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When I was about 5 years old, around 2010, I had a 3-year-old cousin. I don't know exactly how it started. It began with kisses, and I would climb on top of her. I don't remember exactly where I saw it, but my parents just watched them kissing. I remember one time I kissed my cousin on the mouth. That day it was a party. My parents, aunts, uncles, and other relatives said goodbye, and I kissed her. Afterward, I felt strange. Then I kissed her more and more. We stopped in 2013. Then in 2012, with another cousin, it was the same. I would kiss her, and we would laugh. Nobody ever knew, but with that cousin, it continued until 2020. There was also sex in 2017 and 2018. It was consensual. I was 13, and she was 10. Then, around 2017, I also kissed a cousin. He was about the same age as my cousin. I was about 12 years old. Then it happened with her brother, who was almost 14. He gave me oral sex. He kissed me too, and we had anal sex. A lot of time passed until 2021, when I was 16. My 18-year-old cousin went into the bathroom and did the same thing to me: oral sex and masturbation. Every time it happened, it made me uncomfortable. Then he left the bathroom because someone knocked on the door. Nobody knocked. I was scared and felt guilty. Then in 2021, around December, my 10-year-old cousin and I, who was 16 at the time, and my cousin, who was also around 18, told me to get in the bathroom with him. I told him no because I didn't want to. Later, I agreed, and then my 18-year-old cousin put his hand on my penis, and I pulled away. Then, around August 2023, I decided to talk to my mom about it, and she started crying and got very angry.

In Mexico, it's estimated that at least two people are raped every hour. I didn't know this statistic until recently. When I was abused, I minimized what had happened to me. I thought, "There are girls who are raped and tortured, they die, or they're never found again, so why would my case matter? I'm a man, how can anyone believe that a man suffered sexual abuse?" You see, I'm 22 years old. It was just a regular day. I had recently broken up with a partner, and a "friend" from high school, who was once my ex, messaged me. She replied to one of my Instagram stories, and we started talking. It had been a long time since I'd seen her. She said, "What do you think about meeting up on Monday?" I agreed and said, "Sure, let's go for coffee." She lives alone, so the idea of going to her place and eating didn't seem bad to me, like two mature adults. She said, "Let's go to a coffee shop," and I said, "Okay." We were going to be at the coffee shop for two hours because she had to leave for an appointment afterward, and I had an errand to run. Halfway through coffee, her mother called and canceled her appointment, so she didn't have to leave. After that, we went to a nearby bar, had a couple of drinks, and played a game of pool. While we were playing, she seduced me and kissed me, which at first didn't seem unpleasant. After a while, we decided to go to her place. We arrived, and obviously, the idea was to kiss, make out, and leave. I didn't have condoms, and I didn't want to go any further because I had doubts. I still didn't know if I wanted to get back with my ex, so I was holding back or if I wanted to go further. We got to her room and started kissing, rubbing, and a little touching. We started to We started undressing, and I decided not to take my pants off. She insisted, and I awkwardly said, "Fine." I stayed in my underwear, and we continued kissing. After that, she climbed on top of me. This girl wasn't heavier than me, but she was still heavy. When she got on top, I felt something strange: she wasn't on my pelvis but on my stomach. She kept kissing me, and at some point, I ran out of breath. I could still breathe, but I felt too weak to move her. She said, "I want you to put it in," to which I replied, "No, I don't have any condoms, and honestly, I'd rather not do it that way." She told me she had the implant for health reasons, to prevent pregnancy. I immediately said, "It doesn't matter. Pregnancy isn't the only thing I'm worried about. I don't have any condoms, maybe another day." She didn't say anything and kept kissing me. After a while, she lowered her hand, pulled out my penis, and I tried to remove her hands. I said, "Stop, I don't want to." She didn't seem to hear what I said. "Wait, you're not going to like it. I recently had an infection, and it's better this way." So, she said, "Oh yeah, an infection?" I didn't know what to say at first, and she said, "That's a lie." She put it in, sat down completely, and after a few seconds, I ejaculated. Uncomfortably, I said, "Okay, I'm done, I can't do any more." Despite that, she stayed sitting on top of me, in the exact same position. I said, "Okay, we're finished, please move." She said no, that it had been too quick and that she wasn't satisfied yet. I said maybe another day. She noticed my discomfort and asked, "What's wrong?" I said, "I have a lot on my mind. Can you move?" She still ignored me and said, "I can't get pregnant, and if you're worried, it's been a year since I've been with anyone. I don't have anything." I said, "That's not it." Out of ideas, I said, "I'm running out of air." She shifted a little to the side, and when I could breathe again, I was able to move her. I started to get dressed, and she, still naked, grabbed my clothes, hugged them, and didn't want to give them to me. She started saying, "So you're going to abandon me?" You'll leave me here naked, come on, let me clean you with my mouth, wait a bit and let's continue, or sleep here. I told her it was late, that I had to go home and couldn't stay. Still holding my clothes in her arms and refusing to give them to me, I said, "Fine, I'll come back another day." She said, "Okay, but you'll stay that day." I said yes, that it was no problem. Only then did she let go of my clothes and give them to me. I got dressed and left, got in a taxi, and started texting my best friend. At that moment, I felt stupid and had never felt so vulnerable. I kept blaming myself and telling myself over and over, "If you hadn't gone, everything would be fine." I talked to my best friend and my therapist, and later to a support group, and they all said the same thing: it was rape. I stopped crying and started telling myself, "You can't be that stupid." I started minimizing it, and as I said at the beginning, I kept repeating to myself, "There are girls who don't come back, they're drugged, raped, and tortured. They're never..." We met, you went to her house, you drank with her, you agreed to make out, how can you call that abuse? Yet I still feel guilty, I feel empty, alone, and very scared—scared of an STD, scared to tell anyone, and even scared to admit it. I can't help but think that maybe I was the one to blame, that I shouldn't be complaining, and that if I tell anyone, they'll just say, "Why are you complaining about it?"

I was only 5 years old when my 7-year-old sister took advantage of me to do things she had seen. It makes me so angry that my parents didn't supervise her. It infuriates me that I only found out now that she was watching those things and imitating them with me. Why, if they knew she was watching them, didn't they scold her or correct her? Why did I have to endure it? She was always dragging me around, always seeking me out. I'm disgusted with myself for not noticing and not doing anything, but I was only 5 years old. She never said anything; I was the one who decided to speak up. I told my mother, afraid she would hate me or be disgusted by me, crying and with a pain in my chest. But my mother talked to me, and with her, I felt so relieved. I had stopped thinking about it; it no longer tormented me. I get along well with her now; she's my sister, of course I love her. But when I remember, even though I don't cry or get hurt anymore, it makes me so angry that it could have been avoided. Now I have a problem: I haven't had my first kiss. It disgusts me. Even though I like that person, it repulses me so much. But I'm ashamed to tell a psychologist what they would think if I told them my sister did that. They would be disgusted, even though it wasn't my fault.

I'm having trouble categorizing traumatic experiences I've suffered with my younger brother. When I got my first phone, it was a common occurrence that he'd steal it to take pictures of his private areas and leave me to discover the photographs in my gallery. During this time, it was also common for him to peek into the bathroom while I was in there, which is why I'm so zealous over locking doors and turning mirrors away from me nowadays. At one point, he touched me inappropriately. I brought it up to my parents, but they either didn't believe me or simply didn't do anything about it. This behavior has ceased since then, but would these experiences be catalogued as COCSA given how he's younger than me? I want to understand this so I can learn to heal from it.

¨You are an adult, you should be over it¨ Why do people love saying that? as if the minute I turned eighteen I could magically change the consequences of their contempt. I don't think I was ever allowed to be human, I don't remember ever feeling safe either. A diagnosed prodigy since I was four. Winning prices and getting scholarships to private schools my family's income could never dream about. I was perfect, I was useful, I was therefore loved. That's what they told me, so I tried to justify my existence and my talents by being helpful, useful, in a deep need to please everyone. Even monsters. I don't remember much of the first time. I was asleep, it was dark, I woke up with my undergarments missing and a sharp pain, and blood on the mattress. But I didn't remember, I told myself that. I did what I knew best. Clean and be perfect. I was in second grade. But as much as I´d suppress all the nights that went about the same route, the symptoms became heavy to hide. The promise of the school is suddenly a bullied shy girl, terrified of speaking with boys and being alone, terrified of normal forms of physical affection, Insomnia, fear, nightmares, bed wetting, self harm, desperate stunts to get attention or help or anything, flashbacks, dissociation. Sometimes I thought other people could feel what had happened. Constantly making me feel they could take away my ownership over my body, only when I danced I felt free but looking back at the pictures and videos, I was too small to be portrayed like that. As a prodigy you get worshipped like a deity and also envied and despised. You never get to be human. I remember in the playground I was not allowed to play cause I´d win. You wanna know what they made me? A prize. Whoever wins the game gets to sit with me in class and I´d help with their homework. Did I want to play? Of course! but was I in full understanding that In my status I couldn´t? yes. I was twelve the first time I was called a doll. A bunch of classmates had a crush on me, I remember hands underneath the desk. I remember hiding the recess in the restrooms so I did not have to dodge kisses or tug on grips just to free my limbs. And I remember the rumours. Being called a sex worker because boys do not know how to respect your space? that changes your brain. So I kept winning, cause what else could I do except try to escape into better schools, try to win enough so I´ll be strong enough to help others with my passion. But monsters lurk everywhere. The robotics classroom was isolated and consisted of boys older than me, no cameras, no teachers. I begged not to go, but I was a prodigy. I had too make everyone proud. So I did. I didn't complain, not even when it was reported the search history had found pornography. I didn't speak about what happened in those four walls. So school had monsters, then I could look forward to going home, tending the house, cooking, taking care of others, homework, study and when darkness came. I could look forward to a drunken, violent showcase. In my house with no doors. There was never any safety. So I dedicated myself to dreaming of a knight in shining armour to save me. I searched for this magical being in older men that bought me stuff when I acted in just the perfect way. I am so lucky I was able to snap out of it enough to understand even if it felt like coping, it was not what I wanted in my future. That is when I met my partner, a guy from highschool that never rushed to touch me. That helped through meltdowns and panic attacks, he stayed with me on call when I was scared of sleeping or when the drunk monster wreaked havoc. I never told him my story. I only ever started writing about this a few months ago. I got the scholarship to move states and we moved in together. I feel like I am healing, slowly, no one yells at me here, I speak to men again as fellow humans. I feel more human too, I don't have to pretend for him, for anyone. I finally feel real as a person. Nightmares haven´t stopped, the vivid flashbacks when someone calls me doll or when someone smiles a certain way or looks too much like them haven't stopped but I think that is okay, I am human and part of that is finally allowing myself to feel bad. Maybe one day I´ll tell my story, maybe its not necessary. It is not all of my story, just a part, one I am slowly becoming able to see without flinching. I hope whoever reads this has a good day and hope in themselves. I have hope in you.

I don't know if this was classified as something, but when I was about 10 years old, my sister asked me, begged me to please have sex with her. I wasn't sure, but in the end I did it. Does this count as something?

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 never thought I'd have to write this, but I need to get the truth out. I was 14 years old when I went to a party with my mom. She'd been drinking all night. Later, I went into the pool, and a few minutes later, she got in the water with me. At first, we were just swimming. Then, she came closer and hugged me; I hugged her back because she was my mother, and I wasn't expecting anything bad. However, the situation quickly changed. She started whispering sexual things in my ear, explaining "what women like," how to kiss them, and how to touch them. She told me they liked having their necks kissed and started doing it to me while continuing to whisper those instructions. Then, she mentioned that they also liked being touched during those moments and started caressing my shoulders and chest. I felt a knot in my stomach. When she tried to move her hands down to my private parts, I froze with nervousness and fear. I didn't know what to do in that moment; I felt like the world stopped. Thankfully, I managed to react, I pulled away from her, and I got out of that situation. That night I understood that the safest place should have been with my family, but it wasn't. Alcohol was her excuse, but the action was hers. Since then, I've carried a lot of guilt and confusion, wondering why my own body reacted that way or why I didn't stop her sooner. But now I know it wasn't my fault. I was a child, and she was the responsible adult. I'm sharing this on Our Wave to break the silence about maternal incestuous abuse, a topic that almost no one talks about. If you're reading this and something similar has happened to you with a family member, I want you to know that you're not crazy and you're not a "mistake." Your body reacted as best it could to survive. You deserve to heal, and you deserve to be believed.

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.

It started as sexual harassment. And I let it happen. Do not let it happen to you! I was a college intern working on my supply-chain management major. In business school you know you don’t just get a degree and POOF! A job is magically waiting for you. Unless you already have connections. I was a single woman on financial aid and had squat for family connections. I needed to make some connections while still in school that I could use to climb the ladder. It is a very competitive world. A time when we don’t care so much where we work as long as it has prospects of advancement and making money. I was interning at the corporate offices for a rental car company. I got my first choice for a class in which we had to intern at a real company. My group of four was in their logistics offices and we had no clear job at the time but my school had sent students for a while so we had a contact person and some loose idea of a project that my group of four had to put together and execute for our grade. Well that was kind of of dud and I went along with the bad idea of planning more efficient distribution routes for their cars entering the fleet. It was naive because the company had real pros who designed the system. But, because of my feminine wiles, I got invited to come in and help in my free time by a top manager. Just me. I jumped at the opportunity and on my available days I showed up early in the morning and tried to be like part of the team. It was a very masculine environment. I tried to hang in spite of the pretenses for my special treatment. “You’re not one of those feminist types who go crying to HR if a man gives you a compliment or a pat on the backside, are you?” The man who first invited me had asked. We’ll call him XX. I assured him I was not, anticipating his expected answer. “Work hard, play hard,” was something I said in my denial of values he was obviously opposed to. So the couple times XX introduced me as his mistress I went along with the joke. Another stupid mistake. As an example of my environment, after a male Y in the department first showed me how to use part of a program that calculates stock outages, he had me sit and try it and gave me a massage I did not ask for early in the morning. Well XX came up and made a joke about Y getting his hands of his girl. They had some bro moment where the male Y asked him if he was serious, saying something about XX’s wife, to which XX backed down and said something like “It’s just a joke. I’d love to in my fantasies, but she’s company property, brother.” Company property??! I was sitting right there! I tensed up but tried to pretend I was so absorbed in the computer training as XX left and male Y went back to massaging me, but this time more boldly. He got down my lower back and upper buttock then went down the arms to my thighs, stopping me from doing any work as he blatantly brushed his forearms and hands against my chest. I felt so weak and almost paralyzed by the time I forced myself to stand up to go use the restroom, stopping it. I could have just done that at the beginning but did not. Later hat same day, XX had me go to lunch with him and have a beer at a bar and grill with a pool table. I was 20 but they did not ask for my ID because I was with XX. I hardly ever played pool and while we waited for our food he “showed” me how to play. He made fun of the cliché on movies and television where a man has a woman bend over the pool table to shoot just so he can push his crotch against her backside in a suggestive manger and lean over her with his arms on each side of her to show her how to slide the stick. But while he joked about it he actually did those things to me! That was a good day for my two main molesters and an awful day for me. XX hugged me as we stood up giggling and apparently his hands now had a license to molest my body whenever he wanted. I got numb to it in some ways, but emotionally more on edge. My butt was grabbed or spanked playfully in the department, even by male Y. A few other men were very flirtatious. My shoulders were rubbed, hugs on even minor greetings with XX and finally I was supposed to get used to little pecks on the lips too. I felt like I was in a constant state of mental anguish and defensiveness. My body could be attacked anytime. But I did not defend myself! I would say clearly to XX and some others that I wanted to be respected and considered one of the guys and have a job there when I graduated and they affirmed it. Both main abusers encouraged me, but still sexually harassed me. With my moronic blessing! The semester ended and I kept going in daily during summer break. It was my only lifeline to a possible job after I graduated in a year. I was so groomed that it was not a big leap at all when XX pressured me to give him head in his office. I refused with a smile and head shake and he came back with some rationalization about how I owed him and he really needed it just then. He would not take no for an answer. The first time I lowered myself to kneeling before his desk and took him in my mouth my hands were shaking and I teared up and had to sniffle snot back up. I was the one who was embarrassed! It was like an out of body experience and my mouth dried up to where I had to ask him to drink some of his energy drink. Internally there was a huge change immediately. I was gutted of all pride and self-worth. I was like a zombie. Hardly eating. Lots of coffee. Showing up and doing the reports that had become my responsibility and mechanically giving XX his daily BJ in the afternoon in his small stale office with a small window. I started to have migraines during that summer. I drove home for 4th of July and got so inebriated I ended up sleeping with my much older sister’s ex-husband in the back of his truck. That was a terrible wake up call. I knew I couldn’t pretend much longer without a breakdown so I put my two week in at the rental car place where I was working for free. To secure my future I made sure to keep it all friendly and “you know I’ll be back working here next year”. The idea of all the time and humiliation I had put in being lost to nothing was a major fear. I put myself through two last weeks of it. I had quickie sex with XX twice on and over his desk. I gave into extreme pressure and gave male Y a BJ too when he explicitly made it about a letter of recommendation. He knew about me doing it for XX. He did not even have his own office and we had to use the stairwell. During my final year of school I became aware that I was too traumatized to ever go back there anyway. The extent to which I had been used and abused became obvious to me, where before it had not. As if I had been living in a denial haze. It was a painful time. I was a bit reckless. I got a C in the high level economics elective I took. I said yes to several dates to avoid being alone and either slept with them or freaked out in anger at them. Seeing that I needed the car rental faux-internship on my resume I did email both abusers for letters of recommendation and got a good one from Male Y, but a very impersonal, generic one from XX. I was so dejected and angry. Finally, I told my sister, the one who confronted me about her ex-husband. I TOLD HER EVERYTHING AND THAT WAS MY FIRST STEP TO RECOVERY. To letting out the pain, screaming at myself in the mirror, punching the heavy bag at a boxing gym I joined, and to seeing my first psychologist and psychiatrist. The therapy helped more than the Celexa and antipsych. The support group helped even more. I met two friends for life who have my back in times of sorrow. I have to repeat that it is not my fault that I was abused, even though it kind of was. Don’t let it happen to you! They will take as much as they can from you. Plan your boundaries now and be assertive! Report harassment immediately. Doing so you are being a hero and protecting other women and yourself. If you have already been abused, GET OUT of the situation and talk to someone about it ASAP. There is nothing to be gained by letting the abuse continue! Talking to someone makes it real and lets you start the process of hating less and starting on the path to learning to love yourself again. You deserve real love.

Just words. You have trouble talking about these things. You realize you have trouble talking about a lot of things. You remember being excited about your first job at Company Name. One of your friends works there and you know a lot of people work there as a summer job. It’s the 1990’s and it’s been grandfathered in that they can pay you less than minimum wage because it’s like a part time training experience for students getting their first work experience. Like a newspaper route. Those are for boys. You got so excited after being nervous you asked for an application along with your friend. You don’t remember meeting him then. So many people want to get chosen for that crap job because for some reason it’s become a sought after thing among the cool kids. You do remember the phone call that you can come for an interview. Walking home you wonder if being cute and having larger breasts than most almost freshman girls had something to do with it. You met Name and remember him for sure this time. The way you look has been a curse far more than a blessing. One reason people would not feel that bad for you. 'God sure blessed you, honey." You have so many bad memories, blocked memories, repressed memories because of Name. You are having second thoughts as tears build up. You need a drink. You quit drinking years ago and today you have three months and eight days sober. Your record is nine months and two days. You are strong. Most of the time. You are hollow. All the time. Name wasn’t the last but he was the first. You change his name although you don’t want to. He is the symbol of your hatred of all that is wrong with men. You were tricked. Name got what he wanted from you. Too many times. Too many times before you stopped going back. Just stopped. You could have just stopped after the first time he held you close and caressed you before your mom picked you up that night. The first time. You still don’t understand or forgive yourself for that. You had let a boy at a party and a boy at an 8th grade dance put their hand up your shirt. You had liked it so much those times. It had been exciting and happy. Name did not make you happy. You went back. You want to talk about something else now. Not the other men who thought your body was their plaything. Not the time you went to Ireland with your Aunts and mom. You miss mom. That was a good trip. You got back to that a lot. You sat down to talk about things you don’t talk about. On a family trip to Adventureland you asked your cousin if was considered losing your virginity of a boy did it to your boobs. You pretended it was a cute boy, not Name. It was hard to breathe with him sitting on your torso thrusting. You sometimes break things and scream. Never when your son is around. You have two jobs and don’t really like the one that pays the most. Your college degree does not count much. How much life is wasted on despair and doubt and taking the wrong path? You feel relief when he finally finished. You hate when he finishes because you know he is stealing his ultimate pleasure from you when he has a wife. He acts like it was just another day at work to keep you on his leash. You are pathetic. His remnants are inside you every time you go home after closing with him. Just another miserable day in the life. You say nothing. You tell no one. You are worthless except as a vessel for him. Your parents say nice things to you, about you. They always have. They have to. They don’t know what you really are. A black shame is the times you felt pleasure in your body while he was doing it do you. At least while you remained quiet and motionless there was some dignity. Defiance. Insult to him. When your body and voice reacted like you liked it it was a betrayal. Like you liked that tub of disgusting man on top of you and inside of you, fucking you on that tile floor, kissing you like a lover. You befriended a group of guys by mid high school. Over a year after Name was more than thorn in your soul. A deep callous. The group figured out what you were. They played football. They were important and had strong will. They shared you and passed you around. They told you they loved you. That you were the coolest girl. They took what they wanted when they wanted. Why? Name 2 was you lab partner for biology. He was the first. He was the only one your age. You went in his car for lunch and met some others. They wanted you. You volunteered. It is all you are good for. Draining them of their juice so they can be happy and feel like men. So you can feel empty and dirty. Even after they graduated they got together for group fun, or had you sneak out at night to go for a ride. You headed far west after you graduated. A fresh start. An exodus. An escape. You went to one reunion. The ten year reunion. Name 2 came with his wife. He introduced you as his ex-girlfriend. You let hm take you to the disabled restroom and have his quickie. You went to the bars afterward and ditched your real friend and let Name 3 take you back to his hotel room to live his fantasies just because he claimed that he always loved you. They say attractive people have sex more frequently with more partners than normal people. The darkness behind that statement is that for females it is no always because they want it that way but because of the relentless pressure from men and how they will do anything if they get the opportunity. You are not a nice innocent girl. Would you have been if it had not been for Name like you want to think? Would you have let your much older cousin you barely know take you back into the woods with him behind their house to the shack where he smokes pot after a wedding. Then wait there for him to call his friends after he found out you were a bad girl and wait for them too. Swatting flies in your underwear while you waited for them. You did not drink because your mom did not allow it even though kids younger than you were. But your cousin and his local friends did. Four of them counting your cousin old enough to be your uncle. Still, you acted like you liked everything they did. They took it so far like you were the world's greatest toy. Porn star, they called you like it was the best thing you could be. The anal was excruciating. It was easier to just wash off all your makeup than to try to fix it after all the sweat and sticky. Smiles and complements followed by the deep hollow feeling of total isolation in the station wagon on the way back home from Kansas city. Hating Name and feeling like you betrayed your aunt because one of them was her fiancé. You got an infection and it was embarrassing when the doctor told you. At least it was a female doctor. The idea of a male gynecologist is unnerving. The one time you were examined by one was terrifying. You were in college. He was way too thorough and talkative like he was working up to asking you out on a date and you decided never again. The only one you ever had that did not wear gloves for the breast exam. The most sensual digital vaginal exam you ever had to check the cervix and ovaries for pain. Was his thumb supposed to be brushing your clitoris? You even wonder if he was recording it on his phone that you saw him adjust twice as it was peaking out of the breast pocket of his lab coat. His stupid November mustache he asked you if you liked. So some days you don’t eat. You exercise to maintain the body they want. It gives you value to them. You are nothing. People always say nice things. Hollow things. What if you had never met Name? What if you never got fucked on the floor for $3.45 an hour. On your back, on your hands and knees, sometimes even on top of him. Your first orgasm on that floor that smelled like stale milk and bleach. Having to tell your mom pick you up 45 minutes after the place closes for your cleaning duties. You used tampons just to keep from his semen leaking out on the way home. You pretended to be a virgin when you were far from it. He told you not to worry because he had a vasectomy. That part must have been true. You don't got on dates even though they always try to set you up. Not a chance. Your son is a good excuse. And a real reason. Real love. The Earth spins in space. Why can’t it just freeze and die like me? Your boss doesn’t go all the way with you because he won’t cheat on his wife. You give him oral because he doesn’t think that counts. Preserves his purity. He says he wants to so badly, like he can take whatever he wants from you but he is strong and valiant. You are nothing. He is handsome. You let him kiss you and fondle you. You long for his touch. He is not a great man but you long for him. The closest thing to a good man you have known. A father figure. Your son needs a father figure. He is everything. He deserves better. He loves you. He tells you are a good mom and that is worth enduring the world for as long as it takes. You put on a good face but he knows you are hollow, deep down. A wounded duck pretending to be a swan. Always pretending. Was there no pretending before Name? Maybe not. The days begin and your mind pretends and it is hard and the days end. Bad dreams on both ends. Will he be a good man? The funny thing is you want him to be a prince because he is your prince but even if he is like most men you want his total happiness. You want beautiful girls, good times, and strong friends for him. You exist to fake it and to have let those men enjoy you but mostly to give your son the best life possible beyond you. You are not worthless. It is not your fault. You are stronger than you know. Hollow words. They have to say it. They always have. No creativity. No insight. No truth. Just words.

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 conditioned to think catcalling was a compliment, that if someone held your waist a little too long at work it was just cause "ahh they're just a bit touchy", that it's easier to just "go with it" than to say no and risk their response. It took me years to identify that no matter the degree of your experiences it still is never ok. We often get told sexual violence is one way but it isn't, it comes in many forms and sometimes you can't identify it at first - and that's ok. I am only recently coming to terms with the varying degrees of experiences I've had. I didn't want to say anything because I was made to believe I'd "rock the boat". Well some boats are meant to sink. Let's rebuild the boat so everyone can stay afloat, included and safe.

I was only 6 years old when I was sexually assaulted. The first time I talked about it with anyone and said it out loud was this year. I'm now 22... that means it's been 16 years later. But I am so thankful to have the support system I do have - the support system who has been strong enough to give me the courage to finally speak up for myself ❤️

I really want to tell anybody my story to be better than me my story start when I love my casein he really pretty and hot I love him for 5 years and it was the best 5 years I never tell him that I love him but he always makes me feel that he have the same feeling by doing moves but he really selfish and he proud at himself a lot I don't know why and he sometimes is really rude and star tells me that am ugly fat and you not pretty you like men but I wasn't ugly but when you love anybody you understand them and try to not make problems with them and one day he was really jealous of my guy best friend and start to tell me his not good don't talk with him and I try to know why he tells me that I want him to tell me that he is jealous so after one day he said that am used girl and I be really sad but now I try to forget him and love my self cause he let me hate my self so I need to tell you don't let anybody make you feel sad and uncomfortable with your self just be your self and people opinion it is just an opinion not true . I hope you get advantages from my story.

I always struggled with my words even before that night happened. Using alcohol as a mechanism to survive in social spaces I never belonged. Maybe that’s how he picked me out he saw his victim: lost, voiceless and out of control. After that night, I felt the loneliest and most out of place I’ve ever felt. That girl was lost, she felt out of control, she felt voiceless. Now, nearly 10 years later. I have found my voice. I am not a victim but I’m a survivor. I speak for women whose voices are lost too, so one day they will have the courage to find them and speak up too. You are never alone and anytime you use your voice I promise you, you’ll be heard. We are women, we are powerful!

Dedication: To all of the women and children that are fighting domestic abuse. I witnessed domestic violence between my mother and her boyfriend every day from the age of 6 up until the age of 11. I witnessed brutal attacks, one time my mother actually stopped breathing. He was a very jealous man. He wanted me out the way as much as possible. He even resorted to breaking my dogs leg in a fit of rage. My mother became a victim of ‘cuckooing’ by a local gang and was introduced to drugs. Her boyfriend stole from them and my mother was kidnapped. We both had to go into protective living. I stayed with my nan for 2 months not knowing where my mother was or even if she was alive. The gang found my mothers boyfriend and beat him to an inch of his life. My mother was later given an ultimatum; Him or me. She chose me. After us he moved on to another family. Unfortunately those children weren’t so lucky. They all got split up by the care system. It has not been until these past couple of months that I have learned to accept what happened. It has been a rollercoaster of emotions. Confusion, anger and tears. I had to say goodbye to the innocent little girl that was once me. At a crucial time when my child brain was meant to be developing and understanding the world, I had to skip that part completely. I was quickly brought into an adults world. After it all ended I had to build a whole new foundation and create a whole new person. It was almost like Norma Jean transforming into Marilyn Monroe or Beyonce becoming her alter ego Sasha Fierce. Before this, I had no identity. At the age of 6 I was just starting to find my place in the world which was then quickly taken from me. It wouldn’t be until I was 17 that I would have to come face to face with my mothers abuser again. She came home one night in a complete drunken state with him in tow. I looked him dead in the eyes and told him that I was 17 not 7 anymore and I was not afraid of him and he couldn’t hurt us anymore. The police ended up escorting him away. My mother was always encouraging of me and always told me she believed in me and to believe in myself. That I am so grateful for. I am so grateful for life. Every day I would wake up and wonder if that day would be the day I died. I think the way I got through it was fight or flight. My body chose fight. I had a best friend at the time who I am still best friends with to this day. Her mother was also tackling her own demons at home, so our friendship grew closer. My mother ended up having a hard time coming to terms with dealing with what happened. She is unfortunately a shell of person he once was. The song by Jessie J – I Miss Her sums it up perfectly. She is still breathing but she is not really living.

It wasn’t until I read this platform that I realised what happened wasn’t trivial. A friend at the time told me to go to the gardai, if not for me, but for anyone else who might have been affected or might later be affected, because you just don’t know. I handed them everything, and they did nothing. If it wasn’t for the help of my friends I don’t think I would still exist. I attempted suicide 6 years after it happened because the concept of getting serious with my boyfriend meant in my head that it would happen again. I suffered flashbacks and he was always so patient. I’m happy to say, now that boyfriend is my fiancée, it does get better. I was in college, I had a serious eating disorder, and this guy was the only one who didn’t try to change me but accepted that I was very sick and didn’t demand that I eat. In hindsight that was a huge red flag. He was happier that I was vulnerable and didn’t want me to get better. After a year together he started to get violent. He refused to let me be by myself. I remember very distinctly the first time he got violent on my birthday, and the only place I could be was in my bathroom because it locked. I sat there all day, knowing he was outside, not knowing what would happen next. When I came out, he was just watching tv as if nothing had happened. He would routinely steal my debit card and buy food for himself, knowing that was my food budget for the week, and none of what he bought I was comfortable with eating. He kept me from recovering for two years. At one point, he took every penny I had, and had no money to go home for the weekend. I had to lie and tell my parents I was staying there to finish essays, I was so ashamed that he could control me like that. I was in denial, believed it was just harsh words and he didn’t know himself or his strength, I was just too weak. I tried to break up with him, but he guilted me into taking him back, saying no one else would ever love me. I took him back. We went to a Christmas party, and he made me feel guilty for him because he ‘missed’ the last bus home, so he asked to stay on my couch. I couldn’t say no. He knew everyone else was out at the Christmas party, so he coerced me into sex, as he had done before, but I saw it as a way to give him what he wanted to avoid him getting violent. Until then the sex got violent too. That night I didn’t consent, I actively said no. I cried quietly and when it got worse I asked him to stop. In response, he strangled me till I couldn’t see properly, and left bruises. When I tried to scream he clawed at my face and scratched my retina, leaving me needing glasses (which I never needed before). I bled everywhere, but he just went to sleep with his arm around my neck so I couldn’t leave. The next day I went into uni, and tried to tell a former friend who studied law, but because she was his friend she joked that he was into BDSM and things like that happen all the time if it just goes wrong. After she told him that I had mentioned it he had me sign a ‘contract’ that said how good he was at sex. I honestly can’t remember how he convinced me to do that, it was all a blur. I don’t remember most of that year, but I know he sent me threatening letters that never stopped until I moved house a year later. After that, as she was the first person I told, I thought no one would ever believe me. But a friend, without me saying anything, let me know that he knew something had gone on. Something was wrong, and finally I told him. He convinced me to tell others, to go to the Gardai, to get therapy, to go to the rape crisis centre and tell them. Another friend let me stay at her house almost all the time as he sent me death threats by text and on social media. They pulled me through university and helped me in any way possible, organised for me to have a separate exam hall from him, and even brought me on nights out to know that I was still able to have fun, and I was still loved even after it all. My one regret is not pursuing it further. He’s an occupation now and I dread the idea of someone that evil near other people and in a position of power over others. I lose sleep over it. I wish I could get back the gardai file and insist that yes it was that bad, yes he is violent. I could stay at my own home for two years. I lost several stone with fear and worry. But I finished my exams, I finished my degree, went on to further study and even found who true friends are.

I wrote this letter to my uncle who has always played the victim. Dear Uncle X, It has been 28 years of this haunting everyone involved and after all this time I have never spoken up directly about this because I did not want to stir the pot, but now I feel it must be said because I cannot have this haunting my family anymore and you keeping attacking us. Up until the first incident you were my favourite uncle, the one I would gravitate to, I bet you never knew that. Yet you were also my first sexual encounter, the first time I ever felt an erection, the first person I was terrified of. I remember walking up the stairs slowly trying to get to the bathroom and you would call me into your bedroom and pull me under the covers, I remember feeling your erection against my backside, while you patted me, this happened on many occasions. I remember sleeping on the couch and feeling your breath on my face as you stuck your tongue in my ear, I remember the shock and fear of this. I remember the feel of your hands on my buttocks and my breasts, I remember you putting my own small hands in your lap. I remember hiding in the bathroom with the chain lock in place and you pushing yourself against the other side of the door asking what I was doing in there, while I watched your eyes try to see past the lock. I remember pushing the dresser against the door in the front bedroom and hoping you didn’t come in, hiding with my cousins and little sister. I also remember how it felt to be told by my own grandmother not to say anything if I wanted our family to stay together. I remember the call my parents got in the middle of the night and being told over the phone that this was happening to us, months after telling our grandmother, aunt and uncle about the incidences. I remember hearing my mom scream and my dad yell, I remember my brothers’ eyes as he stood at the bottom of the stairs wanting to leave to find you, but stopping because my dad, your older brother was crying at the top of the stairs. I remember the fear, excitement and relief that they finally knew, but I also remember listening to my own mother crying and trying to hid it from us, while she blamed herself for not protecting us from you. I remember that many who new choose to blame us for your actions. I remember sitting in front of a stranger in a closed room while I told them what you did to us. I remember hugging my little sister, who tried to stay strong and protect me while I felt guilty that I could not protect her. Does this sound like a girl who seduced their uncle (as grandma would say), who had the devil in their eye? who is being vindictive and ruining your life? You were supposed to protect us yet you didn’t and worse yet you blamed us for it. You played the victim, you played the one who is hurt by all this and claims it had destroyed your life. You who got married and had kids and owns a house, you who has gotten to have most of your siblings stand by your side back then. You have managed to convince your wife that we seduced you. I was the oldest and only 12, a very young naive 12-year-old, my sister was the youngest at 10, four children, four people who got their lives forever altered because of your sexual urges. Imagine for a moment that this was your child or your step children who were being molested and people who new blamed them for it, saying they seduced a full-grown man, then try to imagine that person coming back over and over again saying that your child is lying, that it is their fault and that they ruined that grown man’s life, that is what it has been like for us over and over again. Your actions have taken its toll on us. Do you have any idea what it’s like to hear your own grandmother say you had the devil in you? Do you know what’s it’s like to have letters written saying they believed we acted inappropriate and that we won’t be coming around their husbands because we would seduce them? We were just children. One week after my own wedding my mother had to kick my grandmother off the front lawn while she screamed at my parents that “if we had of been raised right this would have never happened” in front of our neighbours. My own honeymoon was darkened because you both thought we should help relieve your lives. Everything in my life changed in an instant, it changed the first time you choose to act out your sexual urges on children. I cannot speak on the other victims behaves, but I will say this, look at the other victims, look at their current lives and where they have ended up and know that their lives could have been different if you had of keep it your pants. Each one of us has been fighting their own demons over this part of our lives, you let others attack us verbally because you were a coward and choose to let children take the blame for your urges, you let the family be destroyed because you would not do the right thing. I spent many hours trying to come to terms with it all and the damage it caused me. I struggled with it every day, it is not just the inappropriate touching but the way it was handled. It’s the way you and grandma and the ones who knew made me feel about myself. Not once have you stood up and said you did wrong, you choose to blame children instead of admitting it was you. I am 40 years old now, I have two wonderful children and I have a great career as a Registered Nurse in an acute care setting. I managed to get my degree in Bachelor of Science in Nursing, a diploma in Pre-Health Science as well as a diploma in Medical Office Administration, all with honours, and I did all of this as a divorced, single, full-time mom. I have had many ups and downs but I am strong, I am a fighter, I am smart, compassionate, and most of all one heck of a mother to my children. Your actions will no longer have weight on my life, it will no longer define me, it will no longer be something I survived, I choose to triumph and rise above it, I choose to forgive my extended family for their parts because I choose to love me. It is funny though, the one line that sticks out throughout the entire CAS file, which is 32 pages in length is the you stated, “I’m touching you because I need a girlfriend,” this one reason is why our lives were forever changed. signing me.