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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.

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.

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

I never associated my assaults as sexual assaults. I always just saw it as a thing that happened me that was upsetting until recently. I was groped, forced into having sex and preforming oral sex on him. I remember one time he offered to drive me home. I lived over 40 mins from town so I thought i could save myself €60 in a taxi. Until I realised we were going in the opposite direction to my house. He drove me to secluded area. I knew it wasn't right I said no said I was due my period I tried everything I could to deter him. It didn't work. I can't drive that road without a feeling of dread. I do feel part to blame and I know that's wrong. I hate how it makes me feel. When I hear stories in the news I can't help but think my story isn't as bad as theirs or that maybe mine wasn't rape or a sexual assault. I hate myself for thinking it.

I didn’t realize that what happened to me was sexual assault until a few years after it happened. I had always felt weird about it, something was off. Until I was in a Facebook group with a bunch of girls, sharing stories about how we lost our virginity or something, and one of them privately messaged me telling me she was a survivor as well... at first I was kind of confused, it still didn’t register, then after talking it out with her, it hit me... I was raped. It was right before I turned 21. I didn’t drink, but was at a party with several friends who were all drinking. It was after a concert, he was in the band. I had known him for a few years, had always had a crush on him. He’s about 4 or 5 years older than me. He was always so nice and everybody loved him. The party was dying down and everyone left except the people staying there(it was about an hour away from where we lived). We started making out, I was into it of course. But I was a virgin, so when he started to try going further, I told him. He backed off a little, then started again. I thought, I’m 21, I trust him, I like him, maybe I might as well finally do it. So I let him. I got nervous and scared though and asked him to stop. I tried to gently push him back a little. He wouldn’t. He kept saying “just the tip, I’ll just put the tip in.” I still tried to push him back but he wouldn’t stop. So I gave in. Then he kept wanting to go further, longer. I started pushing back again, trying to back myself away. “Just a little more, just a little longer, it’s okay it’s okay.” I don’t remember what I did or what happened after. I felt so weird. I didn’t fully understand what happened. I told my two best friends about it, not all of the details or anything, but they knew I slept in the same room as them so I was just like yeah so I finally lost my virginity, and they were excited for me. Again, we all loved him. I never would have imagined he’d hurt me. The thought didn’t even cross my mind. Back then I thought it was only considered rape if it was a stranger attacking you in a dark alley or something. Not someone you’ve known, you trusted, you liked... but he did. He literally took my virginity from me.

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

Hello, I want to share my story of being sexually abused by my step father for 13 years. My mother was aware of the abuse when i was 4 or 5 but continued to put keep in the hands of the abuser everyday of my life until i was 16. I am now 48 and am just now able to share some if my story that i remember. Most i have surpressed and most if my childhood i disassociated from. It was only in the last 3 months i took mx suffering in silence and brought into my own power of healing and was able to break free from the pain, guilt and shame and silence i have suffered my whole life. It was only through Jesus that he saved me and brought me back in to the light. It has been the toughest process i have ever done in my life but it has also freed me from the chains that bound my mind, heart and soul. I continue daily to seek gods word in anything i do and to also prepare my day and set my intentions for myself that day. taking accountability for ma life daily is the biggest part of my day and it assures me i am in control of myself. baby steos everyday and seeking god are my biggest achievements. i have learned how to meditate, breathing exercises and also healing tone frequencies help me daily with my healing struggles. stay positive if you can and seek advice in others who are recovering and try different techniques to get your mind and body calm. take care, god bless you all

She was hurt too. She is so damaged and hurt just like me. But I still didn't deserve what she did to me.

In the summer of 1985 I was 18yrs old and had just graduated high school and was headed to college in the fall. I was dating a guy and we were very much in love. Another guy I had dated briefly months before who broke it off with me, (he was 23) was throwing a party for Live Aid at his mom's house where he lived also. My boyfriend was working until 11:30pm so I went over about 9p to hang out with everyone until he arrived. The guy was making margaritas or daiquiris and I had a few. I was sitting in a chair watching TV and everyone else was in another room. The next thing I remember was waking up with the guy having sex with me. At that moment my boyfriend is coming down the hall calling my name. I call back to him and the guy gets up and dressed and ran out to my boyfriend. My boyfriend came into the room and dressed me and carried me out. I couldn't walk. After my boyfriend took me home and put me on my bed he went back to the house to do some damage to the guy but he was met at the door by the guy and his buddies and told my boyfriend that I "was chasing him all over the house naked and begging for him to have sex with me". My boyfriend believed it and it slowly destroyed our relationship and my life forever.

I got married when I was 25 years old. I truly thought it was going to be just an amazing thing. I had never lived away from home and was immediately now married and moving away from my home, friends and family for my husband's new job. The first few months were truly a honeymoon and I thought if this is the rest of my life then I scored!! My ex was in the military and had finished his service right before we married. We moved for his new job and after a few months the PTSD and stress took a toll on him. That's not an excuse it's the truth I saw it manifest and change. His outbursts always ended with the person closet to him, which was me. The first time I was in complete, utter shock. This could not be happening to me. I was from a good family, I was educated and intelligent, I was starting a great career myself, how could I allow myself to be hurt on a regular basis. Every time there was the apologies, the promise to get help, the cooling off time where we had some happy times and then here we went again. I didn't have the courage to leave, I was so ashamed and scared to tell my family. What would they think? Would they blame me the way he did? Would they tell me to stick it out because I was raised that marriage is hard and you have to stick with it and work it out. I tiptoed every day for 2 years but it still happened. Hospital visits for "falls" and other "accidents" became a regular thing. I was miserable and felt hopeless how did I end up there, how could this be my life. I finally confided in a co-worker who never judged me just listened. One day she said if you're not going to leave than don't be a victim, fight back. Give it as good as you get it. Not sure that was the best advice as it started a cycle of back and forth abuse that was in no way healthy. I took a baseball bat to knees while he slept and I ended up arrested. there was many more instances of him hurting me and me hurting him I was now 3 years in to being abused and one year in to becoming an abuser. NOT GOOD. I had some reprieve as my ex took a job in another state for a few years so did long distance but the abuse was still real when he was home. I never thought I would be happy to find out my husband was cheating on me but 8 years in a woman showed up at my door and said she was pregnant with my husband's child. I literally hugged her. I was free, it was over. I packed up up stuff and my car and left. I called him from the road to let him know what happened and said I wanted a divorce. He did not give it easily but I finally was able to go. I found out I was pregnant a month after I left. My ex has never and will never know he has a son. There was no way he would ever be able to teach him to be an abuser. After much therapy and many years of building an amazing life I can finally say I found healing. I have the most awesome son is truly a man and the kindest soul you'll ever meet. 25 years since I married and I still don't have the courage to meet anyone or get involved but life is good. I just want to do what I can to help others.

Three beautiful kids later, three houses later, and 10 years later, I finally had the courage to leave.

The first time I saw my rapist I was attracted to him. He was so good-looking. I learned soon after that he was married, and I had recently become friends with his wife. I realized they were married about three days after I saw him. I do not pursue relationships with married men, so that is where my interest in him ended. He was constantly asking me inappropriate questions about how big my breasts were and asking to touch them whenever she wasn't in the same room as him. I refused to answer. In the early hours of Date, he made his move. This was the day my son turned 10. My son spent the night at their house. I was hanging out with them at their house late and the wife fell asleep. he started trying to get in to my shirt and I kept pushing him away. He still persisted and eventually was able to successfully get to my breast. He got up to get dish soap (I don't know what he planned on doing with it) and I left. I went home and hung out upstairs for a little bit before going downstairs to where my room was. When I walked in he stepped out and stood between me and the door. I don't know how many times I told him no and that I was not sleeping with him, but he just stood there and smiled at me as he hunted me like prey. he overpowered me and pushed me onto my bed. I tried to hold my pants up but he managed to remove them anyways. My thoughts were that he was stronger than me, I didnt want to get physically hurt and destroy my son's tenth birthday. I stared at the ceiling the whole time. I smelled his cigarette breath and felt his saliva on my breast. I acted like I wasnt there at all. When he was done he asked if it felt good, and I responsed yes. He said "good, now your mine and I can have you at any time I want". He left taking the condom with him. i curled into a ball and cried. I texted my best friend and said "I think I was just raped but I'm not going to report it". she responded with "I'm so sorry hun". I didn't want to hurt his wife or ruin his faminly so i choose to keep quiet. That night he came and had some of the ice cream and cake my son had. The look he gave me, that stupid smile...terrified me. I had a panic attack and went to my room to cry. My roommate joined me and I told her what happened, and that I wanted to call the cops. There were two cops, a man and woman. They accused me of making a false accusation to get revenge and made me feel so small. The female asked me "Did you enjoy it?' I believe in honestly, so I said "Did my body respond? yes, Did I enjoy it? NO". He went into hiding as my landlord told him I reported. The neighbors called me a slut and a liar, I moved to get away from the whole thing. In the end the cops dropped the case without even talking to him. I'm studying to be a lawyer and I hope to make changes so victims don't have to go through what I did. If you have read my whole story thank you, I know its long.

i know that i was sexually assaulted/taken advantage of (cocsa) but what i really want to know is if i was groomed. if you read my story, please tell me what you think. this happened to me 7+ years ago. i was 12 when i met my abuser, who was 13, through his girlfriend at the time because she told me he wanted to talk to us (since me and my brother were friends with her) and within two days i was already telling him i loved him, he became my best friend (pretty much my only irl friend other than his girlfriend, i was also extremely isolated at home because my parents were constantly working so i was alone most of the time which i spent calling and texting and facetiming him) and i was struggling mentally especially with my bpd at that point. to me, i wanted to be special, i wanted to be his favorite (over my brother because my brother was everyone’s favorite) and when i felt like he was choosing me and saying he wanted me more because he was more physical with me than he was with my brother when he assaulted me (something that’s really interesting about him is that in person, he was really stand-off ish, like he didn’t really initiate a lot of physical contact and he would sort of keep his distance but then it made the moments when he would do something like even just hold my hand while walking down the hall it was like he had given me this incredible gift so i craved it because he was so withholding in person) he would repeatedly tell me that he was turned on by me even though i identified as asexual at the time (i did start to respond to what he was saying about being turned on by saying i was “romantically turned on”—even though i didn’t fully understand what it meant, i understood the basic concept—and he would respond that he was turned on the other kind of way), he technically didn’t go as far as he could have, when he brought up the story of how he and his girlfriend first kissed, i asked him how far they had gone and i don’t know why but i did and he told me (which i sort of understood conceptually but didn’t fully know what it meant) like he didn’t talk about what my fantasies of having sex with him would be like but he did still emphasize his sexual attraction towards me, he told me, “you’re mine, now. forever.” it felt like he was claiming me, branding me as his. he said that before he had even done anything to me. eventually, i confessed that i wanted to kiss him and he asked if i wanted him to be my first kiss. i originally agreed enthusiastically. i felt like i was special because he was choosing me, that i was his favorite because he wanted me. but as soon as it actually happened, i didn't want it anymore. everything I did to try to stop him (pulling away, pushing him away, freezing, even biting him) did nothing, he would pause just long enough to respond dismissively to my attempt and keep going (ex. "that was physically nothing. you made it sound like you knew how to kiss." "you don't know what turns me on, do you?" "don't worry, i'm not taking anything off."). like when i told him that my mom wanted us to keep the doors open, he replied, "what, does your mom think i'm gonna fuck you or something?" and closed them as soon as we got up to my room. he kissed me for hours until my skin stung. he rarely asked or gave any indication that he was going to do something, he would just do it. he put his hands around my waist and hips. he only ever asked if he could kiss my neck and because i was heavily dissociating the entire time (to the point where i was having an out of body experience constantly), my head just fell forward in this automatic nod. he kissed it so roughly, it felt like my skin was being rubbed raw, it felt like rope burn. except my body was responding with pleasure, it felt like a high. at one point, he tugged down on the collar of my shirt (which is when he “reassured” me that he wasn’t taking anything off), i was so scared i thought i was going to die. i thought he was going to rape me. even though he didn't, it was the worst experience of my life.

Dear K, I met you when I was only 11, I was lonely, vulnerable, and so sad. At the time, everyone was calling me a slut and a prostitute for simply having breasts and curves. When you would talk to me, you never made me feel ugly or disgusting, you made me feel appreciated and loved. Our friendship was "beautiful" at first, you would always ask me how I was, what I was going to do after school, but I never realized that you wanted to control every living moment of mine. At age 12, when I said no to you asking me out, you would ask me out every single day, first, it was a hand on the shoulder, then a shove into the lockers, then yanking my hair and hitting me and slapping my butt. I couldn't escape you because you were always there, at class, at lunch, in front of my locker, outside school, on the train, in the grocery store, and even on my doorstep. At age 13 I couldn't be myself without you, I knew how terrible of a person you were, but you were the only one who would talk to me, spend time with me. I felt like I deserved how you treated me, so I would do anything to make you happy, so you wouldn't hit me. I would wear the clothes you liked, smile and laugh when you wanted me to, let you touch me inside out, but that was never enough for you. You pushed me to my limit, you drove me insane that my body couldn't stop you from stealing from me. I couldn't scream, I couldn't wriggle around, I couldn't say no, I was just paralyzed, numb, but my brain was on fire because I knew I should've been fighting back. When my friend realized what you had done to me, he never let you go near me again, but you still stole from me. I can't sleep without having nightmares of you, without hearing you whisper how you would steal more from me, without feeling your touch and wincing whenever someone hugs me. I am scared that if I open up again, I will only be robbed again. Whenever I see you, I shudder at the mere reminder of how you owned and brainwashed me. I am still healing, and always will be. My promise to you is that I will never let you hurt another girl again and that I will forever be an advocate so that we survivors can have a voice. So that I can have my voice again!

When I was about 10 years old, one of my friends (same age, also female) and I were sitting facing each other in a hammock. She placed her foot between my legs and started rubbing, and she was holding a four year old and we were in the same room as numerous adults. I didn't say anything but I wonder now if it was out of shock, confusion, fear, or maybe even enjoyment? Other times she would make me hump pillows with her, or even touch me inappropriately. The one time I was going to spend the night at her house was a little while after these initial experiences, and I vividly remember being so afraid to even go into her room that I burst into tears and ran back to my parents begging to go home. I can't remember how far we ever went, or how often anything occurred, and the memories that I have now were repressed for over 10 years. For a long time I convinced myself that I was making it up. However, around that same age when this sexual stuff started happening, I became afraid of being touched by anyone (even my parents) and the same friend would force me to hug her and she would hold me still and kiss my cheek. I've struggled with physical touch ever since, and also became addicted to pornography at a young age (I've worked past that now, thankfully). Wondering how this experience would be classified? It's been really bothering me ever since those memories started coming back, and I think I'm confused as to whether it was abuse or just sexual trauma in some way.

After it was all said and done. I found myself asking, why not? For I had/have already been molested as a child, sexually harassed on the job and later a kissed took place due to me feeling stuck; so why not one more thing with being sexually assaulted. Thing is it isn’t okay. It isn’t your fault and you did nothing wrong. My hope is when confusion arises that clarity settles and when self doubt surrounds that assurance comforts you. Please know you’re loved, you’re important, you’re valued, you’re victorious, you’re more than a conqueror and you’re so worth it! Let’s see, healing to me is forgiving the one(s) who harmed you, forgiving those who shamed you, blamed you and didn’t believe you and yes forgiving you. The Best is Still and Yet to Come! I love you and please know , I am here too.

My story with Name started when I was in high school. The summer after my junior year, I accidentally commented gibberish on one of his posts, which led to him eventually messaging me. One thing led to another, and we ended up hanging out at my house. He came in and immediately wooed both me and my parents before spending hours talking with me in the backyard. I think that’s what made me fall for him in the first place—how easily we could talk. Months went by before we hung out again. By that point, we had been talking for two months—mostly on the phone, as he rarely spoke to me in person. When he came over, I could tell he was nervous. I knew he was either going to ask me out or put an end to whatever we were. He did the former. I said yes. He was everything I had ever wanted. He took me on all sorts of fun dates, picked me flowers, danced with me, and basically became the man I always dreamed of. Our "Phase One" started almost immediately after we started dating. Though I didn't know it at the time. He would ask for all of my spare time, and because I was young, and he was what I thought to be my first love, I let him take all of it. My parents could see that this was problematic and approached me about it several times. I, being a sixteen year old girl with mild rebellion issues, ended up ignoring their pleas. That was my first mistake. Soon, he started to pull away, making promises he wouldn’t keep. One instance was around prom—I had asked for a promposal, even though we had been dating, and he promised he would give me one. I waited and waited—leaving my car each day, going to lunch, lingering after school—hoping he would surprise me like he promised. But it never happened. In another instance, that school year, I tried to have lunch with him on several occasions, but he turned me down every time, saying he had other plans. I couldn’t see it at the time, but looking back, I think this was him testing my limits—seeing what I would put up with. Soon summer came and went, and my parents started noticing how Name was treating me, how disrespectful he was. They made me promise that we would break up, or I would not be allowed to attend college that upcoming semester. I was seventeen so they still had the ability to take that away. Well, I didn't listen. Yet another mistake. Name, his parents, and I came up with a plan to lie to my parents and pretend we weren’t dating until we got to college, where they wouldn’t know either way. The plan worked for a while, but it was later exposed when my roommate decided to text my mom about it. This sparked a new tension with my parents, resulting in isolation from them too, but I still can't decide if it's his fault or mine. Later that semester, he and I started to approach phase two. I think the first time I really felt the emotional slap to the face was when he promised me that he would take me on a lunch date the next day because I had been feeling down, and when the time came, he never showed up. Hours went by and I began to worry. I called and texted, no response. Finally, several hours after our date was planned he texted me, telling me that he had too much homework and that I shouldn't nag him. I was mad, just not enough to leave. Another mistake. The last instance before things really started to escalate was when he was back in our hometown for his brother’s football game. On the day he was coming back, he promised to take me out since he had been gone—and because I had just spent the weekend with my mother, who could barely look at me. Once again the time came and went and he never showed up. I would later come to find out something that would inevitably send our relationship into hell and turn him into the monster that he became. I was in my dorm when he got a text on his phone. I went to hand it to him and saw that it was from a girl he had been friends with since before high school. The message was a bit flirtatious, and despite my better judgment, I opened it—only to discover that every lunch he hadn’t spent with me, he had been spending with her. He had been buying her things and taking cutesy pictures of the two of them, which I later found saved in his 'Favorites' folder. I also learned that the reason he never showed up for our date the night he came back to college was because he had been with her at her college, taking her to lunch. With a little more digging, I found that he had been exchanging nude pictures with women online and was active on several dating apps. To say I was infuriated would be an understatement. I told him to leave, that I never wanted to see him again. But just before I shut him out for good, he started crying, swearing he would never do it again—and I believed him. By that point, I had already moved past phase one. I was dependent on him, and I didn’t have any real support outside of the relationship at the time. So, I took him back. That was my biggest mistake. Tensions were high, and we were arguing regularly. One time, it got so loud and intense that someone in the dorm called the cops, and we had to talk to them. Things simmered down after that, but I was still pretty messed up. He had been my everything, and he broke my heart. Soon after, I once again decided I couldn’t handle the pain of knowing he couldn’t love me, but something stopped me from leaving—his house burned down. We dropped everything, packed some bags, and went to the remnants of his home. He was distressed, so I put my feelings aside and focused on taking care of him and his family. During this time, I formed a bond with his patrents—my first reprieve in months. Things really calmed down after that, and I thought we were finally going to be okay. That summer, I moved in with his family. But then my parents started texting and calling me, telling me how horrible and ungrateful I was. They reinforced my already fragile self-confidence, and Name saw the opportunity and stepped in to take care of me, which brought us even closer. Then he started drinking, and he hurt me. I don’t really remember how the argument started, but I do remember how mad he was. I said something he didn’t like, and suddenly, I found myself being kicked off the bed. Literally. When I tried to get back on, he pushed me so hard that I hit the wall, broke the corner, and ended up with a nasty cut on my leg. I slept on the floor that night. The first time he hurt me wasn’t physically severe, just a cut, but the fact that he was willing to hurt me in the first place cracked something inside of me. I just couldn’t believe it. That was the start of many. Soon, I was hiding black eyes and bruises on my arms and legs. And the worst part? I didn’t even know it was wrong. In my head, I probably deserved it for getting riled up over so many stupid things. I mean, I obviously stayed with him, so how was he to blame. One instance I remember, well, I don't actually remember what happened. That's the funny thing about all of this, is that even though it was probably the worst thing I have ever faced in my life, I can't remember. Anyway, I do remember getting him a promise ring. I had wanted one, but he hadn't gotten me one, so I decided to surprise him and give him one first. That night, I found him looking at other girls. We fought. Once again, I 'tried' to leave, but then he started crying, saying he had been doing so well and that I just needed to give him another chance—and I did. That next year at college the first few months were great. Then Valentine's Day came. We had gone to dinner and had a wonderful night and he had been drinking but was still being so nice. When we got home, I mentioned engagement, and how we had been together for so long that I was ready, I didn't know how delusional I was. He got extra mad at that, and stormed off into the other room. I decided then it was a good time to whip out my new 'outfit' and try to make some sort of reprieve. It didn't work, he got more mad. So I changed into pajamas and told him I would be sleeping in the guest room. Oops. He grabbed me before I could leave and threw me into the nightstand. I laid there for a minute, and the next thing I remember, I was standing up with a headache, but I didn’t know why yet. Then there was blood. Blood on the walls, blood on the bed, blood on the floor, and blood on the Valentine's Day stuffed animals he had gotten me. I ran to the bathroom, crying hysterically because I didn’t know what was happening. I checked, and sure enough, he had cracked my head open. He came in and got even more angry because I was crying. He kept yelling for hours. He wouldn’t even let me leave to get band-aids, let alone see a doctor, so I had to hold my cut closed that night. The next morning, I wouldn't talk. I was scared and hurt. Of course, he didn’t remember because he had been drunk—he never remembered, because he was always drunk. Despite this, he saw the blood, saw me, and remorse—whether genuine or not—spread across his face. After that, he was amazing again, sending me into another spiral of confusion. Another instance a few months after that, we had once again gotten into an argument about something, probably something stupid, and I remember the look that crossed his face. I knew it was going to be a rough night. I ran. I ran to the bedroom, because in my head that was the best option at the time. I tried to cross over the bed and hide behind it, but I didn't make it far before he had made it into the room and grabbed me by the ankles. He tried to hold me down, but I fought. The next thing I remember was him biting my back—yes, biting. He broke the skin through my thick crewneck, and I had a scar for over a year after. When he bit me, I screamed. I wanted anyone to hear me, to save me. He stood up, and I thought I had scared him off. He yanked me off the bed and onto the hard concrete floor. I don't remember the next few minutes after that. After that small snippet of time, stuff started coming back, and it took me a moment to realize he was absolutely pounding into my back—punch after punch after punch. For some reason, this time I couldn't even find it in myself to scream. My precious dog then came in to save me and was punched himself. I think this struck something in Name because he stopped. He stood up, kicked me, lifted me by the hair, and said, "You're just a worthless bitch," then slammed my face back into the floor before spitting on me. I stayed there that night. The next morning I woke up to McDonald's Breakfast and a bouquet of flowers waiting for me. The most excruciating instance was that March. I had come to find out I was pregnant. This, despite the horrible circumstances, gave me so much hope. I waited a while to tell Name, because at this point, he was plowing through twenty-plus beers a night, plus scotch, plus brandy, plus whatever else he could get his hands on. I waited a couple weeks and at some point, he had laid off the drinking and had been fine, so we were just talking before bed, and I thought that things were looking up, that we could make it work. Then I said something, and he punched me. I ran to the bathroom, locked myself in, and found blood waiting for me. I lost the baby. No, he took my baby away from me. I can't remember much after that. We soon scheduled an OB/GYN appointment because the pain from the 'miscarriage' wouldn't go away. When I went in, I should have known it was going to end poorly because the nurse didn’t even ask if I was sexually active. When the doctor came in, he asked what brought me in, and I froze. I came up with some story about MMA club, a club I hadn’t attended in months, and mentioned I was feeling pain and that I had bled and wanted him to check it out. He didn’t. He said it was just abdominal bruising and that it wasn’t his problem. At this point things with Name had been too difficult to argue let alone formulate a conversation, so tensions went away, and I went back to his family's house that summer. That summer I had gotten a phone call, my dad had been arrested. And my mother, as much as I love her, doesn't handle pain well. She shut down, which meant that I had to help move everything from the closest thing to a childhood home I would ever have, to my moms new house. This was difficult because I was also struggling, but Name, being the valiant person he always was, helped me move everything out. The night after we finished, I had been so mad. I went into the bathroom and I threw my straightening iron to the ground. It broke and that caught Name's attention. He came in and made a joke about why we couldn't have nice things. I was in tears, and mad, so I asked him why he could never be there for me. He then came in for a hug. Well I thought it was for a hug. He grabbed my head and slammed his forehead right into my face, breaking my nose. After that, things got progressively worse until the last major thing he did. I remember, like always, I did or said something he didn’t like. He decided that was a good enough reason to pick me up by the neck and slam me into the doorframe. My head hurt so badly; I remember that much. But I couldn’t scream because I couldn’t breathe. He was squeezing so hard. I can remember it all so vividly, except for his face. I started to pass out, but just when I thought I was finished, his mom knocked, and he dropped me. Then I started screaming. He opened the door, and his mom came in. They started fighting, and he hit her. Name's dad came in and pulled him away, trying to get him to talk. Name's mom instantly became the center of attention, but later, we all talked, and Name's dad had told him he shouldn't hit girls. His mom told me it was my fault he did what he did because I started so many arguments. That was really the last big hurt he caused me. Of course there are tens of times if not more in there that he threw things at me, broke locked doors to get to me, beat me, and yelled at me for hours, but the beatings ended there. What do I remember feeling during that time? Honestly, I don’t remember feeling much for a long time. I was so messed up about it all. I remember hours where I would just stare at my hands, usually after a beating. I remember taking long showers that, in my head, helped wash what I was going through away. I remember spending days and days wishing he would just end it so I didn’t have to deal with him anymore. But honestly the worst part was after I left him. In May of 2024, he left for home early and I saw that as the perfect opportunity to end things. When I got home myself I had been in such a dark place, I was so depressed that people around me began noticing. My parents mostly. They still don't know anything about this though so I tried to be better in order to keep them separated from that part of my life. I continued long showers, and hours upon hours of just grieving the person I was before. Grieving my baby. Grieving everything. What has my healing journey looked like? Well, at first horrible. Like I said I didn't really feel much when I was with Name, but when I left? It hit me all at once. I remember feeling so lost, and so alone. I was the only one who knew what happened at first, I remember feeling so bitter that Name had memory loss when he drank, because I was stuck with every memory, and he wasn't. Eventually things started getting better though. I stopped replaying his hands around my neck or his fists in my back every time I closed my eyes. I stopped freaking out when people went for high-fives. I stopped flinching when ever I heard loud slamming or when someone started to yell. I started seeing the light in things, I learned to smile again. Looking back, I see pictures where I have a black eye or am twitching excessively from the trauma, and I still struggle to process that that was me. But now, I’ve found so much more joy in my everyday life. I’ve rekindled hobbies I had lost interest in for so long, I have an amazing roommate and best friend, and most importantly, I am able to have and maintain a romantic relationship again—a milestone I never thought I would reach. Sometimes, I still panic. I still have nightmares and go through periods where I zone out and vividly relive him hurting me. But it’s not nearly as bad now—which means it can only get better.

I remember wanting love. I remember being a young and innocent high school girl with a crush. I remember dating a boy I loved, who claimed he loved me, and I remember how it felt when he forced himself inside of me, after I told him no countless times. I remember hating myself and hating him, crying myself to sleep, withdrawing from family and friends, panic attacks and using self harm to cope. Although remembering is painful, I’m beginning to heal. I’m starting to forgive, I’m starting to love myself again.