you will too. Sending love to you.

The mind is an interesting, beautiful and dangerous thing. I find my mind to be especially so. I have always been an overthinker, and my thoughts have led me into dark places in my life. At the time of writing this, I am studying psychology and trying to work on a better understanding and diagnosis of my own condition through therapy and my studies. My story, this story, begins in 2022, the year I graduated high school. For context though, we must go back much further. Was I always depressed? Was I always insecure? Shy? Did I always hide in the corner? No! As a child, I was quite outgoing. I may have always been somewhat of a shy introvert, but I managed to make friends everywhere I went, eager to get to know others and play with them. I have always been extremely trusting, to the extent of naivety and gullibility. All the way through elementary school, I always had a large friend group and following. I physically grew faster than most kids, I learned faster than most and began tutoring my peers in fifth grade. My friends and I ran the playground. I was a leader, one of the cool kids. It brought me a sense of power, but it also led to me being obsessive, a control freak at times. The transition to middle school was different. Though I was still athletic and wasn't obese, I had gained a bit of weight that I could stand to lose. When swimming one time, someone whose opinion I greatly valued, pointed out my body. "You have rolls," they said. From that moment, I never saw myself the same. At that moment, insecurity truly crept into my life for the first time. From then on, I never took my shirt off around other people, even my closest friends and family. I wore a shirt whenever I swam, and when we were given middle school locker rooms for athletics, I changed in the bathroom stall instead. The friend group I once ruled the playground with, started to break apart, even if I didn't realize it. Part of it was because I stopped being one of the "cool kids," but looking back now, I realize that with my control, I was also not a very good friend at times. At the end of middle school, I learned that I would be moving to a different town and school. Though it was only a 30 minute drive away, for a kid with no transportation, it was a world away. This gave my friends the out they needed. I stopped hearing back from them until they eventually cut me out completely. A small few stuck around, but out of them, only one has stayed by my side to this day as an adult. The summer before high school was a hard one. My grandpa and his brother died within weeks of each other. With hardly any friends, my second oldest sister became my best friend for the summer. However, with her being four years older than me, as I was starting high school, she was off to college, and I was alone. As the youngest, I was an only child for the first time in my life, and my relationship with my parents at the time was almost nonexistent. When I started high school in a new and unfamiliar place, I was scared to death. I sat alone at lunch and in the corner of every classroom. My stress manifested itself as a painful black hole in the center of my torso. I couldn't bring myself to eat. In the first week of school alone, I lost about 15 pounds! To speed up my story a bit, I grew into myself a bit more, thinned out, worked out, and gained a bit of muscle. After the end of my freshman year, some girls actually started to find me attractive. I had a couple dates with a girl or two, and by the second half of my sophomore year, I had my first real girlfriend. Looking back at that relationship, I still thank God for bringing her into my life. As soon as she asked to sit next to me on the band bus, I knew she liked me, even though at the time, I wanted nothing to do with her for some reason. That single bus ride changed everything though. With main topics of conversation being random things like sandwiches and Veggie Tales, by the end, I had a new best friend. After a couple months of getting to know each other, we confessed our feelings and she soon became my girlfriend. We had a lot in common, including hobbies as we were both in band and theater. It was because of her that Covid wasn't such a bad time for me, as it was for most others. Though we were both very close, we were also both very awkward, and never intimate. We never had any talks about physical intimacy, so for the most part, we never had physical intimacy. The most "cuddling" we ever did was my arm around her shoulder, or her head on my shoulder. When we finally had our first kiss, it was 10 days before our 2 year anniversary. It was also just a quick peck, we never made out or anything like that. Through the remainder of high school, I was constantly worried about what I looked like and my image, trying to work out more and get stronger. I joined a fire academy to train to be a firefighter during my last two years of high school. Eventually, our lives started to go in different directions, and after about 2 1/2 years, we broke up 4 days before our high school graduation. As you can imagine, that was a pretty rough first breakup for me. With the way my brain works, after something like this happens, it becomes all I can think about, constantly. I overthink and over analyze every thought, every memory. I put myself through the different possible scenarios and outcomes, sometimes to the point where I start to lose my grip on reality, and what the true memories are. The black hole of stress returned to my chest. At first, I was convinced that she was still "the one" and that I would get her back after a couple years. Then, as my thought process continued to shift and spiral, I began to think that because the relationship ended, that must mean that it was a bad thing to begin with, meaning that I needed to find the opposite of what we had. Unfortunately, I got what I asked for. Only about two months had passed before I met another girl at a church retreat that I was volunteering at. This girl was someone that I had always seen growing up, but never interacted with. I always viewed her as being extremely attractive, and I lusted after her more than any other girl. She was one of the popular kids, the head cheerleader at high school. We started talking and she took an interest in me. She knew that I had just gone through a breakup because of a testimony I gave during the retreat. The more we talked, the more I realized that she was different than I thought. The red flags showed up early on. At this point, she was 17 as I was 18. At 17 years old, she had a list of the 23 guys she had kissed, and the 5 guys that she had sex with, versus the one girl I had kissed. I was originally convinced that she was a virgin like me, but that quickly flew out the window. She assured me over and over that she had only gone through a "hoe phase" and that she was different now (I came to find out later that this "hoe phase" happened only a month or two before we got together. We got together in August, and she had sex with at least 3 guys over the summer). Part of me didn't want to judge her based on her past. Part of me wanted the affirmation of someone as attractive as her being interested in me. Part of me adopted an "I can fix her" mentality. All in all, a recipe for disaster. After talking for a while, I eventually, nervously confessed feelings for her via word vomit after walking her to her car one night. To my surprise, she reciprocated those feelings. She then hugged me. This was no normal hug, as it was different from any other hug I had ever experienced. There was full body contact as she pressed against me. Part of me instinctively retreated backward, but she continued forward so that I was then pinned between her and her car. There was more physical intimacy in that hug alone than anything I had ever experienced before. This feeling was new and admittedly exciting. In my vulnerable and desperate state, I thought, "this must be love." On our first date, after going to Starbucks, we went back to my place to watch a movie. She asked if I wanted to cuddle, and I told her that I honestly didn't really know how. She showed me a few different ways/positions for cuddling, and we ended up spooning for the majority of the movie. I could tell that she wanted to kiss, but I was awkward and uncomfortable, so I just didn't say anything. We did decide to become official boyfriend and girlfriend though, which was a big, fast step. Of course, that was only the beginning. On our second date, we did end up kissing, which led to making out for about an hour. Another new experience for me. By the end of that date, we were already saying "I love you" to each other. With my previous girlfriend, I told her I loved her at a couple different milestones within the relationship, but she never felt comfortable saying it back, so this was my first time hearing words of affirmation like that. Two weeks in, she started ramping things up. She started talking to me about her favorite sex positions and demonstrating them (with clothes on). She told me about all her kinks and the things she liked. She told me that she didn't have a gag reflex and then proceeded to take my hand and suck on one of my fingers while making strong eye contact with me. Looking back on it, I realize that I was never asked, nor did I tell about what I might be comfortable with. I was of the mindset that I never wanted to have sex or even see my significant other naked before marriage, but I don't think I ever conveyed that. Later on that same date, we were watching a movie and cuddling as usual. I still remember the movie being "Phantom of the Opera." At one point during the movie, she let out a loud sigh. I asked her what was wrong. "Oh nothing. I'm just having intrusive thoughts." I asked what she meant. "It's nothing. You probably wouldn't want to anyway." I told her she could tell me whatever it was. "Oh, I was just thinking about putting your hand under my shirt." I got silent. I wasn't expecting that, and I didn't know how to respond. A moment later, she continued, "Do you want to?" I replied, "I don't know." She continued, "yes or no?" My response remained the same "I don't know." We went back and forth a couple more times, her voice becoming more and more of a seductive whisper each time. My mind was racing with thoughts of "Should I do this? I don't know, it feels wrong. What happens if I say no? Will she leave me? I can't lose her. I can't be alone!" To this day, I can't clearly remember if I actually said yes or not, but regardless, I didn’t say no, and I did what she wanted. I know now that it was all part of her tests to see how far she could push me little by little. Soon after that came grinding, and then sexual touching (all with clothes on). Over time, these memories have become a bit unclear as to exactly what happened and when. She started asking me to take my shirt off to cuddle. I thought that was a really weird request, especially still being very self-conscious about my body image, when shirtless most of all. I asked her why, to which she responded, "I like skin to skin contact." Though it made me feel uncomfortable and a bit ashamed, I complied and took my shirt off. She would affirm me and say how attractive I was to her. She would then become more passionate and eager to cuddle and make out. With the sexual touches, there became less and less clothes, down to underwear. She always gave me high praise and told me how good I made her feel, how happy I made her, and how much she loved me. I wanted to do anything I could to make her happy so that she wouldn't leave me. After dating for about a month and a half, we had moved up to oral sex. At this point, I was still so naive and uneducated that I thought I had lost my virginity. In my mind, this meant that we were eventually going to get married for sure. It only kept ramping up. If she wasn't on her period, we were engaging in oral sex every day, sometimes multiple times. We were always together every day. The longest we were ever apart from each other was about a week. By some miracle, we never went all the way, even though she constantly wanted to, and I still have my virginity to this day. However, with her kinks, she wanted me to be rough with her: to choke her, spank her, pull her hair, talk dirty, etc. These were all things that I was greatly uncomfortable with. At my core, I've always been a very gentle person, a hopeless romantic who wants to always respect women and keep them from harm. The thought of doing these things was horrendous to me, but it was what she wanted. I originally thought that I was the one fixing her, but I realize that she was the one breaking me instead. Or rather, I was broken from my first breakup, and she rebuilt me in her image. I became what she wanted me to be, putty in her hands. After being together for about 10 months, she suddenly broke up with me over text. The best reason I can come up with is that she finally got tired of my refusal to go all the way, the one boundary that I kept in place. I heard later that she had already been cheating on me anyway. Soon after we broke up, immediately in fact, she started spreading rumors. The day after she broke up with me, she blocked me on social media and posted about our breakup (one of my friends showed me the post). From there, it was one rumor after another. She even went as far as to tell some people that I raped her. Thankfully, anyone that knew me, knew that something like that could never be true, so that rumor never got anywhere. Still, I became extremely paranoid from that moment, always looking over my shoulder, wondering what people thought of me or what they've heard. To this day, I still have a lot of trouble trusting people, and I often get paranoid that everyone is talking behind my back, conspiring against me, planning to leave me. The breakup broke me in a different way than any other. I had been going to church for my whole life, but it wasn't until after the breakup that my eyes were opened and I felt the weight of sin crushing down on me. I tried to turn myself around on my own, but I got nowhere. It took me reaching the point of almost taking my own life that I finally realized that I needed help and couldn't do it alone. I talked to my mom about almost everything I was going through. Though I was never close to my parents, and I was always afraid of them when I was growing up, they were very supportive of me, and helped me to find therapy and get the help I needed. Today, I have a much better relationship with them. After letting myself be rebuilt in her image, God allowed me to break again, so that I might finally be rebuilt in His. It wasn't until reading the book "unwanted" by Jay Stringer, and going through "safe environment" classes at my church that I started to realize that I was groomed, manipulated, and abused. To be honest, I still struggle with this concept to some extent to this day. I don't tell many people because of fear that I wouldn't be believed. Who would believe that a younger girl groomed an older guy? It certainly isn't a very common occurrence. Part of me still blames myself at times. I feel like I should've known better. Part of me wonders if it was what I wanted all along. Part of me wonders how consenting I was. Part of me hates myself for not being able to just say no. Regardless of if these are truths or lies, I know I can't let them control me. I have to leave the past where it belongs and continue to live. Healing is possible, though it may not be easy. I've started sharing my story more, and while I'm unsure of its effect on other people, I know that it at least helps me in some way. I wish to share my story. To educate others. I may feel like what I went through was part of God's plan, necessary for making me the man I am today, but I still want to try my best to protect others from the same fate. Though I tend to grow the most after each time I'm broken, this is not the way it needs to be. There is a better way! Let this be a message to everyone that you are never truly alone! There is no need to fear people leaving you. Some people may leave, others may not. It should never change who you are.

After over a decade, I'm just now coming out of a fog and realizing I've been abused since before we even married. I feel so lost right now. I'm trying to forgive myself, love myself, and gain strength, all while still having to be married to my abuser. I want to leave but don't have the resources to. And I cannot stomach the thought of my children having to suffer even weekend visits with him without me there as a shield. I'm so exhausted. I'm so hurt and angry and sad. He's abused me physically, emotionally, mentally, and financially. I feel so trapped and don't really see a way out for me and my kids. When I watched It Ends With Us, I related so much because I knew exactly how it felt to look back and finally realize what had actually happened. I am just now processing so much that I didn't feel safe enough to even consider was abuse before. It's hard and sometimes I want to hide from it all, but I know the only way to heal and somehow leave is to face what I've been through head on and make a plan to escape.

I was between 3 and 4 (which I know because of the dress I was wearing and the fact I wasn’t in school yet). He was my dad’s friend and I liked him a lot, and I thought we were cool. He was staying in our guest room and he was with us for about a week. One night, I ended up downstairs in the guest room (I can’t remember how) and the rest from there is blank. Next thing I can remember is him touching me, he was molesting me. A lot is a blur, but I can remember him touching my private parts while muttering some stuff, stuff that still haunts my mind. I can’t even hear someone tell their dog that she’s “a good girl” without my stomach twisting and me becoming physically sick. I remember him on top of me. I can remember the feeling of him kissing my neck and feeling my head banging, almost like a migraine, because of the pain rushing to my head. I remember him humping me while I worried someone was going to find out, because even though I didn’t know what was happening, I knew it was wrong. I remember staying quiet, with only occasional whimpers of pain, because I was hurting and afraid. I blocked that experience out for years until the memories started to resurface when I was 12. I always knew something happened, but could never put my finger on it. I was extremely hyper sexual as a child and knew too much about sex, and I always wanted to attention of older men. However, the moment I stopped digging into my hyper sexuality is the moment the memories flushed in. I would cry at night, praying to God to help me. I wanted to throw my brain across the room. Yet, despite these emotions, I doubted myself and my memory. So, I continued to keep quiet and let out occasional small cries, just like I did when I was that 3/4 year-old girl. Two years after finding out about my abuse, my own brother began to abuse me, only I had already knew he had done it previously. My brother and I used to be best friends, but there were moments that got inappropriate, starting when I was around 8. I never initiated anything, but at the same time, I didn’t used to see a problem with it. Which I still slightly hate myself for, even though I know it wasn’t my fault. I can still vividly remember the time he pinned me down and closed the bedroom door. I remember saying, “what are you doing? Open the door, you know we aren’t allowed to close it.” He came right back and hovered over me. My memory is blurry, so I can’t remember where he touched me, or even if he did, but I know he had intended to do something if he didn’t already do it. However, it was when my older sister busted into the room and yelled, “what are you doing?!”. I remember my brother looking horrified while I, being naive and not understanding the severity of the situation, said in the happiest voice “we were playing and pinned me down”. I thought we were playing, but my sister’s tone when telling my brother to unpin me told me otherwise. The abuse started back up when I was 14 and continued until right before my 17th birthday. This time he was more subtle. He would expose himself and do everything in his power to get me to look. I caught him in my room standing over me while he thought I was asleep, only leaving once he realized I was awake. Then it escalated to physical contact, but still doing it subtly. He started rubbing up against me, first time in front of my mom. My other and I were talking about food, and he came up and rubbed up on me. I was very uncomfortable and froze, and what did my mother do? Change the subject. She changed the subject and pretended that nothing happened. I believe this is why he kept going because he realized he could do it in front of people and get away with it. So for 2 and a 1/2 years straight, he exposed his backside and rubbed up against me. I remember the first time I realized that I was being sexually abused by my brother, and I cried. It was in the midnight hours when I wept, begging for it to stop. It would stop for a short period of time, but then he would do it again. Remembering my past sexual assault and trying to process that while also being abused by my brother was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced. I used to have terrible nightmares which would end up with me waking up gasping for air. But I’m still fighting and still surviving. I’m finally accepting that I’m a survivor. At 19, I am a survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse and Incest.

I was 3 years old when I was first raped. That time, by my neighbor—my parents’ chiropractor, to be exact. The abuse continued until I was around 5 years old. I was suddenly no longer allowed to go to his house, and I didn’t understand why; after all, we just were “playing doctor.” My traumatized, yet innocent brain couldn’t handle the memories so I chose to never think about it again…until I remembered it all. EVERYTHING. The second time I was raped, I was 15 years old. The perpetrator was two years older than me, and much stronger. I don’t remember much of the actual assault, but I sure do remember the aftermath. I remember walking out from the Uber into my house, holding my ripped underwear in my hands. I remember when he sent threats to hurt me afterwards if I dared to tell anyone. I remember him forcing me to take a video of swallowing a Plan B pill. Flash forward to four years later. I am 19 years old. I have severe mental health issues with suicide attempts and a hospitalization under my belt. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and borderline personality, along with severe PTSD. I dropped out of high school and got my GED. I’m trying to function as a normal young adult, with a job and family drama and lots of emotional baggage. Yet I fail; then I stand up and fight again. And again. And again.

Name's Death When I was younger--18,19,20. I babysat your kid. You’d come home super drunk with your wife. I remember my heart beating so fast and my hands sweating right before you’d walk in the front door--afraid for what was to come. You’d greet me with a kiss on the cheek while you took a selfie of us. You’d want a hug when you were in your boxers. You’d walk me home at 2 am with your arm around me, making sure I got home safely, when I really needed protection from you. One time you hugged me and threw me on to your bed, but that was just one time. My mom and others always said it “almost” crossed the line. I still wonder what would it have taken to cross the line--rape? I wanted my parents to protect me but the protection never came. I continued to babysit for your family--for another couple of years.It’s like I needed a blessing from someone to finally get me to stop, Tell me it was enough, He’d crossed your line. It wasn’t your fault. A couple of days ago, you died. The neighborhood praised you--and still does. You were Name--the unofficial mayor of our neighborhood who got so many things done. All I hear is that it’s ok to sexually harass women --it’s okay because you had power and status. I’m mad, confused, frustrated, ashamed, and embarrassed. I can’t out you anymore, can’t write the open letter to the community because you are dead and people become angels when they die. In a community that I loved so much, I love it less now.

Why play with me just to leave me? I am not a toy, not a doll. I am not a showcase piece in your desk. I know I am flawed and broken but that does not make it right to play and leave. I know I refuse to leave even at the worst of it. But you are my husband, the knight in shinning armour. How can I leave? Even raped senseless my first instict is to melt in your arms. My parents bruised me too and they loved me. So how could I believe when people call our relationship something monstrous. How could I believe that when you are the most tender space I have ever met. The only place I can be my broken self and the only person that actually likes me more broken. We were sixteen when you taught me the game. Simon says. You command, I obey, or else. I was terrified. I remember it hurt so bad I screamed and yet you smiled, covered my mouth promising sweet things. Safety amongst it. At least I would not have to go back home tonight and confront my drunk dad. So I became the best player of the game... but difficulty level increased. I started messing up and paying the consequences. We moved in. I remember walking to uni with that familiar pain between my legs. I remember being kept awake on exam nights just cause you wanted your fault. I remmeber being too spent to study and see friends but still smilling whenever you craddled me in your arms, movies, games and chocolate. All for me, your time, your love. But the game changed, the cute names turned to possesive adjectives. Slut. Doll. Toy. The cuddles after were erased like they never existed. Instead I was left to tremble in the dark cold room, you had better things to do. It is sad that is what it took. Next month I´ll be alone. My brain tells me I´ll miss his behaviour, the red handprints on my skin, the lack of air, of sleep, of privacy. But that is just his whispers echoing, once the source is gone the whispers will vanish right? Maybe I´ll finally meet safety. Maybe I´ll like it better. I can hope right? I think it is true. I believe it with all my hearth.

I was raped when I was 18, just after my Leaving Cert. The man who raped me was a former partner. He had been physically abusive which had prompted me to end the relationship. Not long after it ended, he got in contact and asked to meet up to exchange items we had left at the others’ homes. I agreed, not thinking anything of it particularly. We arranged a time and agreed to go for a coffee in a spot we had often frequented as a couple. However, he was hours late turning up and looking back now, this was a huge red flag. I got into the car with him and he drove to a secluded location, incapacitated me and raped me. I will never forget the feeling of trying to prise his hands off of me and finally realising I wasn’t strong enough. It lasted nearly 4 hours and I was orally, vaginally and anally raped. He also used a foreign object during his attack. After it was over, he let me go and I walked for hours in the dark to get home. I didn’t tell a soul for days. The only medical attention I sought was the morning after pill. After about 3 days, I started to come to terms about what had happened to me, and that it wasn’t ok. That I wasn’t ok. I sought help from the SATU in Location and chose ‘Option 3’ which allowed samples to be taken and stored without a Garda present. I couldn’t speak highly enough of the care I got in SATU. They are angels. I later suffered a miscarriage at a relatively late stage in pregnancy, after finding out quite late. I eventually made a statement to Gardai and my perpetrator was arrested, although I decided at the time that I was not strong enough to allow the case to go to court. I suffered hugely at that time with symptoms I have now come to understand were PTSD and depression, and even considered taking my own life. But I accessed supports and met a wonderful psychotherapist and I later repeated my leaving cert and went on to gain entry to university, where I have had such brilliant support. I was lucky to access support that made all the difference to me, and my message to anybody reading this who was affected by sexual violence is that it gets better, and you can get through it.

It was my cousin and it happened more than once. I tried to downplay it, and I still do. The first time he pressured me to touch him. The second, my sister was there too and she ended up taking her shirt off. The third time, he took off his shirt and told me to put something in my body as he watched. I ended up getting an infection. I didn't equate any of this to abuse, because we were both young and he never touched me. I talked to someone for the first time yesterday, and I now realize that even though I may think it is insignificant, it still bothers me, which makes it important. I may have thought it was "not as bad" as other things he could have done, but trauma is trauma. I have behaviors I now realize are a result of the sexual abuse - I can call it that now - and I am now trying to dissociate the two. I am my own person and I got through it. You can too!

I was 8 years old when the grooming started. I was on the swim team, and my coach would pull me from my lane to show me different stretches. This wasn't uncommon during practice, so when he suggested I come to his office after practice so he could give me some more tips I thought nothing of it. He told me he thought I could be an amazing swimmer, that I could really help my team out if I started taking my land workouts more seriously. He offered to help me improve with stretches he would show me, and I let him know I wanted to do whatever I could to be a better swimmer. I started to get pulled out of the water early every practice by him and brought to his office. I was shown actual stretches at first, but then I became uncomfortable with what was going on. He started to give me massages before and after stretching, his hands lingering on my breasts and thighs. Things progressed, and eventually he began to perform what he called a simulating message on me before each practice. I know now that what he was really doing was fingering me, and I had every right to feel as uncomfortable as I did. Still, I didn't say anything to anyone because I was worried he would stop showing me stretches or giving me specialized attention at practice, something I desperately wanted to become a better swimmer. I'll never forget the first time he raped me, though I don't remember all of the the details. It was the first practice back after a meet, and I had swam my event quite poorly. Half way through practice he called me out of the pool for a meeting in his office. Once there, he asked if I was really serious about improving or if this was all a joke to me. I was upset, and swore up and down that I wanted to improve and was taking everything we worked on seriously. He started to suggest we work on some stretching before saying nevermind, and I actually remember crying and begging him to show me what he was going to suggest we work on. He took me to the table, and the rest I remember in snapshots. Him taking off my suit. Him taking off his pants. His hands all over my body. The overwhelming pain when he penetrated me. There were 72 tiles on the ceiling in his office. Later in the locker room one of the older girls pulled me aside and asked if I knew I had gotten my period because I had bled through my suit. She gave me a pad and I brought my clothes into a stall to change. The abuse continued until I was 10, at which point I decided to quit the team, opting not to move to the next age group. I never told anyone what happened. I had been warned about stranger danger as a kid, about people you didn't know hurting you, never about when it's someone you know well. I pushed aside my feelings that everything was wrong, and convinced myself this was just a part of life. I became a very anxious child. Where I had once been outgoing in social situations I now hung back, preferring to be with people I already knew instead of meeting new people. I cried a lot, and at the most random of times or things. Looking at it now, I'm not sure how my parents didn't notice the major shift in who I was, but having just transferred schools I feel like they may have assumed I was just having trouble adjusting to my new environment. I only just shared this information with someone else at the beginning of the year. I'm 28 years old. I told two good friends of mine what had happened, and found myself apologizing for not having divulged the information to them when I had been a victim of partner abuse in college. Imagine that, here I was sharing this massive information, and I still felt the need to say I was sorry to make sure nobody would be mad. I estimate I have been raped more than 100 times in my life. I am working through trauma processing in therapy, and I have an amazing therapist who pushes me out of my comfort zone without ever going too far. I still feel many of the effects of my experiences, but I'm very slowly coming to terms with what happened to me, which in turn is helping me to feel like I'm starting to take back parts of my life I lost.

I was about 8 years old when I was getting molested by my older brother. He's about 4-5 years older than me. I'm an adult now and finished college. My brain had repressed the memories of it for years and I didn't really remember it well until I was in therapy while at university for stress and depression. I think talking about my upbringing in therapy and my relationship with my parents finally made the memories surface. I always knew something bad was going on, I just didn't understand it. I remember multiple instances. He'd have me lay face down on my bed and pull my pants down to "massage" me. I think he only ever groped on my ass cheeks, but I can't remember. He did that multiple times. He came into my room once and made me get naked and he got behind me and laid on the floor behind my bed, out of view if the door opened, and he told me to not look and just sit back. I felt his penis and began to freak out, so he stopped. I think he was trying to penetrate me. I don't think he ever actually did. The last major time I can remember, I went into his room because I liked watching him play video games. He made me get naked again and lay in bed next to him naked. I felt him rubbing his penis on me. My mom opened the door and saw we were naked and began yelling. I was so scared anytime my mom yelled at me. I got out of bed quickly and got dressed. I was shaking so bad it was difficult. I ran out of his room to my room down the hall as she continued to yell at him. I thought I was in trouble too, even though I never understood what was going on. I just felt weird and gross after. She never came to check on me. Not that I remember at least. We didn't talk about it, she didn't take me to get help, there was nothing. All these years later, my mom called one night and I confronted her about it. I have no contact with my brother now and she'd always ask if I talked to him or talked to dad (they're divorced). I finally told her what I remembered. She said everything I expected her to say. She said she was sorry, that she thought it was only once and didn't want to imagine it happened multiple times. She said she failed as a mother and she thought at the time that she had handled it after threatening my brother to never do it again. No report, no doctor visit, no therapy, no help for me. I don't think she ever even told my dad. Just that she's sorry and should have done more. She said everything I already assumed she would and had played out in my head a hundred times before I ever asked her about it. None of it made me feel better to hear. I know the type of person she is already. Emotionally stunted, self-centered, victim complex. She hadn't changed much at all since then. She got upset and cried and eventually we both hung up. For my brother, I just finally stopped talking to him. I blocked him and I don't go to my dad's in case he's there again. I think the last time I saw him was almost a year ago. We didn't talk anymore anyway. I'd try before I remembered what happened. I think he remembers too and can't face it either, so we were never close after we grew up. I'm still processing how it all affected me. I honestly hate my mother more than him sometimes since she was the adult and did nothing. I'm not sure what else to say.

I must have been around 4/6 when my sister started to ask me for ‘massages’ all over her body. She is 10 years older than I am. It felt wrong at first but I remember her telling me it’s okay because it’s just skin. I don’t recall her ever touching me. She asked me for oral sex also and this was our game. But I feel so wrong looking back now because I even recall asking her to play this game just one more time. So is this my fault? It’s never been something I’ve let affect me however the last few years I’ve thought about this more. I am 21(F) now and realise that I was curious about sex from a very young age. Falling in love with a girl older than me at age 10 and always being attracted to those older than me, even if only a year older. I always wonder if I would be straight if I hadn’t had these young experiences.

I've experienced sexual assault numerous times, but that's another story. I was sexually assaulted during my first year at college by two students. On April 2022, my first attacker started to message me. Everything was platonic. We never even flirted. When we met up, everything was fine until he asked to hang out again. I wanted to be nice, so I agreed, not thinking anything of it. We hung out on April 12th, 2022, and everything was fine. Until we were both in his car, he asked if I "wanted to hook up?" I was caught off guard, but I declined. Still, he was persistent. I got uncomfortable and didn't know what to do. Then he started to kiss and touch me. He took my clothes off within seconds. I couldn't push him off. And he assaulted me without a condom. I just laid there frozen and paralyzed while he laughed. Afterward, he acted as if nothing had happened. At first, I didn't think it was sexual assault. I didn't process or comprehend it. I tried to convince myself that "I wanted it. I'm being dramatic. I liked it." I tried to self-gaslight and normalize the incident. I kept blaming myself, "This is my fault. I was the one who got in his car. I should've known better." So I acted like I was okay and tried to move on. Until the next day, I was sexually assaulted AGAIN twice, the second day in a row by HIS FRIEND/ TEAMMATE. In August 2021, my second attacker saw me and thought I was "pretty" and "wanted a relationship with me," but I made it very clear to him that I was not interested. Still, he would flirt and try to talk to me, but I kept rejecting him. He stopped trying, and we eventually became cool and slowly started to become friends. On April 13th, 2022, he invited me "to go eat." He lied and instead took me to an empty public parking garage. As soon as he parked, he grabbed my face and kissed and touched me from inside my shirt and pants. HE DID NOT once ask for my consent. I tried to pull away from him, but he still forced himself on me and kept asking me more than twice, "why are you pulling away?" I told him, "I don't want to do anything." He tried to convince me. I said, "NO." Then he had the audacity to ask me, "why?" All I said was, "I'm tired." Even though my second attacker stopped, he still violated my boundaries. After rejecting him multiple times, lying to me, and pulling away. He claimed that "he knew this was unwanted but did it anyway because he had nothing better to do." Afterward, he dropped me off at school. I couldn't keep it to myself anymore. I went to the bathroom so I could call my cousin. I started to cry and told her everything. My cousin attended the same college as me. She was the first person I told. Since she left, I needed to talk to someone on campus. I walked around campus, crying. I didn't know who to go to. People kept looking at me weirdly. That's when I ran into my friend. She took me to her dorm lobby. I told her everything as she comforted me through my panic attack. After 2 hours, I calmed down and went home. Once I got home, I went to bed and slept the entire day. The next morning, I had to tell my mom. I told her everything. There is so much more to the story. I wish I could say justice will be served, but this story ends differently. They got to walk free and still attend my old college, which left me no choice but to transfer. I couldn't stay without fearing that I would run into my attackers. None of this hasn't been easy. The legal process, being hospitalized, switching schools, and the pregnancy scare. My screaming as I held my advocate's hand during the medical examination will always haunt me. Every day after that was harder. I had to cut my long hair because of the flashbacks. I get nightmares. The panic feeling whenever I'm around a man. Feeling used and disgusting all the time. Not knowing how to be or have connections with people anymore. Some friendships not being the same because they rather keep their distance. My cousin not believing me. The reactions I received from people have really affected me. I have friends and many people who believe me and have been there for me. But some reactions from my own family shocked and surprised me. Their response was almost as bad as the assault itself. I'm not the same person I used to be. I could never explain what I go through every day. 8 months later, my anxiety and depression have worsened, and now I have PTSD. I take it day by day. Some days are harder than other days. But I'm trying and working on myself. I'm in therapy, taking medication, and still going to school. I sometimes still feel like it was my fault. Sometimes I feel embarrassed that I was assaulted. What happened is such a huge burden to me. I've debated numerous times about sharing this because of the fear of being judged, but here I am.