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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.

I don't know if what my brother did to me can be classified as sexual abuse. I was staying over at his house. It was late at night, and we were watching a movie. At some point, he asked if he could initiate some cuddling. I actually agreed, since we are really close and both enjoy physical affection. While we were spooning, he snuck his hand under my shirt. He didn't say anything, and I didn't say anything. As the night went on, he alternated between different caresses, kisses on my head or the side of my face, and words of affection. I idly stroked his arm back because I felt awkward just lying there. He eventually asked "is this okay?" in reference to his hand inching up my stomach. I was giving him the benefit of the doubt and still thought the action was platonic, plus it felt nice, plus I am a timid person and have a hard time with confrontation, so my brain thinks saying "no" to people is provoking them, so I said "yes". I didn't really want to say it I, though. I don't think I wanted to say "no", wither. I don't think I wanted to say anything at all. I was tired. We both were. His caresses smoothly progressed to the point he was caressing the underside of my breasts. That's when I started really questioning his intentions. He asked "is this okay?" again. I said "yes" again. When the movie ended, I got scared. I had been using it to distract myself from what was happening, and I was afraid that now that there was no distraction, he would shift his whole attention to me and try to initiate something; so I sat up. He lightly squeezed the underside of my breast as I did so, maybe on purpose, or maybe as a reflex. When he realized I was genuinely pulling away, he took back his hands, said: "I'm sorry. Your brother's a creep", and got up to take a shower. I think that's the moment I started freaking out. It's what confirmed my suspicions that his touches really had sexual intent behind them. I had been trying to gaslight myself into believing they were innocent affection, but those words were forcing me to face the reality of my situation. I remember running my mouth non-stop about random topics when we were having breakfast because I was afraid he was going to bring up what just happened and would want to have a conversation about it. I didn't want to talk about it. I wanted to pretend it never happened. I still try to. But it haunts me. He and his wife (who had been sleeping peacefully in their bedroom through the whole night) left early in the morning for their honeymoon (I was there to house-sit, and had come the night before to hang out with them before they left). Once I was alone, I quietly went to their bed to sleep (with their permission and insistance, since there were no other beds in the apartment). As I tried to fall asleep, I still could feel his hands on me, like a phantom touch. I broke down right there. I felt guilty, and disgusting, for not having stopped it and for having enjoyed it too. I felt like maybe I was the creep, and maybe I was the one turning this interaction into something inappropriate. The following weeks, I tried to suppress my feelings. Some days before Christmas, I was on a plane with my mother, about to start our holiday vacation. I was close to my period and my breasts felt sensitive. That triggered something in me and I suddenly teared up right there, in public. That vague ache reminded me of the feeling of that one squeeze he gave to my breast. My mother noticed me about to cry, but I lied and said that's just because I'm close to my period and feeling gloomy (I had been struggling with depression for a while, which she knew.) During the trip, I would get random flashbacks to that night, sometimes even accompanied with feelings of nausea. I felt like I was making my brain overreact somehow, since I hadn't been raped and I shouldn't be traumatized for touching that can barely even be considered intimate. When we got back home, I did something I'm not sure whether I regret it: I talked to him about it. I sent him a long text (he lives in another city, which actually made me feel safer about confronting him) which I barely remember anything about, except that it mentioned "that night" and how I had been upset by it. I broke down while typing it, and it probably wasn't very coherent. My brother sent me many short replies in quick bursts when he saw it. He apologized profusely. He said "I don't know what's wrong with me", "I'll get psychological help", alongside many things I don't remember. That had me freaking out a bit. What did he need psychological help for? Was he admitting he's got urges he can't control? But I didn't say anything related to that. I was afraid of accusing him, and I made sure to clarify I was also to blame for not setting down any boundaries. We were both replying to each other without thinking. We were panicking, and full of adrenaline. I was scared of losing him. He was the only connection I had in the city we both lived in (very far from our hometown, where our parents and my friends all live). I didn't want to upset him, because he's a very sensitive person and I already felt guilty for how I was reacting to it. We somewhat resolved the issue over text. Except we didn't. At all. I pretended we did, but I was still plagued by doubts and paranoia. More than the touching, what haunted me were his words: "I'm sorry. Your brother's a creep." They shook me to my core. All I had wanted was to be in denial about what happened, but those words wouldn't let me. The story goes on to this day, but I don't want to write too much about the aftermath of "that night", since I'd be writing for too long and I want to focus on whether it was an instance of abuse. At this point, I feel a little more grounded and able to accept that what happened had sexual undertones. I am still full of shame and guilt. I did consent to some of the touching. I'm not certain I wanted to, but it is something I did. That would usually make me think this is a consensual encounter and that I simply regret it now, but there are many factors that also contribute to my belief that this could potentially be an instance of abuse too. First of all, my brother was 38 at the time. I was 20, which yes, is an adult, but still; he is my much older brother. He was already nearly an adult by the time I was born. He's been a figure of authority my whole life, even though he likes to pretend he's not. He's a little clueless when it comes to what's appropriate or not in social contexts, but I do think someone his age should know better than to sneak his hand under his little sister's shirt and go up her body so much his fingers actually brush against her areola. Secondly, I am neurodivergent, though I hadn't told him at the time. However, when I did tell him, he said he already had suspicions. Regardless of that, I've always been quiet and withdrawn, so it upsets that he initiated touching under the guise of innocent affection and then expected me to be able to express my discomfort when it escalated without him specifying it was going to. I don't think his form of seeking consent was productive at all either. He only asked me if two specific touches were okay, and only after starting to do them. He didn't ask for explicit permission for anything but the cuddling at the start. What I want to say is that I was vulnerable. I am young, inexperienced, autistic, and he has always been an emotional support and almost parental figure to me. I don't know how he can be so naive as to think he doesn't have any power over me. Maybe he does know that, but wasn't thinking at the time. I still don't get why he would touch me like that. I find a little solace in thinking that maybe I didn't have any control over it after all. But I don't know. Maybe I did. I am an adult after all. And I do believe he would have stopped if I had told him to. But I definitely never gave any enthusiastic consent. I feel betrayed. I feel lost. I feel angry. I feel sad. I've been avoiding thinking about it for months. Tonight, it all came back to me once more and I broke down again. I truly don't know what to do. I don't want to tell anyone close to me what happened because I am ashamed. I certainly don't want to tell my parents. I kind of want to cut ties with him, but at the same time I don't because I truly believe he is remorseful about it and I don't want to make him sad. I can't help being naive. I don't know if that's comforting, or embarrassing.

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.

I’m sharing here because I hope I can reach out to other women who may have gone through marital rape or may still be going through it and I want you to know you are not alone. For years I felt as if I was asleep as I couldn’t face up to what was happening to me, why I was losing weight and why I so depressed. I minimised everything, even to him. I would try and make him feel better afterwards. Most of the time it was as simple as me saying no to sex and him doing it anyway while I was completely disconnected, and it was so often, I would lie there and wait til he was done most of the time, but each thing built up to him pushing the boundaries further, sometimes when we were out in public, always after I went out with my friends, it was part of the deal. I always told myself he’d be in better form if I just went along with it. He was always so stressed and so angry. And I loved him and sometimes I enjoyed sex with him. It made things very confusing in my head. And I was eating barely anything, which he encouraged, he was constantly buying me exercise equipment and sexy outfits. I kept getting sick, I was tired and low all the time. My family and friends were saying I wasn’t myself. There were 3 incidents that I play over and over in my head that I couldn’t minimise (although I tried). And they led to me telling him our marriage was over. That was a year ago. I thought it might help me to write one of them down and maybe someone will identify with me and it might help them. It was at his best friends wedding and as usual, he wanted us to do something exciting sexually. So we went to the men’s toilets. We were kissing and we started to have sex. I was quite drunk. All of a sudden he turned me around and bent me over the toilet, my hands on the window sill. I started to say no. It came out in what sounded like a little girls voice. I don’t know why I remember that so well. I don’t know why I didn’t shout. He raped me anally in the men’s cubicle and I was crying looking at a dirty window sill and I could hear strange men outside commenting. Afterwards I kept asking why did you do that, I didn’t want that, it hurt me, you were too rough, I said no. But he he didn’t want to talk about it. He left me sitting with one of his male friends that I didn’t know to go outside with his best friend and have cigars. He saw I was in pain and bleeding for days after. I stayed with him for years after that. Other things happened after that too. I ended up feeling like his stress ball, a rag doll, good for nothing else. I was with him since I was 18 years old and we have children together. He was all I knew. He was my husband and I loved him. No one knew what was happening. Everyone thought we were a couple in love. It wasn’t until I told him I couldn’t share a bed with him anymore and I was starting ti have panic attacks that we went to a marriage counsellor and it all came out. I woke up. It was her face. Her reaction. I felt so stupid and embarrassed. And he tried to explain it away to her shouting at her that he was a man. I was sitting there thinking how did I let this happen to me? I always saw myself as quite a strong, intelligent, bubbly person. I’m in my 40s, I should know better. I was looking at the counsellors face and it somehow didn’t feel as if it was happening. I realised I was shaking and she was worried about me and he was shouting at her. I felt so embarrassed and helpless. And stupid in front of another grown woman. I was thinking what if this was someone I loved telling me this happened to them? But still in my head I kept thinking its not really rape because he was my husband, and I loved him and so many times I wanted to have sex with him so how could it be rape. But why did he want to hurt me? I kept thinking this couldn’t be happening to me. Anyway thanks for reading. I hope it helps someone. I feel it helped me to write it down.

You think your age makes you less to blame, But I carry the weight, I bear the shame. You crossed the line — no excuse to hide, No softer words can wash this tide. I’m not the one who should feel small, You built this cage, you made me fall. No matter your years, no matter your face, You took from me my safe, my space. But here I stand, I claim my voice, I break the chains, I make the choice. I won’t be silent, I won’t back down, I wear my courage like a crown. So hear me now, and hear me clear, Your actions caused this pain and fear. Age won’t protect what you have done— I am the survivor, I have won.

I'm a sexual assault survivor. About four years ago during my sophomore year of high school | went to a halloween party and met a guy. At this party we talked and talked and he seemed kind so l continued to hangout with him after the party. One day we were at his house in his room and things escalated. I was comfortable with kissing and cuddling but shortly after that started, he wanted more-he asked me to have sex and I said no. He continued to ask me and I kept saying no and I wasn't sure until | finally gave up and just gave in and said sure. I was so confused at the time because I knew I said yes at one point so I thought that meant it was okay. Shortly after I learned about coercion and I realized that's what happened to me. Even though it's been four years, I haven't been able to fully heal, but l am healing.

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

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

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

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

Stuck in the bathroom. It is possible to be loved. When I spent ages telling my Mum and Dad that it would be ok to travel to city for a gig , I thought I was grown up and street wise. In reality I was a naive young man - my parents reluctantly agreed as long as we stayed with my friends uncle - this would mean we wouldn’t have to travel back late . The gig was fantastic - we got back to his flat the others went to bed. I stayed up chatting with name - after about half an hour he started asking me if I was a virgin and showing me pornographic magazines . I tried to get away and go to bed - he then attacked me and raped me . I locked myself in the bathroom and waited but he was still agitated - he wanted me to sleep in his bed - I had no idea that a man could do what he did to another male. Two weeks later I went back to stay again after a football match - this time I tried to persuade my parents that I shouldn’t go - but they didn’t want the ticket to go to waste - he attacked and raped me again - I eventually managed to lock myself in the bathroom . I mentally stayed in that bathroom for the next 40 years - never telling - never asking for support - 3 failed marriages - problems with drink - difficulties being a good parent. The first person I told after 40 years was my ex-wife - her response was “I can’t love you - you have violated me by keeping this a secret” - this was crushing and led to a decline to a very dark place. Now with the support of my children, my new partner , a fantastic psychiatrist and a therapist from support organisation - I feel better and believe I can be loved. It is never too late to start to heal .

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

I (24,m) was sexual abused by my best friend at the time we were 10 years old. I was in 3rd grade and had to repeat that grade, so i lost a lot of contact to my friends. I stayed in contact with one friend, the perpetrator, and our friendship grew a lot. When i was at his home he showed me gay porn, this was the first time i came into contact with the topic of sex outside of sex ed class. I wasn't really interrested in it and, nothing more happened that day, but in retrospect I think, the friend was maybe kind of testing the waters. Some weeks later, we were at my place, where the abuse happened. I lived in a multi appartment house, and my mother had rented one appartment two sories down of our main appartment, so my father could move his office down there, we could have a guest room for family menbers that came to visit. I also had a model train down there, and me and the friend spend a lot of time there and played with the train. One day, in the winter time we decided to go tobogganing at a nearby hill. On the way to the hill, and on the way back, my friend talked me into trying out the things we saw in the porn video with him. First i said no to this, as i was only 10 and not interested in this kind of stuff, but he told me this kind of actions are normel for friends, and eventually i said yes. Back at my place, he still tried to talk me into it, and i remember that i didn't wanted to do these things, but was scared to loose him as my friend. Because at that time he was the only one of my old friends i had stayed in contact with. I remember that we were kissing, dry hummping, and me on top of him rubbing our private parts together. But the friend wanted to also try out sex with me. So he talked me into oral sex. After that he treid to talk me into letting him have anal sex with me. He wanted that i take a shower and clean myself up for this, but luckily I never said yes and after the 3rd time of trying to convince me he accepted that somehow. But he wanted oral sex again in exchange. To that i said yes, so he wouldn't be and at me. But i remember that i backed off of him at first to the edge of the bed and to the corner of the wall and sometimes still feel the cold wallpapper touching my back. I remember feeling very confused by all of this, and still to this day 15 years later, i am scared of intimacy with other people and get panic attacts even by just laying in bed with someone or cuddling half naked. I also felt a lot of guilt, because i wasn't forced to to these things and said yes. But today I know better, that i was child , didn't really know what was happening and that he abused my trust and lack of knowledge. I hope i will get better soon, and maybe heal from this. I also hope all the best to all of you survivors out there. What ever happened, it was not our fault.

• Biography (including background): While growing up at home, I suffered physical and emotional abuse from my father, neglect from my mother (a cycle of abuse from my maternal grandparents), violence from my older sister, and had to care for my younger sisters. At the same time, I had a childhood hobby of reading specialized books, and I had a desire to pursue higher education and make the most of my educational opportunities to contribute to society, devoting all my free time to studying... However, at the age of 17, I reached my limit, my physical and mental health deteriorated, and I had eight chronic illnesses (10 types of medication), so I took a two-year break (I also dropped out of high school). After that, due to limited funds (using my own earnings), I applied to a university that I could apply to while still in prefecture name, and enrolled in university. While continuing my education, I left my hometown and, while undergoing treatment for my chronic illness, I actively volunteered and worked for non-profit organization (an NPO for people with Down syndrome).

My husband and I met online in 2004. He was an actor and we began chatting on one of his movie's IMDb boards. In 2006, he flew to Tennessee from California to meet me in my hometown, and after a year together, we moved to Los Angeles. He'd grown up here; I'd never been west of the Rockies. Once settled in LA, we had a tumultuous relationship, caused partly by having very little money (an understandable conflict in a partnership). But the main cause of trouble for us were his family and friends, and he rarely defended me to or protected me from them - an unforgiveable conflict in a partnership. Most of them decided right away that they didn't like me for reasons like my anaphylactic peanut allergy preventing him and me from attending the family Thanksgiving because they insisted on deep-frying the turkey in peanut oil. His mother and siblings didn't like me because I wouldn't answer the door if they dropped by unannounced, and because I asked them not to call either of us past 10pm. A lot of his friends didn't like me because I would come home from working all day and get upset that my unemployed boyfriend and his friends were sprawled out on the couch playing video games, and I eventually put a stop to those visits. A very vocal and cruel critic of mine was one of his ex-girlfriends, who had sent naked pictures of herself to him as a "Christmas present" the first year he and I were together. After I innocently found them (we shared passwords/accounts), I questioned why he needed to keep her as a friend, as "friendship" didn't appear to be what she wanted from him. She blasted me as insecure, possessive, controlling, and immature, and for the duration of our entire relationship, she would badmouth me and try to convince him to break up with me - even after we were married. Those are only a few examples of my setting boundaries and the people in my husband's life trampling all over them and then making me seem like I unreasonable, unstable, and undeserving of being with him. We married in 2016. The aforementioned ex-girlfriend begged him not to marry me, one of his siblings refused to attend the wedding because he didn't like me, and five days before my wedding - which was on my parents' 50th wedding anniversary - his mother sent my mother a long letter detailing all the things she didn't like about me. Despite the attempted interferences, we had a beautiful wedding and about two happy years of marriage. The awful treatment of me continued, but I felt I had won: he married me, and I deserved the happiness I was enjoying. In March 2018, during an argument about how sick I was of how his family and friends treated me, he headbutted me. It truly came out of nowhere. He had never been violent in any way before, and whilst we were exchanging angry words - not even yelling - he simply walked over, grabbed my shoulders, and headbutted me, twice. I immediately developed two black eyes and a bump on my forehead. I was devastated, but I didn't tell anyone. We didn't speak about the incident after that night. In August 2018, we were having a heated conversation whilst eating dinner. I don't even remember what we were talking about. But he stood up, walked around the table, grabbed my shoulders, and headbutted me again. This time I had black eyes, a bump, and a gash above my nose. After this incident, I started seeing a therapist, but I didn't want to tell him about the violent incidents because I was concerned that he'd have to report it, and my husband might get arrested. Instead, I unloaded all the frustration about the horrible treatment I received from his family and friends. I also nurtured two of my own friendships I'd had for awhile, with a woman and a man (who didn't know each other). I told them, separately, about the violent incidents. The woman immediately told me about an act of violence (shoving) she experienced with her fiancé, and offered no additional support. The man encouraged me to leave my husband. I also told my parents about the violence, and they did not believe me. In August 2019, my husband slapped and strangled me. I went to urgent care to be treated for the strangulation, and the nurses called the police. My husband wasn't arrested, but he was sent to court due to the police report the urgent care initiated. I decided that I was afraid to live with him, and asked him to move out. My male friend helped me with rent money so I could afford to live on my own. My husband told his friends and family that I'd been having an affair for months, possibly years, which was not true. They believed him, and they believed that they'd been right about me all along - that I was unreasonable, unstable, and undeserving of being with him. His mouthy ex-girlfriend is a psychologist, and she convinced my husband that I have narcissistic personality disorder and that he is the victim. I went to court on his behalf to prevent him from going to jail, though he did need to complete anger courses and pay fines. His family is trying to help him get his record expunged, because they don't think he deserves to have this follow him for the rest of his life. I, however, have to carry the memories of harassment, cruelty, violence, and devastation for the rest of MY life. My therapists in the years since have not diagnosed me with a personality disorder. Rather, I have been diagnosed with PTSD from what one of them called "a lifetime of abuse". I was abused for years by my husband's mother, siblings, ex-girlfriends, friends, and finally by my husband himself. They're right about one thing: I didn't deserve him. I deserved so much better.

i want justin baldoni to know how proud dv people are of him. i can tell how much he cares and this movie he made has impacted him. my father is a very verbal and physical abuser and my mom left after 20 years and im forever grateful and im so glad they made this movie. thank you justin.

The way we learn about sexual abuse needs to be changed in schools because that’s where it started and I didn’t even realise. Small things that seemed like not a huge deal led to the shaping of my own attitude towards what is acceptable behaviour. When I was 14 during pe, a boy smacked my arse so hard with a table tennis racket it left a mark, I was so embarrassed and so self conscious that I said nothing. The next situation was when I was 16 and I had a younger first year student pinching my bum whenever the hallway was crowded, I could never catch who it was but I knew it was a smaller person in a younger year, it was like a game for them but I was uncomfortable, again it didn’t seem so bad and what would I even say if I were to tell someone? The next incident happened a few months later during a group project where we the students were in a room alone, I was standing talking to a boy the same age as me, I was in the middle of giving my opinion on the project which he clearly wasn’t listening to because he suddenly grabbed me and “jokingly” shook his head between my boobs. I was shocked, and so was everyone else but it had happened and that was that, I left the room upset but also worried I was being too dramatic, our group dynamic had been so good up until that point and I didn’t want to ruin it over this “small” thing so I said nothing, the boy apologised but it was already done, he later asked me to not tell people what happened because it was upsetting for him. These incidents all occurred in an environment where the incidents themselves never stood out, there were girls in my year who’s nudes had spread like wildfire, girls who were more developed than others with boobs and a bum who were labelled sluts purely because of their appearance, I myself got attention from boys and attention could only be positive surely? I was almost thankful that I was being accepted even if it meant I was being objectified and at times mistreated, I couldn’t see clearly at the time, I thought attention that made me uncomfortable was better than nothing. With school in the past I entered my first year of college, I’d had a healthy relationship before that had ended at this point and I’d had sex with only this boy so I felt ok with the thought of it with a new person. I was 19 and there was a boy in my class who I was head over heels for, my heart stopped whenever I saw him. I bumped into him on a night and the feeling was mutual, he gave me a kiss and I couldn’t believe it I was so excited I texted my friends and made plans to see the guy the following week. I saw him again on another night out and we kissed and he asked if I wanted to go back to his house so I said yes. I said yes Ready to have sex with this person. We went back to his house and we started, he was a bit rougher than my previous partner and didn’t take things as slow as I was used to but I didn’t want to cause an issue so I didn’t say anything. Penetration happened faster than I anticipated and it was uncomfortable and then painful but he kept going and I felt tears on my face I was in agony, he stopped eventually. I could tell he was annoyed he didn’t finish so I let him essentially have sex with my mouth, I wasn’t actively giving him oral sex. He got what he wanted out of the situation and I was lying there wondering what I had done so wrong, for him it was just a bad shag and for me it was feeling like I had been torn open, I wish I had said no sooner during the act. I got dressed in the dark and went home, I went to use the toilet and pulled my trousers down and my legs were covered in blood, my heart stopped. I got cleaned up and threw my underwear in the bin and went to bed my body still sore. The next morning instead of going to class I went to my gp. I told her a small lie and said I had a new boyfriend and we had rough sex and I was a bit sore, so she checked me and said I had a cut on my area, she told me to take a painkiller and to take it easy and off I went. Later that day the boy texted me, what a relief maybe this will fix the shitty feeling I have. He texted me to say I got blood on his bedsheets…and I apologised. He quickly moved on with his life flirting with other girls and having better sex than he did with me and I dwelled on it for a long time. I couldn’t have sex properly for a long time, whenever I tried my body shut down, my legs would shake uncontrollably and I would tighten up, I would have panic attacks and the whole time I felt bad for the men I was trying to sleep with, it was always my problem. When I met my current partner I told him what happened, I still didn’t know what to call it, just a bad experience. We took it slow, he was very understanding and let me get back to penetrative sex in my own time, allowing me to get to a point where I could actually enjoy it. My sex life is positive now, my partner and I have a healthy relationship. The incident years ago with the boy in college meant a long period of panic inducing sexual experiences but I think the cause began long before him. The attitude and entitlement of the boys in my formative teenage years had a lasting impact on me. It made me believe I had little to say in what happened to my body, whether I was allowed to enjoy sexual experiences and took away my voice where I could say NO. I think a different experience in school would’ve meant things would’ve gone differently with the boy in college because I still don’t know what to call it, for me it wasn’t rape because I never said no, my body says otherwise, my body felt what happened and shut down from it, it took years to recover. I’m glad I’m where i am now, my hope is that teenage girls get more support in school than I did.

At the age of four, my mom used to take me out to the trunk of her Jeep and beat me for 20-30 minutes at a time. She would hit me, pull my hair, and scream profanity at me. The physical abuse lasted until I was 11-years-old, and she only stopped once CPS got involved. My dad knew; he did nothing. At the age of 6, I got sexually molested at school by another female. My mother told me it was not molestation, and that I was just "playing around." At the age of 11, I was sexually abused by the neighborhood boys. They were in their mid-teens, and would touch me inappropriately, rub their penises against me, and tell me inappropriate jokes. At that same age, I was also dry humped on the face by multiple boys who I considered friends. At the age of 16, I was raped by a 26-year-old man. He groomed me beginning at the age of 14-years-old, and convinced me he was a safe person. At that same point in my life, I was raped by a 23-year-old that I had known for two years and considered safe. He took me to a room where we could "be alone" then proceeded to force himself on me. I was crying and telling him to stop, but he didn't stop. I dated him for three months after that, and he continued to pressure me into sex and emotionally abuse me. Starting at the age of 14-years-old, I began getting harassed online. I stupidly gave out my phone number and address to someone I had trusted, and they were posted on 4chan (a public image board). I was harassed daily: I received death threats; I received threatening phone calls; I would receive calls to my school. I then found out that the person I trusted killed a girl in his home city, and that they had proof I was going to be the next victim. At the age of 17, my step-dad physically assaulted me and almost broke my wrist. He put a cigarette out on my head, strangled me, and threatened me. My mom watched, holding the phone, and told me it was my fault for "not leaving when [she] told [me] to." The only help I got was from a neighbor who saw me run out of the house, covered in blood. That same year, I was kicked out because I refused to lift the restraining order off of my step-dad, and my mom gave me an ultimatum. I refused and went to live elsewhere. At the age of 18, I moved in with my first serious boyfriend. He was abusive and cheated on me multiple times. He would call me every name in the book and threaten to harm me and break my belongings. I did not get away until I was just turning 19. At the age of 20, I moved in with my dad. My step-mom was jealous of my dad and I's relationship and physically assaulted me and kicked me out on my 21st birthday. My dad did nothing again. At the age of 21, I developed life-threatening bulimia and anorexia and began drinking heavily to self-medicate. My fiance helped me through these disorders and saved my life. I am now 24-years-old and have many stable and healthy relationships--both in friendship and love. I am also receiving help via medication for C-PTSD, GAD, and major depressive disorder. I began therapy recently, too, and am learning to confront my traumas and move on. It's hard, and there are many things I remember each day that send me into a panic, but I want to heal and reclaim my innocence, power, and self-worth.

3 guys have taken advantage of me in the past 12 years and I want to tell people about it. Unfortunately the only way I can is online because I can't tell my parents even though I'm 24 now and I can't afford therapy. So hello internet, here's my story (shortened as much as possible). Guy #1 - 2008-2010/2011, both of us aged 13-15/16, multiple incidents. My high school "boyfriend". The first time when we were 13 we'd gone out on a date to the local snooker hall then back to his house. He told me his mum was sick so we had to go to his bedroom to avoid waking her while she slept it off on the couch. It started out as just some basic high school groping then he started getting aggressive and forceful. When I tried to leave just to go to the toilet he pulled me back and pushed me onto the bed. He kept saying he knew what he was doing because he wasn't a virgin. He forced my shirt up, my skirt down and I don't remember if he put himself in me or not. All I remember is him forcing me to feel him and starting to focus on the only thing I could to take my mind off of what was happening - the TV - and about 10-20 mins later my phone going off with a message from my parents saying they were downstairs in the car as I'd asked them to pick me up at a certain time. After this he would make a point of bragging to his friends that I was a slut who'd given it up for him. He threatened me physically and emotionally, he forced me to send nudes and perform webcam shows for him and his friends. One time when we were 15 we met up after school, I thought he was going to apologise, and we started walking towards his house which took us past our high school. At the high school he threw me up against the gate, stuck his hand in my pants and told me I wasn't going to run away this time. I managed to kick him somewhere so he backed off and I ran away. He made it his mission to make my high school life miserable, including cornering me in dead corridors and threatening me, hitting me, trying to sexually assault me again. The last incident with this guy involved him asking me to play truth or dare with him at 16. Again I'd agreed to meet him because this time he'd told me he wanted to apologise in person. Only I was never allowed to do truth and every dare involved me showing him a part of my body or letting him touch me. He even made me swear that he would be allowed to take my virginity once I turned 18. He didn't, I made sure I wasn't in contact with him at all then. I became addicted to alcohol during this time to cope with it all and had to force myself to sober up once it was all over if I wanted a chance of a "normal" life. Plus I'd gotten too good at hiding it from my parents who never spent more than an hour with me each day. Guy #2 - 2015-Jan 2018, me 20-22 and him 22-24, multiple incidents. This was my uni boyfriend. He acted so sweet and kind and caring until he got me. Once I agreed to lose my virginity to him (3 months into the relationship) the majority of that niceness went out of the window. Once he had sex with me once it was all he wanted. Except he put in zero effort and it was all about pleasing him. More than once he coerced me or lied to me to trick me into having anal sex, something I never wanted to do. On one occassion near the end of the relationship he remembered that I had mentioned at the start that I might be interested in trying out rough sex. He took this to mean rape roleplay. Except it didn't feel like a roleplay to me. There were no safewords or precautions in place to make me feel safe. I felt threatened, abused, humiliated, and like I had actually just been raped. He made me feel like it was all my fault too, making out that if I hadn't suggested it then it wouldn't have gone that far. The night I broke up with him he spent hours trying to get me to have sex with him one last time because we hadn't had sex at all since the last incident which was a good 6-8 months before we broke up. Guy #3 - 2017-2018, me 22 and him 29 (unsure, I'll explain), multiple incidents. This was a guy I worked with. He at first told everyone he was gay then told just me that he was bisexual and then that he wasn't really sure what sexuality he was. From the minute I started working there he took me under his wing seemingly to protect me from the awfulness that was the company we worked for. What he really wound up doing was keeping me isolated from everyone else, spreading rumours and lies to everyone to keep me isolated, and kept me for himself. He casually flirted to begin with but everyone wrote it off as joking because they believed he was gay. He spent a lot of time with me, inside and outside of work. We started getting "dinner" after work 2-3 times a week. I say "dinner" because he would always say we were going to get dinner after work. We did get food the first few times but eventually it just turned into nothing but drinks. Alcoholic drinks. I was starting to fall back into my old addictive ways and I could blame him but he wasn't exactly forcing the drinks down my throat. I felt as though I needed it to get through this time alone with him. I was stupid enough to let him drive me home though, every night, even when he'd had at least 2-3 drinks minimum. He took advantage of my intoxicated state. He begged me to give him oral quite often and usually he would eventually roll his eyes and begrudgingly accept my "no". Until one night he forced me down on my knees, undid his zipper and forced himself into my mouth. When he finished it was so forceful that I choked on it, it made a massive mess on my rug and couch. He was regularly harassing me at work, telling me things he was thinking of doing to me, how often he had touched himself that morning, trying to make moves on me when we were alone, etc. I put up with it because he was the only one who knew I'd been addicted to alcohol before and was heading that way again. It was my first job post-uni, I couldn't afford to be fired for being drunk/hungover on the job. Plus I figured it couldn't escalate further if I stopped him coming into my house. Except he would always force his way in or otherwise threaten me so he could get in. He only forced me to give him oral once but after that he would "jokingly" try again and again . I was still dating Guy #2 at the time so figured it couldn't get much worse. Then 5 days after I dumped Guy #2 he coerced me into sex/raped me. He had a boyfriend and the entire time I cried and kept saying to him "what about your boyfriend?" He told me he didn't care, that I was all he wanted and that if I didn't do it he would tell everyone about the drinking and make it sound like I was the one who'd been harassing him so I would get fired. He was a lot stronger than me, he pinned me by my throat while he raped me so I could barely breathe, he threatened me, he told me my pussy was like velvet and he'd love to have access to it more often. He was an extremely intimidating person and I was scared to go against anything he said in case he did it again. He was fired a few months later for unrelated reasons. This is where I found out he may have been older than he said. A coworker told me that he'd had to return Guy #3's ID to him on a work trip one time and that the date of birth on it would make him at least 35 at the time. I don't think I'll ever be able to feel comfortable walking the streets alone especially at night, or stay at home overnight alone, or sit in a car with a man without panicking the entire time unless it's my dad or boyfriend. Some days all I can think about is how broken I feel by all of this but mostly I just feel numb to a lot of things these days. Physical pain doesn't hurt that much, hearing that someone loves me is hard to believe sometimes, and I just feel like life is hard to enjoy sometimes. There are good and great days in between all of that and they're becoming more frequent. I just wish they were more often than they are so I could feel somewhat "normal" again.

The I Hate Mr.DF Club Dear Mr.DF, I once was a student in your classes. I first met you when you were doing your student teaching in Ms. W’s elementary class. You were gentle, supportive, and kind. When you departed we all sang, “Arrivederci Roma“. We were thrilled to give you a good send-off because we loved you so. The next year I went to middle school, I was thrilled to find you had landed a job there and was so happy to now have you as my social studies teacher. I ran home and told my mother with excitement. But, soon afterward, in your first year as a teacher, your character turned sour. You often crossed boundaries with the young boys in our class, by leading them into wisecracks about women, often of a sexual nature. In fact, one day when a boy brought you an X-rated magazine, you sat at your desk and looked at it, slowly, turning the pages, and giggled with the rest of them that surrounded you. Us girls were in awe. We were disgusted, humiliated, and uncomfortable. I went home and told my mother you were a fake as a student teacher, formally all nice-to get your degree, but now the real you came out once you had your own classroom, and wasn’t watched by another adult. Ironically, the girls in multiple sections of your 7th-grade social studies classes began to compare notes and found that your behavior was VERY consistent. We then decided to start the, “I Hate Mr.DF Club”. Yes, we indeed did so to share the episodes that occurred each week in class, often by your own initiation, or lack of stopping the boys from being R/X rated. Most times you added to these conversations, right in front of us, as you did not hide this side of your character. We were on to you and remembered and told each other the disgusting things you said and how you cajoled with the boys, at our expense. We had to pause and watch this, almost every day. I remember my 7th-grade sisters, and how we as 12-year-olds were violated by you, too, too, often. So often, it is easy for me to remember, despite it being long years ago. When the “Me Too” movement started, I began to review if there were times I was silent and if I was violated in any form. I was. By you. Your inappropriate behavior, verbal joking, came back with the same disappointment and sadness I felt back then. Also, anger that you were supposed to provide a safe environment for me and my sisters, but instead you created a highly, chronic uncomfortable class that we females dreaded. I did imagine that you continued your behavior after I left middle school, due to your liking to be piggish, almost every day. While others were unable to see past your anal, pulled together self….the perfect hair in place, the professional watch, the pressed clothes, the serious teacher who walked the halls, the members of the, “I Hate Mr.DF Club” knew the truth behind your façade. Maybe you don’t remember being that way, but anyone who really knows you has seen this side. I’m sure Mr. DL, Mr. Ca, Mr. Na, Mr. Ba, and Mr. Ch, your colleagues saw it, and perhaps they too engaged with you in this way privately but they NEVER did anything like what you did to us. I felt safe in their classes. You on the other hand had to gratify yourself, at our expense. When I saw you went up in the ranks in the educational system, I shook my head and realized no one had ever reported you. No one is saying to be perfect, just ethical amongst minors. Even boys, whom you were a heavy influence on, especially shaping the way they think and can act in front of women. Don’t you think their behavior continued beyond your classroom? Is this the legacy as a teacher you wanted to create? Have you ever had a daughter, granddaughter, niece at age 12? What would you think if she was in a class with constant sexual innuendos? - where we all had to pause as you and the boys had a laugh. You can say that was the culture back then, yes it was. But, how come so many other men, especially the other male teachers, never acted like you in front of us? I’m not looking for anything, such as an apology, because if you do remember and have the insight to recognize your violations, you will apologize to your own self, your character for being so lame. I just feel sorry for you and your wife, and family, who may have been duped into thinking all along you were such a great teacher and human being. And now you know, our club existed, to heal and support one another through the 7th grade. What a concept for a bunch of 12-year-olds to actually know they were violated, too delicate to report what would have landed on ‘deaf ears’ to the male principal, smart enough to know right from wrong, and liberated enough to discern we could collectively validate our experiences. -Former Member of The I Hate Mr.DF Club *All names have been changed