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When I was in my early to mid 20s, I experienced my first serious relationship. It took me more than 2 years to notice I was being manipulated, gaslighted, and psychologically abused. I lost myself in that relationship, I felt like a different person, constantly depressed, and lacking self love. My firsts attempts in getting out of that relationship were useless, he manipulated me into believing I was the problem and that I was the one who needed to change. I was cheated on multiple times, he didn’t want to say end time sith me or my family. I always founf myself making up excuses for him. He made me think that everything was my fault and that I was asking for too much of him. When I decided to leave him, he made me feel like I was the problem and like I was a burden to him. It’s hard to identify when the abuse is psychological, you’re not crazy, you’re not wrong for asking for attention, for dates, for quality time, which I never had with him. Don’t let anyone, humiliate, control, gaslight, or diminish you! You deserve love, support, peace, attention, RESPECT! Try to identify the red flags on that questionable relationship, it’ll get better and it’s never too late.

Date, around time I went on a date with him (a correctional officer), thinking it was an opportunity to become acquainted with him as a friend, but it turned out to be a horrific night which I would only remember parts of. He picked me up in his white pickup truck; it smelled of cologne and winterfresh gum. Two smells I will never forget. He took me to a dirty dive bar without asking where to go. I already didn’t feel safe, and I regret that I never said anything to this day. I got my first drink, rum and coke. Keep in mind that my glass was smaller than a coffee mug. We started talking, and he told me he used to be in the army. He seemed to be trying hard to persuade and impress me, but I was not falling for it. The taste of my drink was no different than I had before. I was nearly done with my first drink when he asked if I wanted another, and I agreed. He returned with another and asked if I wanted to play darts, and I again agreed. I took one drink of my second rum and coke he brought to me and started to feel dizzy, tired, and weak. I didn’t say anything yet. I continued with darts. By then, he gave me a third drink, I don’t remember if I even had a drink of it. I do recall saying, ‘I wanted to go home,’ and we left out the side door to his white pickup truck. I don’t remember getting inside the front seat, let alone the backseat. My eyes flickered open and closed, waking up only to see him face-to-face with me. Raping me, I am frozen in shock. Disgusted by what he was saying to me. When he was done, he threw a towel on me and told me to ‘clean up.’ He tossed my shoe onto my nude body and said, ‘Now I will take you home.’ Twenty degrees outside, I was fully nude in a familiar parking lot. I got dressed. He took me home; no words were exchanged. Once I got in my house, I went straight into the shower and cried. I was a virgin He took my innocence from me that I can never get back. Date, around time Sitting in my office, He came in unannounced and sat down in a chair by the door. I looked up, feeling uneasy. I asked him, ‘what are you doing?’ He replied as he got up from his chair, ‘I know you want this cock.’ He blocked me between my seat, the wall, and my desk, I had nowhere to go. He unzipped his pants and grabbed a handful of my hair, and forcefully give him oral sex. This time I remember the whole brutal rape. Pushing, gagging, and choking only made him put more force and hurt upon me. His strength was unbearable. When it was over, he threw a piece of winterfresh gum at me and left. Crying, feeling dirty, guilty, and shameful, I put myself together and completed my day. Violated, not only once but twice, by the same guy. Once outside of work and the other inside work. After the first attack, I was broken inside, but the second attack really damaged me. If I told anyone, no one would believe me because he was a very well-liked person at work, and I was just a caseworker. My sisters were the first to know about the first assault in April 2020. I held back on the second as I felt they wouldn’t forgive me for allowing it to happen again. October 2020 I told my sisters about the second assault. I went to internal affairs, who sent me to detectives. They supposedly did an investigation, but boys will boys, and where I worked, they all stick together. The DA dropped the case. January - October 2023 I now moved out of that county because of the triggers and the hope that my PTSD will get better with time. I feel stronger I told my story and know I am a survivor. I hope my story will become someone else’s survival guide. This happens when you are a strong, outspoken woman at the County Name Jail inCity, State Name

Last year I was gang raped. I have an ear ringing called tinnitus that has not stopped since. I have nightmares. I flew with my mom to a wedding overseas. I was excited. She would be busy with her friends and cousin and I would get to spend time with my awesome second cousin who is two years older than me. After the rehearsal dinner we went out. It was fun because I was not legally able to drink there even though the age was lower than in my province, but they did not check ID’s. I did not drink much because it was not my thing and I had a boyfriend but I was able to go to some bars then a club attached to a hotel. So much fun up to when we met two soldiers in uniform who were cute and separated us from her friends because of our looks. My cousin is stunning beautiful. They had a private room at the club and several soldiers were there and two prostitutes also. Those prostitutes definitely hated us being there. I wanted to get out anyway and the cute ones that invited us acted like they understood and took us out of there. We stupidly let them take us to their hotel room where they totally dropped the cute romantic act and made us strip our clothes to music. They showed us a gun they had in a drawer. I was terrified. They made us lay on our stomachs bent over the bed side by side and had sex with us that way. They switched like we were interchangeable before finishing in us with no protection. We held hands. I was crying while my cousin was trying to be strong and cheer me up. We weren’t allowed to leave and our clothes were hidden. Before took our phones we had to text that we were staying at my cousin’s friend’s house. Then they called two other soldiers, one of them a huge tall dark guy with body builder muscles. He was the worst to me. They made us dance and then we had to use our mouths on the cute ones that had lured us there while the other two had sex with us. I vomited and my cousin cleaned it up but then it started again. They had cocaine and made us sniff it off their parts and sniffed it off us. Another one came and I think it was just those five during the night but they kept raping us and making us do things even when we would pass out. I would like to have been more unconscious but cocaine makes you so awake. I want to remember less and think about it all less. We showered many times. The big dark one peed on me and in my mouth the shower. He did it more than once like I was his toilet. The other men even had to tell him to chill out when he was making me scream liking his fingers and pushing them in my arse, but not when he made me crawl around like a dog using my hair as a leash. I remember one of them calling their friends to tell them to turn all their t.v.’s way up to hide the noise in our room. They watched sports news on the t.v. They had me and my cousin kiss each other and stuff. I could not act like it was a fun party like my cousin did sometimes and encouraged me to do. She tried to take some of their attention away from me over and over. I love her for it but they did not leave me alone. My chest is something they were obsessed with. They did not care that I was obviously distressed and freaking out or that in my country I was three years below the age of consent. There I was the minimum. We woke up in the morning on one the beds together with only the two soldiers sleeping on the floor. The black one was gone! They had sex with us again and another man who was much older and who they called SIR came in and had sex with both us but mostly me. They cheered him on and my head was pounding and I was crying and it seemed to last forever. Finally we got our clothes back but they took us for brunch wearing their normal clothes. They showed me pictures on their phones that made it look like I was having fun and warned us how bad it would be if we said anything different than we had a nice party. A nice party in hell! Before that I’d had sex with only my 1 boyfriend ever. One night of hell and now my number was seven!! We had to start getting ready for the wedding right away and I was exhausted. My cousin hid me and I took a nap in my dress, hair and makeup until the last minute. I cried in the ceremony but not for the wedding. I was so sore in my vagina, muscles, and brain that I got so drunk at the reception I barely remember any of it. Just part of being on the plane home. I told my mom the truth when I got back and she got all crazy, so did my dad, and they tried to call over there and the hotel and such but there was nothing the police would do. I saw my dad cry for the first time as I told the whole story. My boyfriend could not handle it and dumped me. I go to group and do therapy. I take a pill everyday and now benzo’s for break through anxiety. I try to hide my large chest under baggy clothes where before I used it for attention. STUPID! My cousin does not seem to have the trauma I do or the nightmares. In her country they are done with secondary school up to two years before us and are more treated like adults sooner. I said mean things to her once because of it. She forgave me but we talk much less since I asked if she has gang bangs all the time. I felt terrible because she even let them have anal sex with her to lure them away from me. I could tell it hurt her so much but at the time was just thinking about my own survival. My childhood is OVER but I do not feel like an adult. Her advice is -Don’t let it get you so down-. Like I have a choice in this!! She went to a therapist ONCE because her mom made the appointment and does not plan to go back. Her life did not really change!! She works reception at a tech company and models on the side and still goes to parties and clubs and dates. How??? It is unbelievable how attitudes toward something like this can be so different in different countries. I am a victim now and I usually feel like it. Definitely damaged. Everybody at my school knows why. I am THAT girl. My new more mature boyfriend is understanding but I feel like a sad little burden to him. I am hypersexual sometimes now and can’t help it. It is a coping mechanism that happens to some victims of sexual assault. I did not ask for it. I worry my boyfriend can’t trust me because of it. I had an older guy friend who’s been my neighbor for years take advantage of me after I told him the story of what happened at his house. We had sex and then he felt guilty for being turned on by my rape story. He admitted it and asked me to forgive him. The sex helped me calm the ear ringing for just short time periods so I did it with him more than once a day for a bit until my dad started to suspect something and talked to him. Since then I don’t trust myself. I want to marry my boyfriend in large part just to protect myself and show him I love him and am loyal even though I am not sure I can be. I worry I cannot love like a normal person. I worry I push him away being too needy and wanting to marry him so soon. I need him more than he needs me. Is that the way it will always be in relationships for rape victims??? I work hard at school not to ruin my future. It is so hard to focus. My ears ring constantly. Thank you for listening.

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

Healing brings Hope and Growth. Growth brings purpose, and strength. Enraged Mother, my daughter was 14 years old and my niece was 13 years old when they were both sexually assaulted by my “sisters” husband. My “sister” and my “mother” were both aware that my niece was being sexually assaulted by her stepfather who is still married to my sister. They helped this predator cover the entire horrific incident. No one ever said anything about my daughter spending the night over. It wasn’t its several years later when he sexually assaulted my daughter in 2015 when everything and so much more came to light. In 2019 he was sentenced to 10 years but was just recently granted parole and is due to be released this year July, 2026. This is not true justice for our children.

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.

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 .

Being a girl is not fair I am a 32 year old woman abused more that once when I was younger. It was the first abuse that had the butterfly affect of leading me to the rest. When I was twelve I wanted to earn money. My parents did not believe in allowance for doing chores. I could not work legally until I was fourteen unless it was a newspaper route waking up before dawn. My Uncle--my Dad’s brother--hired me to work at his appliance repair shop. He was the only one we knew who had a business. Soon after I started, part of the job was letting him give me massages. He molested me a little more each time until he was using his mouth on my privates. He would masturbate while he did. I let him do this for weeks while he changed me and distorted me. Then he made me use my mouth on him. I did it ONE time. I vomited after. I reported him to my parents. The were caring and supportive, and angry at him. But not angry enough to do anything but let me stop working there. He apologized to me in the kitchen with my parents there. Me floating adrift in lava while the Gods decided my fate. I barely remember it. He stayed in our lives with almost no change. I went back to normal. On the surface. But I was not the same, and become more afraid of things. The dark, being alone, silence. In the coming years I fooled around with boys in ways I might not have. I may not have been that type of girl but felt compelled. I was fifteen when I had a boyfriend my age that I secretly had sex with almost daily. I loved him. He dumped me. More issues. Age seventeen. High school senior. Dyed blue-streaked hair down to my butt. Emo. Skinny. Flat chest. Was drinking and smoking put by then. But not THAT NIGHT. I Walked out of a Pink concert I had gone to with my cousin and her friends. Something upset me and I left. Night time. Part of the city I don’t know. No plans. Maybe go back to the concert after getting my head together. Walking past a strip mall a group of four guys came out of place, not sure what it was. I had seen that two of them were black. That scared me. I’m sorry. I hurried and turned right. So did they. It was something like an alley behind the strip mall and a big wall on the one side. Back doors of business, dumpsters, a few cars. Not well lit. Maybe I could have just kept walking and been fine but it was dark on the far side and seemed so far away. The guys were talking and laughing and behind me. I grew terrified of being raped or hurt or killed. I think I heard one of them say the words, “nice ass” in their chatter. Panic attack. I think I was trying to save my own life. Preemptive strike? I stopped, turned and said. “You guys can F--- me if want.” I remember the pause while some of them stopped but one kept coming. They laughed, maybe nervous. The one that kept coming put his arms around me and pressed his body to me. I forgot what he said but he pulled me in close, grinding on me. They took me to a dark area off to the side between two buildings. I did oral for the first one and the other black one, but not all the way. A show for them. Laughing. Shooshing each other when they got too loud. I tried but they got rough and I gagged a lot. Take you clothes off. Jacket, tank, jeans, panties. Onto my back. Asphalt. Legs spread. Trying to stay on top of my clothes to not get cut and scraped. All four of them took turns. With the first one it was a show they watched. With the rest they were turned around, talking to each other, trying to block me from view. I think someone walked by but not sure. Alcohol and cigarette breath. Guys probably in their thirties. Friends having fun. Boys being boys. Just pumping into me. Telling me I’m tight. My body a vessel. Legs spread. No resistance. My arms around them. Eye contact I don’t remember. I always looked at my boyfriend in the eyes. I always look in eyes during it, searching for a connection. I saw their eyes but not their faces. They just used me for friction. Quick and get it down. Except for the second to last. He wanted to talk. I told him my name. I told him about the concert. I told him I liked to be on top because he asked. I remember his face. The only one who was white. Crooked nose. Cauliflower ears. Blue eyes. A sense of hurry from the others. He blurs into the last one in my mind. The Arab/Persian? “Thanks a lot.” I know one of them said. They thanked me while I got dressed quickly and kept walking the direction they had been going before. By the time I walked back out they were gone. I went back the direction I had come from. I got back in the concert and spent the whole time finding my cousin. Sore and dripping. Back scratched up. I felt gross. I started crying but stopped when I drew too much attention. I found them. The final song was “Get the Party Started” We left together. The ones who were not driving drank wine but I was not allowed any because I was too young. I told nobody. Told my mom it was cool. Right away I became the girlfriend of a guy who had a locker near mine who had been persistent but I had always rejected. He was tall and no more than “okay”. I did not want to be alone. He fell in love. I did not. Prom and stuff. I broke up with him the last week of school. He was leaving for college anyway. I did not want to go with him. I cheated on him because I needed more sex that he could give. Then came the days of being passed around. I went to community college and dated my chem lab partner, got kind of raped by his brother in the shower and became the brother’s girlfriend. He got me into heavy drinking, party drugs, the club scene and I dropped school. I was an EDM/Metal/Trance princess and had so many “friends” in the scene that knew me as Sapphire. Sapphire was a nymphomaniac. People loved that about me. Some good, some bad. Quickies in dark spots in the clubs. Backstage. Back office. Cars. Secrets. Woke up in different beds. My boyfriend kind of “gave” me to his drug dealer and I lived with him until an older guy talked me into running away with him to Location. He was 39 (40 for a month) when I was 20 and we lived together for more than a year. It was a very sexual relationship but he cared about me. His house was a quick walk to the beach and I loved it. It was healthier. I started CC classes again and got my AA. He helped me through my panic attacks and I hid my depression from him. My parents met him, and accepted him eventually. We talked about marriage. But he was gone all day weekdays, I did not have a job, and I had a second life to feed my big hollow emptiness that had started after my uncle used me. Also, he liked to role play that he was my father. Just one of his kinks. The sickest part is that just like the eye contact thing, saying “F me daddy” became something I just do automatically. I cheated on him many times when he was with guys from the beach crowd he only knew slightly from our weekend beach trips. Girls too. I fell for a surfer and wanted to have his baby and even quit birth control. It all ended badly and I moved back with my parents. I was finally diagnosed with manic depression and talked to my mom about all the sexual encounters and abuse and started going to group. Five years after THAT NIGHT my mom was the first person I told about the four guys after the concert. That one still rips a hole in my sense of life and love and loving myself. I wonder if good guys don’t want to be with me because my breasts are small I take medication and I am functional. Like I said; BEING A GIRL IS NOT FAIR

When I was 7, I started being sexually abused. This wasn’t by a family member, it was my grans second husband. It all stopped when I was 12, when we moved a few miles away and he didn’t visit as much. When I was 17, I was having therapy for other things, it eventually came out then. They helped me decide how I was going to tell my mum. They also said I should prepare for family members to not believe me. I thought, you don’t know my family. They all stick up for each other. Well so I thought. My mum never wanted to talk about it. I understand now that was due to guilt, she had her own mental illnesses to deal with. My sister, well she turned against me for a few years. Saying I was lying, I tried to ruin my grans marriage with my lies, threatening to beat me up. My sister even tried to prove I was lying buy having him watch her new born baby whilst she went and done his food shop. When this man died, it got worse. My sister and aunt said they can’t grieve over him cause of the lies I said about him. Saying I’m evil and not wanting me near her child incase I do stuff to her. I had cousins asking “what exactly is it he did to you? My gran saying “he’s not a pedophile”. All this almost destroyed me. It was worse than the sexual abuse I had went through as a child. I decided I wanted away from my family. So I enrolled in college at 23, at 27 I was qualified and got straight into a job, I had been saving through college, so managed to move onto my own place pretty quickly. Now 33 years old and looking back I often think, did all that really happen. I’ve since moved further away from my family, Doing this has helped me stay away from their drama and only visit on occasions. They’re a lot better now, but I’d still rather keep my distance. I’m in a good place mentally. I’ve got great friends and built a good life for myself. My advice to anyone going thought it. Prepare yourself for family not to believe you. Only talk about it to people you trust and only when you want to talk about it. Don’t feel you need to explain yourself to anyone. The best thing my therapist said, no matter what you did or didn’t do, it wasn’t your fault. You were only a child.

I am 22 years old. I have always liked sex, and not necessarily the physical feeling, but the empowerment around it. I know that sex does not always have to be political, but growing up Mexican/American and Roman Catholic, it always felt charged. I lost my virginity in a dark space. I was thirteen, and a boy from my class who had been harassing me, made me go into our school's auditorium, went backstage, pushed my head down, and made me...well yeah. I felt like I was going through the motions. Like, if I wanted to prove how unaffected I could be by this forcefulness I would win my abuser(s). He asked again and again if he could put it in, and I finally said yes. Knowing what I know now, I know this was not true consent. I remember after it was done, I said "Well, that sucked." And he said, "What are you talking about? That was awesome." I felt so numb after, and I mistook that numbness for power. I felt nothing, felt no different. I convinced myself virginity/sex meant nothing. Catholicism had lied to me. They said that when we have sex, we (women) lose something essential about ourselves. We become attached to the man, and we will never return to that former state. I remember feeling like I debunked the church. It was a scam to make religious girls hate themselves and depend on men. I don't think I was necessarily wrong, more like misguided. I was on the right track, but I made sex unimportant, I made my body unimportant. I had to, I think, because recognizing the weight of sex would have made my situation unbearable. Now, at 22, I know better. I wish I could hug and hold my younger self. She'd probably think I was corny and overemotional, but I don't care. To my younger self, I am so sorry. I think you're very smart, but remember that hurting yourself to prove things to others is never worth it. You don't have to make an example of yourself to be empowered. You were coerced, you were abused and harassed, and you're not less powerful, less yourself, for recognizing that. I love you very much. I got raped in August. I had just come back home from my college town. I was heartbroken to have finished my time there. To have said goodbye to the best friends I've ever had. My bestie who went to college and high school with me had already been in our city for a month and asked me to go out. I didn't feel like it, but she convinced me. We're only so young and whatever. I had left on a pretty low vibration since on the last day of my time there this guy I had been friends with and hooking up with regularly for almost two years, told me he had been having sex with other girls unprotected regularly, and every time we checked in about using condoms he had been lying. Leave it to abusers to unburden themselves when they know they'll face minimum consequences. I could not wrap my head around the utter disrespect and betrayal of my body. Why didn't men care? Why couldn't they see us as more than just a fucking hole? Couldn't he have just been honest? Was using a condom with me so horrible that he had to lie about it for months? I was mad as hell. I was disappointed, and still am. I felt stupid. Why take someone's word? How could I live in a world where I had no control over how people I love/love hurt me so badly? Whatever, the point is, that the next day when I went out with my friend we had a little too much to drink. She had asked if we could meet up with this guy she had been seeing and his friend. I said sure, I was drunk and didn't want to be a killjoy. When we got to his place, he told us he invited a friend. His friend got there and poured us shitty box wine. I was a blackout and for some reason, we thought it'd be a good idea to let his friend drive me back home at 3 AM while I was trashed. The friend stopped the car, and convinced me to have sex, when I wanted to stop, he didn't let me and did not stop. I remember crying and asking him to stop, but he didn't stop. I don't remember a lot of the actual rape. I remember after. I cried hard, and I think I accused him of raping me, and I think he probably denied it. I just remember that he was so angry and I was so upset. I told him he had better give me plan b money, and that he better take me home, or back to his friend's house so I could tell my best friend. I remember him saying that I "disrespected" him. That plays in my head a lot when I don't want it to. "You disrespected me," he said. "I can kick you out of this car," he said. I remember holding onto the door. I remember thinking I would die. I only have flashes of after. I think I was sobbing on my friend, and I remember her face. She didn't know what to do, and how could she? She told me after, when I started to doubt my memory, that I had said he raped me. See, I didn't know, like the first time I had been abused, that afterward, you try to trick yourself into the easier option which is that you're just slutty. You're remembering wrong, or you exaggerated. But unfortunately no. You got raped. You know it, your body knows it. The rapist knows it too. Deep in his rotten core, he knows that he did something evil. But he'll probably just think, "bitches, man" or "She deserved that shit anyway" or "That's what women were made for". And I'm here, with my fear of death, my fear of sex/intimacy, my broken-ass self/sense of self, still wondering why the fuck people can't just respect me and my body? I used to never look over my shoulder. I was one of those girls who never felt the need to call someone or pretend to call someone when they were walking home. Shit, after that happened to me, pepper spray didn't feel like enough. I wanted to buy a gun. My liberal ass, anti-capital punishment, pro-gun control, wanted to buy one just so nobody could ever hurt me again. Sometimes I think of my body actually broken, on the side of the freeway somewhere. I think of my sister's dress that I had borrowed without asking, and how it had stains on it. And how she would have been so mad if I had died in it. I had to go to a quinceanera the day after, and I don't think I've ever been in more distress than the day after. Do you ever want to rip your vagina out of your body? Like it's some sort of focal point of pain. I wanted to be smooth like a doll or something. No entryways. My body still freezes up now. I learned that's PTSD. This is healthy. I never told my family because I knew they would blame me, so only a few friends knew. It's embarrassing almost, and I know it isn't, but it's hard not to think "If I would've just...If I hadn't," and so on. I didn't report anything even though I knew I could have, but there would be cops and I live with my family. I've seen what an investigation can do. I've read enough and existed around women enough to know it's almost if not exactly like a re-violation. I was so tired. That sucked too. My younger self thought that if someone ever did that to me, they would pay for it. I was sure I would be up and walking into a police station immediately after, asking for a rape kit with grace somehow? I would shock everyone with my dignity and my composure. That didn't happen, but it's okay. I'm okay. I'm better. I am still tired, but things have gotten better. I'm here, right? I love living so much, and I remind myself that when my body freezes up. I think of my younger sister too and how I want to shield her so bad. I fight the urge to tell her to stay inside, where it's safe. I know living, really being alive, is dangerous. I want her to be safe, but I want her to live well and fully, so I make sure she has pepper spray, that we share our locations, that she can text me/call me, and that there will never be judgment for whatever situation she finds herself in. Thank you for this platform, and I'm so sorry to the people who have had to use it. I love you all. I hope you are all doing ok and living well.

You hear it all over the news. You see it in films and tv shows. As women, we are often warned, and we hear comments about ‘safety in numbers’ when you go to the toilet. ‘Watch your drinks’ when out and about. ‘Don’t show that much skin, cover up’. ‘You can’t wear that.’ ‘Get a taxi home, it’s not safe to walk’… unfortunately words can not protect you from the intentions of others. I went on a night out with friends, a reunion that started off so well. I remember the dancing, the constant flow of drinks…pints, gin, vodka, sambuca to name a few. Yes, it is not ideal to mix however, when you are reminiscing, and your group had a booth with a table full of drinks; you would probably do the same! Anyway, the lights flashed, the music bounced off the walls and suddenly a trip to the loo mixed with alcohol on a busy autumn international night in Location…makes you forget what floor you left your friends on. Fast forward to the smoking area alone on the phone, where I swayed and debated leaving. “A taxi home would be safer than walking in the rain”. Before I was allowed in, I had to pay by card, he insisted on no cash. I entered the taxi behind the passenger seat in the back and it began. The looks through the rear-view mirror were instant…my memory of the journey is absent until we reach my corner. My directions at this point were now ignored but I trusted him. He parked, away from my house. He locked the car with me still inside. He looked back. “Kiss me”. He had hold of my wrists and climbed through to the back where he began to sexually assault me. I am unsure for how long this lasted but he later broke away and asked to use my toilet. This enabled me to get out of the car so…I said yes. Why I ever thought I could get into my house first in a pair of heels whilst heavily intoxicated I do not know, but even so, I looked back to see how ahead I was…even now I can see him running down that pavement to reach me at my door. In my own home, he was in control. He stole my breath, he stole my voice, he stole my body. He raped me. No one ever prepares you for an event like that, or even how to tell your parents. I went to SARC, I did the forensics and repetitive questions, and I was told it would take years of my life away if I were to take it further. So, I went back to work the following Monday as I had a responsibility to fulfil. It weighed on my shoulders. I knew there was an expectation. Many google searches informed me of my next steps…I made an anonymous complaint to the Police, and everything began to move. Everything became intense…I was living out what felt like a BBC drama. Months later he denied it in court, so we went to trial. The support I received was minimal. I was still working, taking unpaid time off. My close family and friends were those who got me through the days in court, the days in-between and the days I live now. I took away the screen during my time on the stand, I answered every insulting question and remark. I looked him in the eyes, he held eye contact for only a few seconds before breaking into a smirk; as I broke down in the stand. I was torn to pieces in front of a judge, jury and courtroom. In front of him, who proceeded to spin his web of lies which were the complete opposite to the ones he had said in his initial statement. “To be a good liar, one needs a good memory” …He was found guilty. It took 2 weeks for me to be seen as a victim and believed. Fast forward to the sentencing hearing where my main pillars of support accompanied me…I read out my victim impact statement… He got 11 years…a minimum of 8 ½. I got a lifetime sentence, anxiety, depression, dissociation, insomnia, scars and PTSD. February 2024, 2 months after the 1st anniversary; I made my 3rd attempt. A phone call from a friend pulled me back to reality, who later pulled me off the bridge. A mixture of anger, tears and confusion filled the next couple of days, and I knew I needed to take back control of my mind and body. Which is hard when his monstrous hands are imprinted, his poisonous breath echoing in and flooding my ears and the pain weighing heavy on my body. This time I had to do something different. I could not bring myself to hurt anyone else further, so I searched online. I came across The Survivors Trust and after a quick scan through what they had to offer, I instantly thought ‘why wasn’t I told about this sooner?’. Talking can feel repetitive especially when you cannot explain how exactly you are feeling…which is ok in this sense because of their ‘Survivor Resources’. They echo that everyone has a different healing journey and they have sets of resources that have been put together with the survivor in mind…whilst also having a section for those who are looking for help on how to support a survivor they love in their lives. The Survivors Trust then became an outlet for me because even though I am very much at the beginning of my healing journey, I felt responsible and motivated to raise awareness for this charity. No one should ever have to face a traumatic event like this but sadly, the actions of others are something we cannot control. Therefore, I created a Facebook page called ‘Name’ and started promoting my quiz night followed by live music and started a Just Giving Page. I never anticipated a big response; I had a goal of £1000. A goal of raising awareness for the charity, fellow victims and survivors. A goal to inform. The CSEW estimated that 1.1 million adults aged 16 years and over experienced sexual assault in the year ending March 2022 (798,000 women and 275,000 men). 15% of girls and 5% of boys have experienced sexual violence by the time they are sixteen. Every five minutes in the UK someone experiences rape, attempted rape, or sexual assault by penetration. ‘On the face of it, something has to change’ (Prima Facie, 2022). Date he was sentenced. Date 2 I raised a total of Specific amount from site.. People have different opinions on the length of time to which I will be ‘fixed’. “Sometimes, it takes a few days”. A few days, a few weeks; a few months to fully grasp what happened, to trust myself? Living in and out of my own body, not knowing when it is truly me or what is now left. The sleepless nights, the nights that repeat every detail. Every once in a while, my ears go out, ringing as I simply stare into thin air, dissociating and remembering each and every detail without speaking a word. Sometimes it only takes a smell, a name, a piece of clothing, a sound to take me back to these moments. It does not take much to remind the brain of the agony. It’s hard. I float throughout each day, each night, as each aspect of the memory replays every time, I take a second to think…no matter where or who I am with. It is currently day 630…I have finally started EMDR therapy, I am still at times in denial of the events, and I am very much at the beginning of my journey. I am beginning to understand there is no timeframe on healing and with the support of this charity, my close family and name, taking time to self-care and keeping up with my medication is all I can do for now. Everyone is different. Therefore, it is totally natural to heal and deal with trauma in different ways. I work and like to keep busy…some say to avoid/escape the flashbacks but unfortunately, they do not escape me. However, although I have tried many times not to be…I am alive, and I am going to do everything in my power to make sure things change. No one should live in the fear of not being believed. No one should be put into situations where they experience a type of sexual assault. No one should have to go through something they could not control and feel guilty for the rest of their lives. No one should feel alone. Don’t get me wrong, I still feel shame, guilt, embarrassment, regret and the list goes on but I will get there. I am alive today because of the resources and support presented on The Survivors Trust site. My journey is very much at the beginning, and I so wish I knew about this charity sooner. Therefore, this is me giving back as well as letting others know about the charity, not only the victims either…Survivors Trust helps everyone impacted. Raising Amountp is just the start of the work I will be doing for the charity. It is okay to talk, there are people who will believe, who will support in any way they can. Together we are stronger…you do not have to face this battle alone. I have recently continued to share my story and been a listening ear to others on my page Name on Instagram and Facebook. I don't want anyone to ever feel alone in their trauma, in their healing, in their journey. I am far beyond cured. My EMDR therapy has been completed but its like a bomb has gone off...I've accepted what has happened, happened. But it'll forever be part of who I am no matter how many steps forward I take. He gets out in 5 years and is then under watch for 3 years as he is eased back into society - that support has been planned for him. However, if I didn't attempt to take my life 5 times...I would never have been put forward for MH screening by my gp who then referred me for EMDR. I wasn't given any support from SARC or Victim Support - and it's honestly made me feel so defeated yet again by him. Yes, he was found guilty and went to prison in 2023 but I am the one serving the life sentence.

I was five years old when it happened. My abuser was also a five year old girl. I remember thinking that my story isn't valid because she's exactly the same as me. Over time, I did research and started to realize and recollect more and more about the memories of my abuse. If you get triggered or have triggers related to sexual assault/abuse, I advise not reading this next part. At first, I forgot the entire event ever happened. I remember being about 11 when I realized what had happened. The memories started gradually coming back. She was my friend. We were normal five year olds, I'd always have playdates at her house. At every playdate, she'd take me to her playroom. She'd lock the door and draw the blinds. Then, she'd make me lie down on this small mattress on the floor. She called it a game. She said that she was the doctor and that I was the patient. Once I'm on the mattress, she'd get on top of me. She'd touch me under my clothes. She'd look under my clothes. She'd take off my clothes. I remember just hoping, wishing, and praying that it would soon be over. If you're wondering, I was wearing a school uniform most of the time whenever this happened. This went on for almost the entire year when I was five. When I remembered and realized what had happened to me, I didn't believe it. I thought I was overreacting. I thought I was making it up. How could someone the same age and gender as me sexually abuse me? I'd only seen cases of young girls getting abused by older men. So how could a young girl be assaulted by another young girl? A few years have passed since I first remembered the events. I've gotten wiser, and discovered that there are many forms of assault. When I first found out what COCSA was, I felt so accepted. It was so validating, knowing that these memories that have destroyed me for years and years... they're real, and they're valid.

I was in an abusive relationship for 12 years. I met him when I was fourteen and we came together when I was fifteen. He was nice and lovely and I fell in love with him. I never thought that he could have a dark side. After a few month I began to realize, that there is something inside him. When we had our first fight, he screamed with me and I had so much fear. He apologized and I forgived him. But: It didn‘t stopped. He was verbal abusive. He said that I am a whore. He made me feeling small and like I am the worst person in the world. He said, that I am a psycho. He said I am a joke. He said I am nothing. He said, that he has to talk and scream with me like this, because I don‘t understand his points otherwise. He began to destroy things like my watch or a necklace. The walls had holes and he often grabbed me at my shoulders very hard when he got angry. When I cried, he became angrier at all. I locked myself in the toilet because I had so much fear of him. He also pushed me at the asphalt when he was drunk sometimes. I had bruises. One time he choked me. I never told anybody what happend, because I always forgived him and felt so fucking guilty. I tried to left him, but he always said, that he will kill himself, when I go. I went to therapy but even there I was so ashamed, that I didn‘t talk about the abuse. After two years of therapy I got stronger and stronger. I was ready to talk to somebody about the things that happend to me and that I want to leave him. Suddenly I felt free and was ready to go. He always said, that he loves me and that I am the love of his life. It never was love. I realized that I was in an abusive relationship. There were verbal, emotional and physical abuse. I didn't imagine any of it. I wasn't crazy. Whoever is reading this and is in a similar situation: You are strong! You are intelligent! You are beautiful! You are a good person! You can trust yourself! You can talk to someone! You can do this! You can leave him! You are a wonderful human being! I love you all out there and send you hugs. We have to share our stories and we are allowed to share them. Together we can change something.

“Imagine an ending”, said the counsellor. “See it as you want it, as you need it to be. Write your story and those in it as it should be in a just world”, she suggests. I think “no!”, it needs it to be real; a conversation with live faces across real tables, with a hug, a strong handshake, and a glance that lets me know it really happened in amongst the unreality of it all. Those conversations, as yet unsaid, will anchor me in truth, bathe me in facts and create a storyboard with pins and thread for me follow home. Those people, as yet unseen, will interpret it with me, a Watson and Holmes quest - in the room together as the facts reveal themselves. The institutions, as yet faceless, will now permit me to be a fly on the wall of those interviews where untruths were told. I need all this, I think, so that finally the lost threads are found, and I can write my story, now coloured with the gaps I have craved to fill; revealing me to myself. The words shared will help me to find my own. ……………………………………... Us women are left outside a system hoping that something or someone will ground us in the facts held at arms lengths- the facts about us, our assault, or experience. Many women who report sexual assault to the authorities face multiple hurdles. Some remain open to responding to this system that offers no guarantees for all we give to it. Others shut down before the act has concluded, resigning themselves to a painful silence in the hope it will be less so than the alternative public ordeal. The burden of proof lays solidly with us as we concurrently grapple with processing our own trauma. If we are able to share a palatable version of our story with other women, we soon realise how much worse it could have been. But we knew that already. Grading our experience with a perfunctory “at least”. It lives in us: this learned and inherited shame. We carry that burden before we are assaulted, and it is further cemented by the knowing glance or stern word spoken before we leave the house in those clothes. Later that night we are escorted to a beige room and asked to remove them all, still sticky with fearful sweat and told that without us in them, these articles might determine his guilt. There is always some authority acting as sartorial dictator, taking away our carefully chosen outfit with worried words or procedural hands. As such, we continue to hold the weight of their assigned moral value, and determine little of their impact, for that is decided by the viewer, whomever they may be in the room that day. ……………………………………... I am caked in heavy layers of dread, pending success or failure. Why did I start this thankless task? I enter another world, an office of sorts, where you catch a glimpse of the story not told to you, because by knowing you may contaminate the truth. Despite my bodily contamination, I am not permitted to know the full facts, as they say. The most personal and invasive event, prolonged by paperwork. This manufactured situation demands intimacy and yet requires, by law, complete professionalism. Their job, an often-thankless endeavour to find and prove the truth to a wig not made for this century. I try to picture my good egg behind the mask that doesn't fit his face. I saw more of him than ever before on our day in court. It was our day. I needed to see his eyes as he spoke; for the real-life connection to mirror the intensity of our past dealings. He is the only one who knows who I am in this. Until this happens, I float here, suspended in the delay, waiting to be anchored to the tangible earth beneath. To feel the bench and smell the varnish. To be present and audible. To be where life is being lived. We leave court and enter a room with my sister-in-assault. Kept apart for many months to protect us from further injustice. Unsure of the protocol and fearful of our matched pain, we join hands. We hug on my request – despite our fear of emotion and viral spread. How odd to have a thing such as this in common. To be joined together by an act of harm by a man with less years than us, so far away from home. We all came to this city with hopes - for opportunities – for a life beyond the limitations, however different, of our respective hometowns. Joined by this recurring act, we three meet again in a room filled with wood and plexiglass, unable to see beyond the thing itself. This dirty touch has smeared us all with a single colour, marking us out as dirt. Her wide face and open eyes meet mine in tears, a flood after a personal drought. Guilt shades my face pink – I wish she would cry. We share past fears and eventual overcoming and know from this moment on we are allowed to let go. The words have been spoken, by us, the good eggs, and the wigs. The ordeal is over, and permission is granted to lock our fear away with him in the middle of our land, far away from the hopes of this Eastern city. This is the end and the beginning.

sorry that this is super long😭😭😭 when I was younger I was best friends with this girl we met on the first day of kindergarten and were inseparable and when we were 7 she started touching me on the school bus and I told the school and instead of helping they put me and her in the school counselor's office and she showed us a video of keeping our hands to ourselves and not letting other people touch out bodies 3 weeks she raped me in her bedroom and I didn't know what to do so I just laid there and didn't speak I think it made it worse that she is a girl and its not typical for females to rape other females so I felt as no one would believe me so I stayed quiet because of what happened the first time after that stuff kept happening but then I got into the 5th grade and we didn't see each other because it was there first real year of COVID so it was all basically online and we were in different classes but then 6th grade started and I was back to seeing her every day and that was super hard and she started to do that stuff and it was really bad on my mental health then she decided to punch me in the face for no reason so I stopped talking to her I ended up admitting myself to a psych ward where I did end up getting help and was doing better and I went to my ex friends play performance and this friend was friends with the girl at the time and I still wanted to be his friend so I because friends with her again and told her that I stopped talking to her because my best friend told me to that night she raped me in my own bedroom after I let her borrow my clothes my shows by hairbrush my everything and she still decided to rape me and that hurt and again like the first time I sat there doing and saying nothing for some reason I couldn't no matter what no matter what I thought no matter what I said nothing I was frozen I always everyone talk about fight or flight and no one ever talks about freeze even tho its one of the most common ones every time she did something like that I would freeze I wouldn't talk I would barely move I just laid there helpless like God was gonna send someone to help me but he never did I was all alone I was like a helpless dog dying on the side of the road and I just let her do it I said no once and after she didn't stop I gave up I didn't know what do do anymore and I didn't wanna repeat myself for some reason so thus I didn't after that I stopped talking to her all together and in 8th grade after being out as transgender for about a year when kids would say stuff what I would correct them on my name she would stand up for me and I hated that I hated it so much it made me feel like I couldn't hate her for raping me and assaulting me because now shes standing up for me so if I hate her I would be a bad person even tho I know I am not a bad person for hating her because I have every right to because of what she did to me even if it was a long time anyways I think that's it sorry again that this is super long I don't know what others look like so I don't know if mines actually long or not compared to other peoples but if you read all of this thank you for reading my story and I hope all of you have an absolutely amazing 💗💗💗

So I was sexually assaulted last night and I feel nothing today. Nothing at all. I was grateful when the guy let me go this morning. He didn't care that I was crying, or how I was feeling or that he was causing me a lot of physical pain. There was no way to get away. He was a foot taller than me and so much stronger and he had his hand around my throat. I was afraid he would snap my neck or choke me out because of how his hand was gripping my neck and how much of my neck his hand covered. He told me he was glad I was very small, and how size matters when it comes to strength. I felt like a mouse in the jaws of a lion. I struggled to breathe. I was afraid I was going to die. He was upset with me last night because I started bleed a lot while he was assaulting me. He was fucking mad at me for bleeding on him. He was mad at me this morning because I was trying to sneak away when he fell asleep. He started assaulting me all over again and for some reason decided to stop and let me go. Maybe because he was tired. As soon as I got away I was walking and walking and called an Uber to take me home. I felt so numb. All I knew was I had to get home. I had to go celebrate my friend’s birthday with her this morning and smile and pretend I was ok. Then I had to go to work. I'm home now, and I just feel so numb and like I don't care about anything. I just don't care anymore. I don't care about me. I don't matter at all. That's how I feel. I just feel like I'm nothing. And I don't want to see my friends or anyone. I just want to lay in my bed forever and sleep. I have to go to work tomorrow. I have to keep going about my life like everything is ok. I have to be normal and not fall apart. I haven't told anyone apart from here right now. I won't tell anyone. No point. People will be like it's your fault. So I'm just going to pretend I'm fine. I'm not fine. I hate myself so much for having put myself in the situation where that could happen. It was a date. I should know better than to trust any man or ever try to find love. It doesn't exist. I am not a person, I'm just an object. I'm going to ask doctor tomorrow (they aren't open today) for meds to prevent pregnancy and treat any possible stds. I won't tell him what happened because I don't want to talk about it with anyone I know personally. I just want to forget about it.

When I (f 24) was around 7 years old, my older step cousin (m) who was around 9/10 would often initiate kissing with me as a 'game' at the time I found nothing wrong with it. id often ask when we were going to play the game again, merely to feel included. it used to go further, sometimes with him undressing me, touching my chest, making remarks such as 'I can't wait for these to get bigger" as well as touching my lower areas. I always used to refuse to do more when he would ask, and I can't remember what age it stopped, probably around 9/10. when I turned 11 I became violent toward him, usually when he was around my younger female cousins, causing me to lash out. I ignored this up until my mid teens, only then thinking of what happened, and confronting him, where he stated "that never happened". after that I moved on, and ignored it, up until last year. I went to stay at my aunts house, I had a good enough relationship with him where we would go out for occasional drinks together with our other cousins. this one night I went to stay at my aunts where he lives, and he tried to kiss me and grope me. when I asked what he was doing, he responded "don't you remember we used to do this as kids?" at that point I left. I had a very bad breakdown at this point, and couldn't stop crying. this has now bothered me ever since. it is hard as I have to see him on familial occasions.

It’s amazing how social media has the ability to connect people from all over the world. Old friends, former classmates, and long-distance family members coming together after years of separation and rekindling relationships that would otherwise not exist. With a simple search of a first and last name and an invitation, you have the ability to bring the past straight to your front door. In my case, my past is there for a reason and I never sought out old high school friends or former coworkers when I first joined Facebook. In fact, I didn’t even create an account right away. Maybe I didn’t understand the concept at the time or maybe I just didn’t care. Either way, when I did eventually open a Facebook account, I kept it pretty simple. If people found me and invited me into their worlds, most times I accepted. There were a few invitations I declined because I didn’t want certain individuals in my space - there was no place for them in it. Over the years, I have cleaned up my account, unfollowed several people for various reasons (even blocked a few), and now it’s a little more than a handful of friends and family that I watch grow, celebrate happy times, mourn losses, and share their special moments through pictures and captions. I’ve watched babies grow into young adults and the adults age with grace, humor, a few more wrinkles, and touches of grey. I’ve mourned with those who have lost loved ones and I’ve celebrated their happy times, holidays, and accomplishments with them, albeit from a distance. I have also shared my life on social media; my children and their milestones, birthdays, vacations, special occasions, and even the loss of a loved one or two. Along with Facebook I also jumped on the Twitter, Instagram, YouTube bandwagons, but have recently settled comfortably into the simplicity of my Instagram account. It’s essentially my online photo album and since I cannot have all of my actual photo albums at an arm’s reach like I once did, Instagram is the next best thing. The funny thing about social media and the Internet is how easy it is to actually find someone. You don’t need more than a name and a state and soon enough you're down the Internet/social media rabbit hole. Eventually you will see at least a glimpse into the life of who you are searching for. You'd be amazed at how much you can find out about a person without even friending or following them on social media including close relatives or associates, places of employment, current and previous addresses and phone numbers, political affiliations - the list is endless. Public records, especially in state, are wide open for anyone to search. I’ve searched Google for myself to see what pops up and immediately I see my Facebook page, Instagram account, connections to my place of employment, and I can access a million sites that claim to be a 'white pages’ type search engine that will provide me with random but solid information. I happen to have a few different last names, but it doesn’t matter how you search: you will find my age, close relatives, the city I live in, a map to my house, previous addresses and phone numbers, and because I share the same name as my mother, her obituary is in the top five Google results (without even putting state in the search bar). So, when a handful of years ago (or so) I received a message through Facebook Messenger from an old high school friend, it was strange that she said she had a hard time finding me. At that time, we would have actually had a few high school friends in common. I really didn’t think much of it, but my husband was the one who said that was an odd comment given all of what we know about Facebook and the Internet. Moving on... I was pleasantly surprised to hear from her, but after nearly 30 years and remembering our very last time together, where do you even begin catching up? You see, this wasn’t just any friend. This was my very best friend in high school, a friend I met on my first day of my freshman year of the very prestigious Academy, an all-girl Catholic high school in City, State. That was the beginning of a friendship that would last through high school and beyond for a short time, until distance, a physical altercation, and maybe something more ominous separated us for good. For the sake of this story, I will call my best friend Name. You will understand why in a bit. Name and I were seated behind one another in most of our classes because in those days, we were seated alphabetically. We were always in the first row and directly behind one another. It was just fate that we hit it off. It was easy to make friends with the girls sitting behind you, in front of you, and directly to your right or left because those seating arrangements followed us from class to class. Many of my closest high school friends' last names began with the letters A through F. Cheating was easy too...a little slide to the left or right and we could help one another if needed. Name was beautiful, funny, and many times the center of attention. She had the blackest hair I had ever seen and it was fiercely wild. Name had high cheekbones, a pointy nose, a high forehead always covered by bangs, and a pretty smile. She was engaging and we became fast friends. Looking back at those years, I remember feeling never ‘good enough’ to be her friend. I always felt she was the pretty one and I wasn’t even a diamond in the rough. I was just the pretty girl's best friend. Name never made me feel 'less than' and I'm sure that by the time we met, my insecurities, low self-esteem, and lack of self-worth were already set in motion. This would not be the only relationship in which I felt like I was living in someone else's shadow, but this is the one where I feel that a real pattern emerged. That is, until my husband came along. He never let me feel second to anyone. To him, I've always been the brightest, shiniest, most beautiful, rare, one of a kind 'diamond' he has ever known. Back to the story - Name knew makeup, Name knew fashion, Name was confident, Name was a leader, and I cannot remember ever having a fight or disagreement with her. She was part sister, part friend. It was the 80's, we had big hair, black eyeliner, tight jeans tucked into our scrunched down socks, sweatshirts off the shoulder, leg warmers, and sometimes a little belly showing. The boys gave Name a lot of their attention and she loved every bit of it. She was flirty and she was good at it, but Name was a good girl and it was all in good fun. I have many fond memories of our years together. I practically lived at her house through high school, loved her family more than mine (didn’t we all have a friend like that), and the option for me to stay with her family when mine was moving to state was on the table. In the end, I opted not to do that because, in fact, I did love my family and the thought of being away from them for that long was too difficult to bear. Or was there more to me not wanting to stay there? Name and I did everything girlfriends do: studied, talked about boys, danced, experimented with hair and makeup, hung out on the street corners where I started smoking (Parliaments, for those of you who would remember the brand), listened to music, went to the movies, got fake ID's to get into the 18 and over clubs, and so much more. We were listening to Madonna, Kool and the Gang, Expose, Shannon, and Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam among many others. We spent a lot of time at her house and a lot of time in her kitchen talking with her mom. Her parents were called by their first names and were the coolest parents around. The first time I got drunk and passed out was at a party at Name’s house. Her parents also let the kids drink, which was pretty cool when I was 17. That particular night my mother must have known something was up because she refused to let me spend the night and sent my brother to pick me up. I literally threw up out of the car window the entire way home. That's a story my brother has brought up many times over the years. Back to Name's house - Sundays were a day for cooking, eating, and family time. I had not really experienced that cultural tradition before and I loved being a part of it. Her grandparents lived in her house and everything was homemade, authentic, and delicious. There was always enough food to feed an army. Thinking back about those days, there were always so many people coming and going at Name’s house and everyone was welcomed with open arms. There was one particular kid I remember being around quite often, but he was not a family member. He may have been a friend of a younger sibling, but he hung out with the older kids so I'm not sure. I mention this because he comes back up in this story a little later on. I remember I had a crush on Name's older brother for a while, but don't remember talking to her about it and nothing ever came of it. I am positive some of my friends ended up with crushes on my brother too. Name and I went to clubs, movies, the flea market, school dances and our high school's ring night together. She came on vacation with my family and I went on a weekend trip with hers. There was nothing we didn’t share. When we were 16, Name came on a family vacation with us to state. It was a great time! We visited with family, went to the beach, hung out on Fort Lauderdale's strip, and baked in the sun covered in baby oil by the poolside. We both got pretty sunburned and my mom thought Name had sun poisoning, which was pretty scary. My mom took care of both of us and even called Name's mom to let her know what was happening. Name was in such pain I thought her mom would want her home as soon as possible, but she let her stay with us. After a couple of days, we were both feeling better. While we were in state I got my driving permit, not to be confused with a drivers license. That may have been because we could not literally spend another minute in the sun or just preparing me for our move to state later that year. Overall, it was a great time with a great friend and I have lots of pictures to prove it. When we got back home, the fact that my state permit only allowed me to drive with an 18-year-old licensed driver did not stop Name and I from taking her parent's van to the mall - without permission and without the already mentioned mandatory 18-year-old licensed driver. I will never forget how scared I was, not just how mad her dad would be if he found out, but I really did not know how to drive. Name was much more carefree about breaking all of the rules (and driving laws) on this particular day. All I could think about was all that could go wrong and how it would be my fault. And on top of that, all of the windows of the van were covered (I think with curtains) so I couldn't see anything behind us or in any blind spot. That could be why I still have to turn in all directions multiple times before changing lanes all of these years later. Like I said, I have told that story many times over the years and had a few good laughs, but actually writing about it makes it a bit more cemented in my history; a history that Name was a big part of. With all of the worry I remember feeling as we backed out of the driveway and all the anxiety I felt driving to Location, it's ironic that I can't remember how the day ended. Obviously, we survived my driving and we didn't get caught because between Name's dad and mine, I'm not sure I would be here to tell the story. Another memorable night with Name was when we went food shopping for her mom. I remember feeling like that was an impossible task considering all of the people in her household, but we went and she was a champ. My mother would never have sent me or my siblings grocery shopping so this was quite an adventure for me. During this trip however, Name stuck a few makeup items in her purse while we wandered up and down the aisles. I remember not really caring about the stealing of an eyeliner or lipstick and didn’t give it any thought because she was so calm and confident. That was until, after checking out at the register, a security guard (or police officer – I can’t recall) stopped us and asked us to walk with him to an office at the front of the store. We were caught and we were both guilty, it didn’t matter who stole what. When the officer asked us our names and ages and said he was going to call our parents, we were beyond freaking out - begging and pleading for him not to. Again, between her father and my retired-cop father, our asses were in deep trouble. The fact that I was turning 17 within a week or so (Name was just 16) allowed me to acknowledge the complaint and basically take Name into my custody. I think we were trespassed from the store and I think the officer really gave two near-hysterical girls a break, but going grocery shopping wasn’t a regular thing anyhow. This story has also been repeated many times through the years and my feeling of relief at not having a juvenile record has never waned. Again, our parents never found out. In July of 1986 I went on a ‘camping’ trip with Name’s family to City 2, State 2. Name’s parents allowed each of the children to pick a friend to go with. I was 17 and this would be our last summer together because my family was moving to state the following month. I wouldn’t have known the exact place or date of this trip, but it is written on the back of a photo I have from the day we arrived home. Also, on the back of the photo, in my handwriting, are the names of everyone pictured in the photo. For many, that way of cataloging people, dates, and places is a trip down memory lane. For me, it is a stark reminder of a memory I had repressed a long time ago. That repressed memory came to light after two things happened: (1) Name messaged me on Facebook and (2) shortly thereafter I came across that photo taken on her doorstep the day we returned from the camping trip. While purging my attic, I found a lot of photos from those carefree high school days and sent them to friends who could enjoy a walk down memory lane..... At first, the memories came in waves. Flashes of faces. A jolt of fear. My stomach turned. I was laying on a floor. I was scared and nothing was making sense. These quick flashes of a living nightmare didn’t seem real, but I knew they were. I saw his face. I saw him laughing. I saw both of them laughing. I saw me lying there, drunk, passed out and incapable of stopping it. There must have been a moment or two of clarity during my blackout because I saw me being sexually assaulted by my best friend’s brother and the younger boy I mentioned earlier. I see both of their faces, but the younger boy's relationship to the family is escaping me. He was younger than us by a couple of years, he spent a lot of time with the older kids at Name’s house, and he was with us on that family trip to State 2. He could have been a friend of a younger sibling or he could have been a troubled youth Name’s family took in. These small flashes eventually came to life as a full-blown memory and made me anxious and sick. My head was spinning and I was unable to stop the memories, feelings, and horrors that were engulfing me. This assault was replaying over and over again in my head and I could not turn it off. I was so ashamed and confused by what I was experiencing that I couldn’t even tell my husband to his face. I wrote it all down for him in a letter and we never spoke about it again - at my request. And I never said another word about it – not to anyone. I felt shame, I felt embarrassed, I felt angry, I felt humiliated. What else do I remember about that weekend beside being sexually assaulted? We were drinking heavily on the night of the assault, the next morning while taking a shower (hungover and having no recollection of the night before) Name's brother came into the bathroom while I was showering and took my clothes as a prank (or so I thought), and taking that photo on the doorstep of Name’s house when we returned from the trip. That’s it. But that was already too much for me to handle. I put the picture away and for five or so years just tried not to think about it. That didn’t stop me from remembering and I certainly was not healing. Every single time Name popped up on social media, she was a trigger for a flashback. I even unfollowed and muted her for a while to see if that would work, but it didn’t. The nightmare would rear its ugly head and I would wonder how I could go about facing what happened and actually heal from all the pain it brought me. I thought about writing this story many times. I would start it and not be able to continue, I wrote in great detail and then less detail, I wondered if people would believe me or not, and I struggled with naming my friend and her brother or would that be going too far. Well, that’s ironic, isn’t it? Questioning my going too far when I was the victim of sexual assault. And I was the one carrying the weight of this incident that happened so long ago. The final straw came when the subject of sexual assault came up in one of my sociology classes. I was reading about victim blaming, how 1 in 3 women (worldwide) will experience sexual violence in their lifetime, how 2 out of 3 sexual assaults go unreported, and how the majority of assaults are committed by someone the victim knows. I knew it was time to tell my story. Back to my best friend…… I remember so clearly lying in her bed together, talking about the future, how much we were going to miss each other, and listening to You've Got a Friend. For years that song brought back those moments instantly. My family moved to state in August of 1986 and life as I knew it went on. Everything about that year was hard though: adjusting to a new home and a new school, and making new friends was tough at 17. I visited Name’s family during my first Christmas break and she visited me during that first spring break. At the time, I was in what I would call my first serious relationship, one that would go on for about 4 years. While Name was visiting, we hung out with my boyfriend and new friends a lot. I saw nothing wrong with it, but apparently, she did. One night before we were supposed to go out, she started an argument and I thought she was just insecure and jealous of my new relationship and friends. One wrong word and one instigative push led to an all-out girl fight. The next day she flew home early and we never spoke again. Until that Facebook message 30 years later…. One message that led to a picture, a picture that led to a memory, a memory that led to a single night that changed my life forever, a single night that led to the truth, a truth that led to my journey of healing. For many years I felt that I was a victim of 'something' but I could not put my finger on what it was, who may have been involved, or why I felt I had been violated. These feelings gnawed at me for years. My husband is the only one I talked with about any of these feelings and he has always been a source of emotional and mental strength to get me through the rough patches. Years ago, I went to rape counseling because although I didn't 'know' what happened, deep down somewhere in my subconscious, I did know. I have battled depression, I live with anxiety, and many years ago I contemplated suicide. I basically mirror the definition of a sex assault survivor with post-traumatic stress disorder type behaviors. Lately I've wondered if my best friend was aware of what happened that fateful night so long ago, but I guess I'll never know. What I do know is that two rapists got away with a crime for over 35 years and they will never be punished for what they did. What kind of men or monsters did they become? Because they got away with it once, could there be other victims? Do they have daughters? Does what they did to me ever cross their minds, and how would they feel if their daughters were victims at the hands of cowardly monsters like them? Are they married? What would their wives think if they heard this story and know that the men they married are men who assaulted an incapacitated, drunk 17 year old girl? Thanks to the Internet and social media, I already know the answers to some of these questions. I don't really care about any of that, but I hope they are both looked at just a little bit differently for the rest of their lives after people read about what they did. They are rapists and they altered the course of my life in many ways. This is now another story cemented in my history linked back to my high school best friend - brought straight to the forefront of my life through a simple social media message and a long-forgotten photo. I guess the past does have a way of catching up to us. For reference: Consent is an agreement to participate in a sexual activity. Without consent, sexual activity (including oral sex, genital touching, and vaginal or anal penetration) is sexual assault or rape. One in five women in the United States experienced completed or attempted rape during their lifetime. I am one. Being drunk is not a free pass. If you are drunk and you perform a sexual act on another drunk person, you are accountable for your behavior. The person initiating the sexual act is responsible for getting consent. Victim Blaming is not okay. No rapist rapes by accident. The rapist has time to make a choice and with the wrong choice, victims suffer for a lifetime.

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE: MY STORY I struggled writing this because only a small handful of people know my story. This article has been several months in the making. I’d write a little bit, then stop. Recounting the events would become too traumatic for me. Was it even worth writing anyway? I have realized that there is strength in numbers. And, although it’s scary to come forward, it’s important. Abuse thrives only in silence, and we have the power to end it by shining the spotlight on it. I had just graduated from college and moved across the country to Los Angeles, California. I was 22. That’s when I met him. He took me out for sushi on our first date- my favorite! He did all the little things, like pulling out my chair for me. He was funny and had me laughing until my stomach hurt. Most of all, he was so, so charming and knew all the right things to say. I still remember texting my best friend from the restaurant bathroom. “This is the best date of my life,” I told her. After our date, he wanted to hangout nearly every day. Although I liked him, it was not what I wanted at the time. I explained to him that I had just moved to a new city, so I wanted to focus on the reason I came here, which was for my job. I was nervous that if I jumped into a relationship, I would miss out on meeting people and building friendships, something that was necessary for me to feel at home here. He told me that the way I felt was valid, but he didn’t want to give up. “Also, I know a lot of girls here, and I’d love to introduce you to them,” he concluded. I wasn’t quite prepared for that answer, but he was right. He was born here, raised here, and attended school here. His whole life was in this city, and mine was just beginning. Fast forward several months, and he became my boyfriend. He planned cute beach picnics for us, would always bring me flowers out of the blue, plastered me all over his social media accompanied with a cute caption and cooked me dinner almost daily. I was on cloud nine. If you would have told me one day he’d have me in a chokehold, threatening to kill me, I would have laughed at you. He had so many friends, and didn’t posses any anger or aggression. I didn’t know until later that the first stage in a domestic violence relationship is to seduce and charm the victim. I am usually guarded with my heart, but he had something about him. He was able to make me feel safe and like I could be unapologetically myself. He roped me in, and when he knew he had me, he started to control me. He thrived off of control. Going through my phone, digging through my trash, rummaging through my drawers, making me have my location on at all times. He called me names and yelled vulgar things at me. He did everything he could to belittle me and make me feel worthless. “You’re a dumb c*nt,” he’d say. “You’ll never have someone who loves you. If you weren’t attractive you’d be jobless and friendless, because everything else is nonexistent.”’ His insults became more frequent and more intense. “Have you ever thought about killing yourself? You really should. The world would be a better place if you were dead,” he told me. “Hope you die.” Once, I actually considered taking my own life. Saturday, August 18, 2018, is a date that I’ll always remember. It was the first time he ever hit me. In the middle of the night, his phone started going off. It was another girl. I asked him if he was cheating on me, to which he responded by jumping out of bed and slamming my body against the wall with full force. I could barely pick myself up off the ground before he swung at me and knocked me down again. This continued a few more times before I mustered up the strength to get out and drive home. I was so in shock I couldn’t even cry. I kept thinking it wasn’t real and that it was a bad dream that I’d soon wake up from. The bruises on my face the next morning proved what I didn’t want to accept. I reached for my makeup because I had to go into work, and didn’t want anyone suspicious of what had happened. I patted the concealer over my bruises and looked into the mirror. My eyes welded up with tears. How the hell did I get here? Finally, I made up my mind: I wasn’t going back. I blocked his number and told my mom and two best friends what he had done. I didn’t want to ever see him again. But, later that day, he showed up at my apartment with an abundance of apologies, chocolate, and pink roses – my favorite color. He sobbed into his hands when I explained to him what he had done to me. He claimed he had no recollection of any of the events that took place. “And, in no circumstance, is it okay for a man to ever put his hands on a woman.” That is what he told me. As for my mom, he wrote her a 5-paged email apologizing for his behavior and blaming it all on a sleep disorder he alleged to have. Mind you, no sleep disorder exists that causes someone to wake up in the middle of the night and beat their significant other. However, I could see how bad he felt. I was hurting, physically and mentally, but I knew he was too. I cared about him and I wanted to be there for him and help him emerge a better person. I thought that maybe this could make us stronger. I realize now that I have the perfect personality fit for sociopathic behavior as well as perpetrators. My eagerness to please, trusting attitude, kind smile and willingness to forgive and see the best in people has helped me make a lot of friends, but also has the ability to lead predators to my door. I minimized the issue and rationalized it to myself – he was tired, he didn’t mean it, he’s clearly sorry for his actions. So, I swept it under the rug. I stayed with him and even invited him to spend Christmas with my family and I, because he didn’t have anyone to spend the holiday with. We posed in front of the Christmas tree in our matching plaid pajamas. From the outside, we looked like a perfectly happy couple, but it was all a facade to cover up what was really happening. Domestic violence occurs with a spouse, partner, girl/boyfriend or intimate family member. It’s a very complex issue when someone you love is hurting you. Once you have established an intimate relationship with a person, it’s human nature to bond with them, even if they mistreat you. You live on hope, hope that they will alter their behavior to accommodate the relationship. I accepted his initial apology. I thought it meant he wasn’t going to do it again. I was wrong. A few months later, he became violent again. After finding out he had an online dating profile under a different name for the past ten months, I told him I wanted to end the relationship. He didn’t like that answer and began pushing me against the wall and throwing me to the ground when I tried to escape. He stood to create a barrier between him and the door. “If you leave, I will kill myself,” he told me. I told him I was calling 911, that I needed to put an end to this. He grabbed my phone out of my hand and threw it. I was shaking and could taste the saltiness of my tears as they rolled down my face and onto my lips. He punched a hole in the wall. “I fucking hate that you make me this way,” he shouted. He had me questioning myself, even though I had done nothing wrong. He told me I was the problem, I was the reason he was so angry, I was to blame for all of our arguments. I felt defeated. After hours of fighting, I told him to give me my phone and let me go home for the night. He agreed, as long as I promised to answer his calls and give him a chance. I went home that night and checked my phone once I settled into bed. I had a text from him. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. Trust me, I know a lot of people here and can easily ruin you. Your life would be hell.” The text sent chills down my spine. I could not believe that after what had just happen, THIS was his first text to me. He was right, he knew many people here. He presented the perfect public image to evade ever being caught. He was like a chameleon, morphing into whoever he wished to get his agenda met. That’s how he was able to love-bomb and groom me in the first place. He knew very well what he was doing to me, and he knew if anyone found out exactly what he was doing behind closed doors, then they probably wouldn’t be his friend anymore. So, I did as he said. I didn’t tell anyone about the abuse. Sure enough, it happened again, and I still didn’t tell a single person. I was ashamed to tell my friends because I felt foolish for choosing someone who would ever lay his hands on me. I was scared of being deemed stupid for sticking by someone who did those things to me. I didn’t tell my family because I didn’t want them worried about me from across the country. I knew if I spoke up or left, he was capable of following through with the threats he was making. I was paralyzed with fear. This scary distorted reality became my new normal. Things became “good” for several months. Abuse usually isn’t consistent or constant. So in between, you become a normal couple. You cook dinner together, go to work, watch movies. Whenever there’s a break in the violence, whether it’s emotional or physical, you are lulled into a sense of complacency. When times are good, you feel such a sense of comfort and relief that you become grateful to your abuser. The abuse followed a pattern: He would be loving and sweet for about four months, then he would blow up and hit me. I always thought each time was the last. It became my mission to save him from himself. I believed I could love the abuse out of him. I figured that if I was a good enough girlfriend — if I showered him with love— he wouldn’t want to hurt me again. It was a twisted, sick game I was playing in my head that I thought I could conquer. We think that our abusers are going to have this ‘aha’ moment. That one day they’ll wake up and realize what they are doing to the women who love them. Every day we’re hoping it’s that day. I got stuck on the fact that he could be a good man when he wasn’t abusing. I got glimpses of the kind, sweet, funny man, and I held onto that, continuing to look for happiness in the person who was taking it away from me. It took me fourteen whole months to finally leave and speak up about what had happened to me. The fourth and final time, he beat me so badly, I thought I was going to die. I was tackled to the ground, had my head slammed against a wall, and had objects from his living room thrown at me. Before running out of his apartment, he wrapped both hands around my neck and repeatedly said “I am going to fucking kill you. I swear, I’ll kill you.” He made a gun motion with his hand and put it up to my head. “Pew,” he whispered. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t breathe. I started seeing stars. He needed to let go of my neck. I turned my head and bit his arm hard enough for him to release his grasp. I grabbed my things and drove away. I was disoriented from being strangled and having my head hit against the walls and floor. My heart was pounding and my fingers hurt so badly I could barely wrap them around the steering wheel. My right foot was in so much pain, I thought he may have broken it. That night, my body ached so badly that I barely slept. In the morning, I told my best friend what had happened to me. She urged me to go to the police station and to tell my family about what I experienced. I told her no. That I would deal with it myself. I was so used to his threats and being silenced, that I was terrified to speak up. She told me that if I didn’t tell my family, she’d tell them herself. That was the hardest phone call I ever had to make to my mom. I couldn’t help but cry as I admitted to her that I had been badly beaten, strangled, and that the man I thought loved me was threatening to kill me. If I hadn’t had their support, I would never have been able to get the help I needed or gone through with seeking justice. I am sure there are many victims who give up because they feel it is not worth the trouble. Or, they are scared of the backlash they could face if they speak up. Trust me, I was in your shoes. I know how you feel. After I spoke up, he harassed me daily. He texted me swearing he’d ruin my life and that I would forever be sorry that I ever said anything. He sent me nasty texts that I cannot even bring myself to repeat. So many days, I wanted to just give up. The weight was too much to carry. I could barely make it through a day without breaking down. I desperately wanted my life back. I was distracted at work, and getting through a full day became so hard, I contemplated leaving. I excused myself to cry in the hallways more times than I can count because I just couldn’t fathom the realization that this was now my life. My outgoing, happy-go-lucky, amicable, carefree personality had been distorted beyond recognition. I became closed-off, stressed, angry, tired, self deprecating. I felt as though I had no one to relate to, and as a result, I isolated myself, which became nearly unbearable at times. I used to pride myself on being independent, but I was scared to even go to the grocery store alone in fear of bumping into him in one of the aisles. We lived in such close proximity so I avoided going places. Any time I saw car lights outside my bedroom window, my heart raced. I live by myself on the first floor of my complex, and I was afraid to be in my apartment alone. My mom took off of work to come stay with me for a month because I was in constant fear for my life. It’s a horrible way to live, always looking over your shoulder. He made the place I called home an uncomfortable place to be. I tried so hard to forget those nights, but was constantly having to recount the events of my assault. Answering questions like “Were his fists opened or closed when he hit you? Did he punch you first or did he kick you first? How long were his hands around your neck? Did your head hit the wall first or the floor first?” Replaying those memories in my head is traumatizing, to say the least. When the judge delivered the verdict, he screamed across the courtroom and told me to go fuck myself. He yelled that I ruined his life by bringing this to attention. But, he seemed to have forgotten about the other person in the equation: me. He forgot about my life. You should have never laid your hands on a woman, not once, not twice, but four times. You have no idea how many sleepless nights I had, and how many days I spent inside crying, too scared to leave my home. I lost so much weight from the stress, but when people would comment on it I’d tell them I’d just been going to the gym a lot lately. I am still working to rebuild parts of me that are weak. I am hesitant to let my guard down and get close to men. I am learning to be okay with being touched. That guys can put their arms around me and it doesn’t mean they’re about to strangle me. I pray that one day you will look back and understand all of this better. That I am the first and last person you will ever do this to. I need to heal, and I fully support your journey towards healing, too, because that’s the only way you will be able to change for the better and help others. You may be wondering: Why did I stay? It’s the most commonly asked question, and to me it’s also one of the most painful questions. It’s code to some people for “Well, it’s kind of her fault for staying.” Like I knew all along what I was getting myself into. The answer is easy. I was terrified. Over 70% of domestic violence murders happen after the victim has left the relationship – because the abuser has nothing to lose. It seems like an easy thing to get out of. If a guy lays a hand on you, leave him – it’s simple. I would have thought the same. Never in a million years did I think I would forgive a man who put his hands on me. Until you are in the situation, you will never understand the hold an abuser has on his victim. According to the Domestic Violence Prevention Center, it takes between five and seven times before successfully and permanently leaving an abusive relationship. You think we don’t know it’s bad for us? We are hyperaware of all of it. Many times, people in abusive relationships have to decide themselves when it’s time to leave. We rationalize until we can’t rationalize anymore. I was so naïve that I didn’t realize no matter how much I loved him he was always going to abuse me. This 28-year-old man was never going to grow out of it. Men don’t outgrow being abusers. People in those situations need support – not back handed callouts or humiliation. Instead of judging, extend compassion. Calling me dumb for staying in a relationship with an abuser only reinforces what the abuser told me: I’m useless and dumb. Being there and supporting someone who got out of an abusive relationship goes a long way. I’m not sure if I’d be alive today if I didn’t have the outpouring support from my friends and family. It’s been many long, stressful trials later, but I have found my voice. I am not a victim, I’m a survivor with a story to tell. When someone pushes be­yond my boundaries, I push back. Love is not how much shit you can tolerate from someone. Approximately 1 in 3 women and 1 in 10 men above the age of 18 will experience domestic violence. It’s hard to accept what has happened to me, but I share my story in hopes of helping others. I am the happiest I have been in a long time. Although it has taken its toll on me in a lot of ways, I like to think that I am better and stronger because of it. I know that I shouldn’t have to feel embarrassment or shame about what happened to me. The way I look at the whole process of leaving, I am one day further away from the abuse I endured, and one day closer to reaching happiness and success in life. It’s a part of my past, but it’s done defining me.

When I was 11 I had a friend in the grade below me. We were really close and hung out a lot, often I'd have a sleepover at her house and then when my mom came to pick me up she'd come with us to spend another night. It was great we had a lot of the same interests and then it turned. One day we were laying in my bed playing games with the door closed, she climbed on top of me and kissed me. It made me really uncomfortable and I didn't know what to do. As the weeks went on this continued. She'd guilt trip me and beg me to make out with her and it made me feel really sick. I didn't know what to do because I thought if I stopped being friends with her she'd tell people personal things about me and I thought that if I told an adult they'd get mad at me. I never really knew what to call this because I am physically bigger than her and also a year older so i felt that i couldn't call it rape or sexual assault. We naturally grew apart after she switched schools.