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It seems like everywhere i turn, I am getting assaulted and or preyed upon. From 17 to 18, I was in a relationship with a 35 yearold man. He had phone sex with me before I turned 18. My brain fog is very bad, so i honestly dont remember much. At 17, I worked a job where customers would openly make remarks about having sex with me. One of my older co workers even grabbed my hips, only to apologize and say "all you women are just so beautiful." I was told not to report this, because he was so sweet and loving to his wife. Right before I turned nineteen, I was violently assaulted by a man i went on a date with. He groped me in a public area and I told him no. He proceeded to tell me to "tell him if anything he did made me uncomfortable." And then he proceeded to grope me again. I gave up at that point. He was also kissing me with nicotine gum in his mouth, which i told him to spit out. He did, and then later kissed me with it again. It gave me the worst migraine. Like my head was splitting open. But I still went home with him. I didnt want to be alone. Obviously that entails sex. I knew that. What I didnt know was that he was going to spend the next combination of about 9 hours trying to get off. Not only that, but in the most aggressive ways possible. He yanked my hair and held me down so hard it formed a scar that still reappears sometimes. I believe at some points, because it wasnt penetration, i remember him shoving my head into a pillow. I wonder if he was trying to suffocate me. He jerked off on top of me, digging his fist into my ribcage. He bruised my spinal cord. I didnt truly understand what had happened. I tried to explain to him i had prior experience being assaulted- but he told me rape was only penetration. I cried in his bed that night. The next morning he resumed. I didnt consider this sexual assault and possibly even rape for a while. I was angry about my spine though- and texted him that. He told me I had said "choke me daddy" which i did not.. and that I better not start acting like one of those "bpd bitches." I also sometimes wonder if this was somehow an attempted homicide of some sort, even if that sounds extreme. Some people around me have told me it doesnt hold up as trauma, because I put myself in that situation. My boyfriend now just tells me hes sorry over and over. Its not the comfort I need, I need the pressure to have sex be totally gone. I wish I was dead. I still worry that I made this up.

I'm hoping this is truly anonymous because I am in a sensitive situation that no one I know can know a thing about. I have to get this out some way and it must be anonymously. I have been with my boyfriend, well, fiance, for 8 years in January. He's always been my best friend. The love of my life. My person. Until last night. He suddenly turned to me out of nowhere and said, "I raped you." When I asked him to clarify because I couldn't believe my ears and I was taken aback, he responded, "I would try to wake you up for sex but couldn't get you to wake up (I take medication that knocks me out) and I couldn't handle you pushing me away and saying no anymore (zero libido due to meds and mental health struggles) so I resorted to betraying you in your sleep. My hand wasn't working and I never saw a reason for you to say no. I'm so sorry I allowed myself to do this. The last time I did it, I felt so guilty I was afraid to touch you ever again." I was completely unconscious, no memory of any of this at all. I don't even know how long this went on for. He can't recount how many times or when the last time was. Only that it was sometime earlier this year. I can't believe this. This is not who I thought he was. At all. He's been my best friend by my side for so long. I have never been sexually assaulted before. He is the very last person I would have feared doing this in the entire universe. He's supposed to be protecting me from people that commit these atrocious acts. He always swore he would. I always believed him. I suffer immensely from an emotional disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and I am having a very hard time right now. I don't know what to think. I feel used and dirty and I can't look at myself. I can't look at him either. I feel like all I am is a body to use right now. He even had the audacity to ask me if I can see this as less than what it is because of the trouble I have put him through with all of my mental illnesses. I can't lie, that set me off. "How can you possibly see my emotional burden as equal to raping me in my sleep, stealing my body to do with as you please without me knowing a thing??" I can't tell a soul and all I want to do is run to my mom and spill my guts but I know I can't. Not now. I have nowhere else to live but with him. We have a 10 year old who worships him. I have become terrified of getting a job and being independent. I have never lived on my own and am severely dependent. I wake up every morning feeling like a different person than the days before. My emotions control my reality. I have never been stable or able to hold down a job for long. My insurance was taken in january and my mental health has been declining rapidly. My mental health is at a record low. I never in an infinite amount of years saw this coming from him. No one in our lives would have expected this. We've always seen him as a very good man. How could he do this?? Who would he have done this to if he had been single? I suddenly feel like I've never been anything more than a body to him. I feel like I don't know who I've been living with for almost a decade. It feels like our entire life together has been woven with his lies. I didn't go to sleep last night, just stayed up bawling and shaking and panicking and hyperventilating. I'm exhausted and frightened of my future, our future. My little family feels like it was just torn apart. He has been crying all night, apologizing profusely. As someone with BPD, I get very, VERY attached to certain people and it feels IMPOSSIBLE to let go of them. Especially him. This is my longest relationship and we've faced so much in our lives together. One of my biggest fears in the world is abandonment. Thinking about him being gone makes me feel incredibly abandoned. I don't want to be judged for this, but I love him, I truly do. He is a part of me and I can't control that. But I'm also afraid that he isn't who I thought he was, not really, and my whole world will never be the same or okay. If he could hide this for so many years, could there be more that I deserve to be aware of? I don't know what to do and I need to be strong for my child. Thank you for reading if you made it this far. This is so new and petrifying and I truly do not know where to turn. My world has come crashing down on me.

Témoignage d’une survivante de mutilation génitale féminine Ce jour-là, on m’avait dit que je devais aller voir le tailleur pour une nouvelle robe. J’étais tellement contente. Le matin, on m’a réveillée très tôt, bien avant mon heure habituelle. On m’a fait prendre un bain chaud, puis on m’a habillée avec ma robe préférée. Ensuite, on m’a prise par la main pour, disait-on, aller chez le tailleur afin de prendre mes mesures. Nous sommes arrivées dans une famille où des cris d’enfants retentissaient de partout. Des femmes étaient assises, chacune tenant un morceau de vieux pagne auprès d’une fille. Je pensais qu’elles attendaient leur tour chez le tailleur. Mais j’ai vu une vieille femme sortir des toilettes, d’où provenaient des cris stridents, accompagnée d’une fille en larmes, demander pour la prochaine. J’ai voulu fuir lorsque j’ai vu la troisième fille sortir, mais on m’a retenue. Jusqu’à ce moment-là, je ne savais pas ce qui se passait dans cette toilette. J’avais peur, car les filles en sortaient en pleurs et la vieille femme venait ensuite chercher chacune d’entre nous à tour de rôle. Lorsque mon tour est arrivé, j’ai suivi la vieille dame. Je n’avais pas la force de me débattre contre les deux femmes qui m’accompagnaient. Elles m’ont conduite dans la toilette, où se trouvaient deux autres veilles femmes. Elles étaient trois : deux pour me maintenir et m’écarter les jambes, et la troisième tenait un petit couteau ensanglanté entre ses mains. On m’a déshabillée et fait asseoir sur une pierre. Elles ont alors procédé à l’opération. Jusqu’à ce jour, je n’ai aucune comparaison pour décrire la douleur que j’ai ressentie. Je ne trouve ni les mots ni les explications pour la décrire. Après l’opération, on m’a entouré les reins avec un petit morceau de pagne et le reste a été plié pour former une sorte de caleçon que l’on m’a fait porter. La douleur la plus insupportable est survenue lorsque j’ai eu envie d’uriner. Je n’ai aucun qualificatif, aucune explication et aucune comparaison pour décrire cette douleur. On avait préparé mon plat préféré, mais je n’ai pas pu manger. On m’avait également préparé ma boisson préférée, mais je n’ai pas pu boire. Ce n’est que lorsqu’on m’a dit que cela pouvait réduire la douleur que j’ai essayé de boire et de manger, mais la douleur était toujours là. Je ne pouvais pas m’asseoir. Je ne pouvais pas me coucher. Même rester debout me faisait mal. J’ai passé trois jours dans cet état et une semaine pour recouvrer de cette douleur forte.

As I continue my book journey, I learn why traditional therapy is so harmful—it causes further traumatization. While listening to book, I am literally being walked through a slide show of my life and the only kind of relationships I've ever known. The education process is brutal. The deeper I get the more it touches I just inherently know this type of individual the way I knew my Father. I was targeted because of everything beautiful about me. This is a person who knew how to ask me to fix their brokeness and walks away from the relationship saying that they couldn't help me because I'm too sick. Do you see it now clearly? You were set up. My search for help has been an incredibly difficult and overwhelming process. The more I understand how trapped I was made by the mechanisms of abuse, the more rage I feel. How many times have I had to scream in my car, punch my pillow, and hide in my closet when I cry my eyes out? And here I am, exactly where you designed to leave me—with no means to support myself, seeming as if that was my choice. But you and I both know that's not the plan that you made. You designed this very well. I am in a mouse wheel society that offers the abuser a comfy landing and survivors with severely limited resources. It was never built for me to get out of. I have listened to four distinguished authors in a row say: do not settle. Find a therapist who is 100 percent qualified and watch out for bad help. This is multilayered trauma with specific needs, and you are fighting for your life. Somehow, government insurance plans missed this information. They are much more comfortable with me joining the multi-million dollar pharmaceutical plan than actually healing my core human needs long term. According to all the authors, trauma gets stuck in your nervous system, keeping your body in survival mode, and you can't think your way out of it with talk therapies. I am definitely stuck—finger in light socket soberingly aware. Physically, mentally, financially. There are no bootstraps to use; they were taken. Physical self-awareness is the first step. Trauma victims cannot recover without understanding the sensations in our bodies, which have been blocked with numbing medications and other substances. They advocate for body-based therapies like Somatic Experiencing, focusing on bodily sensations to release stress and trauma trapped in the nervous system rather than just talking about the events; EMDR, a rapid eye movement exercise that safely revisits traumatic events (from what I understand, it's reworking memories using a dream sequence, removing harm and creating safety); and IFS work, which focuses on healing protective parts of the mind created through dysfunctional family systems. The more I learn, the more pain I am willing to step into, the more I understand. The behaviors, thoughts, and feelings that impact me from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep—the ones I've been labeled with, the ones that have been used against me—actually stem from abuse, not something I was born with. According to the authors who specialize in what I've been through, my brain wasn't born with these mental health labels. My nervous system created adaptations to survive continuous threat. name and name explain that families often pathologize victims, calling it mental illness, which deflects from abuse and survival behavior. They also identify how trauma can be passed down genetically, meaning these adaptations are learned across generations. As I continue to listen to a complete stranger tell my story, I am struggling with full acceptance. I don't want it to be true, but it is. Now I know about psychopathy, and there's no going back. I'm shell-shocked. Being walked through the exact events of my personal life leaves no room for questioning. I often think someone needs to hear this, someone needs to know—specifically my mother. It's lonely, partly reassuring, and incredibly devastating. These books explain every thought, behavior, and symptom. I hear how my sense of self and belief in the world was changed. I've been brainwashed deeply through my own love, and somehow it's so much softer for me to blame myself than truly accept what it actually is. For the longest time, my brain learned if it was me, then I could do something to fix things. It became the obsession and a constant state of mind that protected my body. I have lived fear, trained helplessness, and hopelessness. There's no damn way my nervous system can let that go after what I've been through, and I hate it. I hate it so much. Every so often I still have a false sense of comfort, the fantasy that helped me regulate for so long but was never real. I will do whatever it takes to pull that little girl from the ashes and restore her. We will recover.

i have only told this story to maybe three, four people, so, i do not really know where to begin. do i start with the first time i was touched inappropriately? the first time i was photographed without my consent, without my knowledge? the first time i was physically assaulted by a boy? i was eleven. but, rather than sit and explain how i was sexually assaulted in multiple different ways by multiple different men from the ages of 11-17, i want to talk about what happened when i was sixteen. (the story is long, so please, bare with me.) when i was sixteen, i was dating the first person i ever loved, (who is now my ex and one of my dearest friends) and he had a best friend, who later became one of mine. we did everything together, we were a trio of sorts and truthfully, i think we were happy. i mean, i have happy memories of the three of us, yes, but they’ve been overrun with negativities. this friend of ours, he wasn’t a good person, not really, his humor went beyond just being dark, it was cruel, and humiliating, and discriminatory. he would make these awful jokes; about women, about rape, about racism, homophobia, jokes about children, about illness and disease and death. and each time he thought he was being funny, he would wear this smile, this evil smile, one that said “i know what i am doing and i like it” i wish i could say we cut our ties right then and there, perhaps we should’ve, but we were young and naive and well, everyone needs a friend. so, we lived through our adolescence together, and formed a bond. though the closer we got, the more things started to get weird. and the closer we got, the clearer i could see the signs, the red flags. my boyfriend and i had our own demons with addiction and mental illness and we inevitably struggled, and our friend was witness to the darkness that had emerged, as it appeared he watched everything from the sidelines, literally and metaphorically. there was one night in particular that stands out - my partner and i were hanging out at his house and he said he had some weed he wanted to smoke so we walked into the woods by his house and smoked out of a pipe that he supplied. at first glance, i thought i saw white flakes mixed into the weed but i thought i was imagining things. a few hours later, we were watching a movie in his living room. he was on one couch, lounging on his computer, and my partner and i were cuddling on another couch. i remember we felt so affectionate and mushy and we couldn’t understand why, i narrowed it down to just being high. i then noticed our friend had fallen asleep, my partner and i began fooling around, nothing crazy, just a makeout and frankly, a blowjob. afterwards, our friend had woken up and suggested we go in the hot tub, so we did. it was there i started to feel very, very high. i remember feeling a foot rub against mine, i felt it go to my leg and up to my thigh, i remember thinking it was my boyfriend’s doing but i was too high to realize it was actually his friend. once i realized that, i felt incredibly uncomfortable and began heading home. the next morning, we all felt awful, we woke up feeling very down, depressed, just overall not well. we had reached out to our friend to meet up and see if he also felt as horrible as we did, and that was when the evil, know it all smile appeared, and he said “oh yeah well it was molly”. i remember my heart sank into my chest. he had laced the weed with molly, hence why we felt so euphoric and mushy. he then said, “why do you think you guys couldn’t keep your hands off each other?” at that moment, i knew he hadn’t actually fallen asleep. he even went as far to confirm my suspicion, as i said something along the lines of “how did you know that? you were sleeping” and he said, still with that smile, “no, i wasn’t.” he pretended to be asleep, and watched us the entire time. now i know what you’re thinking and it is true, i stayed friends with him, even after his cruelty was shown, even after he drugged me and my partner, even after he touched me inappropriately and invaded my privacy. we remained friends. i wish i could say i removed him from my life, i know now i should’ve, perhaps it would’ve kept me safe, or safer. i hate to admit it, but truthfully, i worried about him, i feared for his mental health, and was afraid what leaving him in the dark would do. as time went on, i started to notice he started treating me differently, almost with more care and concern. for example; there was one day all three of us were on the beach and i had gotten my ankle stuck between rocks trapping me in place. my partner at the time disregarded my calls for help and instead it was his friend who came to help me. i remember thinking it was odd, and out of character for him. another example was when we three went to a heavy metal concert in the city, i remember running around in a circle pit when the person in front of me fell, and caused a domino affect where everyone that followed behind also fell. i remember getting stepped on, twisting my ankle, and laying on the floor struggling to get up. our friend, he saw me, ran in my direction, lifted me up off the floor, and carried me like a baby out of the crowd. these are two small examples of what caused me to notice a shift in his behavior, it seemed like he was going more and more out of his way to ensure i was protected. one thing my rapist and i had in common was we were both musicians, and shared a deep love for singing. my partner wasn’t much of a musician, and most of the times would just watch from the sidelines as we performed. my rapist was in a band, and little me was incredibly drawn to the idea of also being in a band. when i first sang for him, he instantly told me that he wanted me involved in his band as a vocalist, and that i would have to sing in front of the rest of his bandmates. i was extremely excited. later that day, i discussed this idea with my partner, who told me that he didn’t think it was a good idea. i told him that he could come with me and watch, but he refused, as he didn’t want to sit there and do nothing the entire time. i asked him if he would be comfortable if i went alone, and he said no. i grew upset, explaining that i just wanted to sing, i wanted to be apart of something musical that wasn’t limited to a silly little high school show, or a theatre program for teens. my partner then said something to me that i wish i payed more attention to, he said, “i trust you, i don’t trust him” at the time i just felt confused, i even said, “he’s your best friend, why don’t you trust him?“ i am deeply and painfully aware that there were plenty of reasons not to trust him, but this was the first time my partner had said the words, so i wanted a better understanding as to what was going on in his mind. he simply told me “i don’t know, i just have a gut feeling, you’re not going.” and then came the biggest regret of my entire existence, i went anyway. on a sunday, i told my partner i was going to my cousins house, but instead, i showed up at our friends’s, his, house. i showed up in a sweater and sweatpants. he answered the door without a shirt on. i hesitated, and asked if anyone else was here yet, he told me no, that they’d be here any minute now and that we can start setting up. when he brought me upstairs, into his room, he asked me if he wanted to work on some duet stuff in the meantime. i agreed. we began recording, he played guitar and we harmonized, sang maybe 3 or 4 songs when i realized that time had passed and still, no one else was there. i asked him, “when is your band coming?” and there it was, that smile. “yeah, uh, they’re not coming” i should’ve ran. instead i sat there, dumb founded, not understanding what he meant, was he joking? no, he smiled, he knows what he is doing. i sat there, hearing my boyfriends voice in my head telling me “i don’t trust him”. i then stood up and began packing my stuff, intending on leaving. he then stood with me, and shut the door. he threw me onto his bed and held my hands down. my breathing picked up, quick and heavy, but my voice escaped me. i couldn’t speak. i couldn’t think. i couldn’t run, or scream. i froze. never in my life had i ever froze the way i did just then. it felt like my brain was screaming at me to move, do something, but my body refused. before he forced himself inside me, he released my hands and began squeezing my breasts, and i yelped out in pain, ill never forget how hard he squeezed me, it hurt terribly. it brought me back to learning that my grandmother was assaulted in a similar way, and shortly after, was diagnosed with breast cancer. i buried my head into the pillow, and sobbed. the sounds of my pain did nothing but excite him, i know because it was then he began penetrating me. i closed my eyes, and cried into his pillow the entire time. when it was over, he threw himself off of me and finished himself into a sock and threw it on the floor. he walked out of the room and into the bathroom. i slowly sat up, my body aching, and dressed myself. he returned and did two things that stuck with me. first, he threw a bong in my lap and said “smoke that, you look like you need it” and then, he took a poster off of his wall, revealing a hole he had made. inside, there were knives, a bottle with a joint inside, and some paper. he told me then that when he turned 21, “or sooner” he said, he planned to end his life. he said he would use the weapons inside after smoking his last joint, and he would leave a note. i didn’t understand why he told me this at the time, but my therapist told me that it sounded like his way of a threat, ensuring that i would stay quiet. he knew my history with mental health, he knew that i would rather never speak again than be responsible for someone ending their life. i didn’t say anything, i don’t think i spoke a single syllable, i may have nodded, but nothing more of a response came from me. i was destroyed. all i could think was how much of an idiot i was, how blind and stupid and selfish i was to put myself in this situation, all for a chance to sing in a band. i barely remember leaving, i know i sat outside his house and i called my mom to come get me. i knew i could simply walk to the train, but i genuinely feared for myself, i didn’t trust myself in that moment not to throw myself in front of the train. so i sat and waited. when my mom came, i still didn’t speak. she asked if i was okay and i just sat in silence. my breasts throbbing in pain. the next morning, i had bruises on my breasts. i got ready for school, thinking about what was going to happen when i saw my boyfriend, and when i also saw his best friend, the boy who just raped me the night before. i successfully ignored everyone until lunch time came. i usually sat with my boyfriend and his group of friends, so i tried to mentally prepare myself. i didn’t have a plan, i didn’t know what i was going to say, if i was going to say anything at all. my anxiety crept up on me, the paranoia and fear, all swallowed me whole. i sat down, put my headphones in place, and put my head down. my boyfriend was dealing with his own issues, and wasn’t entirely present during this lunch period. he had his headphones in and his head also down, and he was, unfortunately, drunk. yes, drunk in school. i felt someone sit themselves next to me so i lifted my head up, and there it was, that fucking smile. i put my head back down. when my rapist sat next to me, he pulled out his phone, put one headphone in his ear, and the other in mine. i flinched at his hand moving towards me. when the headphone was in, music began to play. my heart sank as deep as it could go. it was me, my voice, his voice, it was us. i looked at him, looked down, and saw our faces on his screen. i had forgotten, before he raped me, we recorded our covers, and here he was, listening to them, on a loop, in front of me and my partner, who didn’t notice at all. at that moment, i got up, and walked away. my boyfriend only then noticed me and my exit and followed me into the staircase, he called after me numerous times, begging me to talk to him, tell him what was wrong. i couldn’t do it. i looked at him with tears pouring out of my eyes and i just said, “i can’t” i felt absolutely horrified, completely ashamed. i blamed no one but myself. it was my fault, wasn’t it? i saw the signs, the red flags, and i ignored them. i was warned against going, just to ignore that as well. i went, and i froze. i didn’t say no. i didn’t run. i didn’t scream. when i went home that day, i made a decision, one that i thought i deserved. i called my boyfriend, afraid to face him in person, and i told him that he shouldn’t be with me anymore, that i wasn’t worthy of being loved by someone like him. naturally, he was lost, confused. i felt i deserved to be punished, i didn’t deserve love, i didn’t deserve good, i fucked up, and i deserve to suffer. this is going to hurt like hell, i thought, but i deserve it. so, instead of telling him the truth, i told him i had cheated. this is what ended our relationship, this is what he told his friends, this is what everyone thought was the truth, i was a cheater. so of course, it followed me. this was when i realized what my bending of the truth had done, it had cost me everything, and i thought that’s what i wanted, i thought that’s what i deserved. to no avail, we broke up, and went about six months without speaking, but not before things got worse. first, we tried to make things work, i held true to my lie, and we tried. there are things that happened at this point that i do not wish to share but long story short, we tried and we failed. it was a year or two after i had been raped when my ex and i rekindled. we managed to come out on top in the end, we remained friends, still to this day, and when i was ready, i told them the truth. i don’t know what i was expecting, the worst perhaps, but instead, he believed me. he listened while i told him what really happened that day. and he held me, while i sobbed. with time, we too talked of the red flags and the signs that we missed, or noticed and ignored in hopes we were just thinking the worst. we’ve learned to heal together and i am forever grateful to have had something good come out of something so bad. my ex was the only person who knew the truth. after, came my best friend, and then, my wife. i never reported it. i didn’t even use the word rape until my therapist used it first. i know earlier i spoke about being scared of what my rapist would do if i told, but i was also deeply scared of not being believed, or supported. i feared i would be to blame, as i blamed myself. i knew nobody, no judge, no jury, would ever take my side. so i stayed silent. where did it lead me? after the rape, i was self harming, drinking, drugging. i attempted suicide, i was hospitalized twice, spent holidays in a mental institution. i lost myself. i couldn’t look in the mirror. i could barely even sing anymore. and as for my rapist? he went on to become an EMT. i’ll never forget the day i found out he was a paramedic, i cried for hours at the thought of me or a loved one needing help, calling an ambulance, and having him show up at our door. i am 28 now, and still, every fucking day, i struggle. i struggle at the sight or sounds of anything that reminds me of him. i hear the songs we sang and i can feel him on top of me. i can’t even listen to them anymore. i make love to my wife and there are nights i can see her face morphing into his and i cry and i scream and i scare. i walk around my hometown, fearing ill run into him. i dream about him. i feel haunted, still, after all this time. the university case has taken over my feed, all my social media has to offer is mentions of rape and assault and it has been very hard on my mind. i’ve been getting sucked back into those years, and it’s so hard to break free from sometimes, because i am reminded that still after all these years, he still haunts me, i still suffer, and he, still, is perfectly fine, smiling.

I could never remember my childhood well, even as a kid. But I started to be hypersexual at 3, and so thats when I believe me and my brother started touching (hes 3 and a half years older). When I was 12 I remembered and told my parents, my mom freaked out and screamed at me. She said it was my fault and that it wasn't too bad if I didn't tell anyone. I fear thats she's right. When I was 14 and in deep psychosis, I felt like there was more to remember. I started to feel my brother's hands over my body and mouth. I remembered us having sex 3 times. The first time when I was 6 and the last when I was 8. One of those times he was hitting me and pinning me. I dont know how real those memories are because I recovered them in psychosis. I started doing really bad cus all I could think about was me and my brother fucking. A couple of months ago I remembered my brother fucking me with his hands around my neck (which was painful). Im so scared that really happened because I see my brother daily and hes my best friend. Im worried ill remember more.

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

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.

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

I never thought I’d end up in a relationship where love turned into control. It started small checking where I was, who I talked to, and what I spent. Before long, I was isolated from my family, my finances were no longer my own, and I felt trapped in a version of life that revolved around keeping the peace. The control eventually became financial and emotional. I was pressured to leave my job, told what I could or couldn’t buy, and made to feel guilty for needing independence. Every dollar spent was questioned. My self-worth slowly disappeared until I didn’t recognize myself anymore. Then came the night everything changed. During an argument, he introduced a firearm not in defense, but as intimidation. In that moment, I realized how easily fear can silence someone. That silence almost became my prison. But deep down, something in me refused to die there. I decided to leave, even if it meant starting from nothing. Leaving was terrifying, but it was also the beginning of freedom. I had to rebuild from the ground up my confidence, my finances, and my sense of safety. There were nights I questioned if I made the right choice, but every morning I woke up without fear, I knew I did. Today, I’m learning that healing isn’t about forgetting—it’s about reclaiming power piece by piece. I still flinch at loud noises and double-check locks, but I also laugh again. I make choices for myself. I’m learning to trust that I’m safe now. To anyone who’s living in silence, afraid to leave: your story matters. Fear doesn’t define you, and control is not love. You deserve safety, freedom, and peace. You are not alone and you can survive this too.

My name is Survivor and I live in Huntsville, TX. In 2004, at the age of 15 I was introduced to a man who was a pedophile. This was just after my parents divorced and after growing up with a severely abusive father, I was desperate from male leadership in my life. Needless to say, I was an easy victim. This man began grooming me and would eventually begin molesting me. This happened once or twice a month for the rest of my high school. Little did I know, this man was working alongside a college ministry called Chi Alpha and the Assemblies of God for at least 2 decades and had already molested other boys. For which he served a mere 90 days in Alaska jail. Pastors in our ministry tried to convince students, many of whom who were victims, to write letters of lienance on behalf of the abuser. You would think after high school and turning 18 I would have moved on and left him. After all, why would anyone continue to let themselves get abused? Unfortunately, that’s not how grooming or the mind of a victim works. So, I’m sad to say, the abuse continued. When I was abused in 2005, the statute of limitations in Texas at that time were until the age of 23. At the age of 23, I was still being molested by this man. For a significant amount of time the leadership in the Assemblies of God, which was the denomination I had been apart of my whole life, knew that this man was a registered sex offender and did not take needed steps to rid our ministries of him. I was one of the first victims to publicly come forward in 2023. For nearly 20 years I told no one, not even my wife. Myself and 5 friends, some even pastors in the Assemblies of God, started making calls to friends figuring other men had been abused heard dozens of stories of abuse because we were trying to help over 40 victims get help, seek justice, and heal. We all watched in horror as NDAs were used to insulate organizational leadership to cover themselves, using the NDAs as a fog of ignorance and hiding behind it. Because of this, Justice has not been served. Since then the Assemblies of God has tried to dismiss valid civil claims of negligence, has sidelined victims in the investigation process, and has sneakily tried to get victims to sign NDA’s. I’ll also add that I am a high school teacher here in Texas, and every year I hear stories from students who have been sexually harassed or abused in all kinds of scenarios. The happy side of my story is the abuser is currently in jail and awaiting trial. My wife and I have a rule in our house with our kids - no secrets. Last night I talked to my 8 year old daughter (in kid language) how NDA’s are used. And she said “but if you keep it secret doesn’t that bad person keep hurting children?” I had the privilege of working with Elizabeth and everyone involved with Trey’s Law. It helped my healing so much to be able to meet and talk with other survivors. To hear their struggles and to know I wasn’t crazy or alone. Through that legislative process I found my voice and gained confidence in sharing my story. Thank you Elizabeth for helping me tag along!

On Date, I escaped an abusive relationship and embraced the freedom of living without my abuser’s control. Just four months later, he was sentenced to five years in prison for the abuse he inflicted upon me. Although it felt like an eternity to reach that day, I’m grateful I didn’t have to wait as long as some survivors do. Many survivors never experience justice; some victims never become survivors. Life will never be the same for either of us or our families, especially our children. What's beautiful is that I am no longer the woman who accepts abusive behavior in any form. I don’t want to be the woman who tolerates less than what I deserve because I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be the woman who dims my light so that the man I love can shine brighter. I don’t want to be the woman who hurts myself in an attempt to save a broken man. Had my abuser had his way, I wouldn’t be here today. My children’s world would be a lot different. I have an amazing circle of family, friends, and coworkers who have supported me the best way they know how during this difficult and very emotional time. I love them and thank them for loving me by showing up and being there. I am now able to fully enjoy my children and live for them every day. I show up for them, strive to be the best version of myself, lead them, and love them by loving myself. It’s easy to say that life is a gift until you face a moment when you realize it could be taken away. I still have triggers and am taking it one day at a time. I have accepted that some people don’t deserve to be in my life. I am choosing me! I am choosing real love! I am choosing healthy relationships!

Trigger warning. I was sexually abused at the age of 5. My mom’s boyfriend’s uncle took me on a tractor ride with my brother. My mom’s boyfriend’s uncle pulled down my pants and touched me. He dropped me off by the side of the road and took my brother with him. I ran after the tracker, calling my brother’s name. After he picked us both up, he dropped us off back at the house. I told my grandma what happened, and she wanted to call the cops. My mom said she would take care of it. She didn't do anything. The next time I was abused, I was 6. My mom was with someone else. He was my stepdad. He was drunk and got in bed with me naked. I don't remember what happened now, but my mom told me that I told her he raped me, and she said that I was bleeding. When I was 7, my step-sister wouldn't play Barbies with me unless I kissed and massaged her. She was 9. I should have just said no. I don't know what's wrong with me. When I was 14, my mom was dating someone else, and he would always touch me. I told him to stop, but he wouldn't listen. He said I was hot; he touched me everywhere, every day for four years. He chased me around the house, trying to get me to sit on his lap. He stood in my room watching me. I was afraid to go to sleep. I was also scared to change into PJs. I didn't want him coming in on me. I stayed up until midnight because that's what time he got up. When I fell asleep, I dreamed of him raping me. When I woke up, my pants were unbuttoned, and the zipper was down. I don't know if he did anything or not in my sleep. I told my mother what happened, but I don't think she wanted to believe it even though she saw him chase me around the house. At age 19, my boyfriend at the time raped me. I didn't want to do anything with him with his son in the room. He didn't take no for an answer, and he tossed me around like a rag doll. He took my phone and wouldn't let me call anyone. He called his two guy friends to take me home. I shouldn't have gone with them, but they didn't touch me. The guy I was dating gave me my phone back when I got in the car, and I called my grandma. After I went to the cops, they didn't do anything. At the age of 22, I was sexually abused again. I don't feel comfortable saying who. He did apologize, though. Watching Law & Order SVU gave me a sense of justice, watching the rapists go to jail. Mariska Hargitay is my hero.

I am here after watching Dr. Doe's amazing video on Responding to abuse. I am posting my story in hopes of empowering someone else who might be in a similar situation that I was in. When I was a teenager, I studied with the same music teacher for about 6 years. Throughout that time we grew closer and closer and became what I believed to be really good friends. During high school, I didn't notice it but he tried controlling and having so much influence on me that I couldn't even buy supplies without his approval. As I graduated high school and went off to college to continue my studies, the controlling manipulation only got worse. He tried making me go drinking with him, he tried making me doctor's appointments, he would call my mother when he didn't get what he wanted out of me or couldn't find me. There was one point in which he texted me for hours after I had done something he didn't approve of because he told my other classmates to tell him if I was doing that thing. We once got into an argument over something he should have helped me on, and he came to school complaining that he hadn't slept in days because I made him so angry. I cried nearly every day of my freshman year of college. I once cried for multiple days because I thought there was no way I could get out of this abusive situation. He once told me that "you have a very womanly body" and would often get uncomfortably close to me to the point I couldn't even breathe. Even after I left, I still cried frequently for months because I still believed I loved him. However, after I realized it had been a terribly abusive situation, I went and tried to tell my new teacher who was friend of his. She proceeded to tell me "that just doesn't sound like him" and "he's too nice to do something like that". I then stopped studying with her and finally had a break at my new school, in which my current teacher sat there and took in every thing that happened to me and directed me to the help that I needed because I was dealing with some PTSD. It only takes one person to believe an abuse survivor in order for them to find the help they need. After watching Dr. Doe's video, and going through months of therapy, I feel like I can openly talk about my experience, even though a lot of people still don't believe me. I found someone who did and they helped. I'm now thinking about reporting my abuser because Dr. Doe is right, it's not my fault for reporting him, it's his fault for grooming and abusing me. I did nothing wrong.

It's been 5 years this month since I left a job I loved after being retaliated against for reporting the sexual harassment of a young woman by her male boss, which culminated in a chair being thrown across a room. Speaking up had its consequences. I was isolated, banned from meetings, kept from my assigned projects. It was traumatic at the time, stressful, anxiety-inducing. I quit. All for speaking up and doing the right thing and trying to protect other young women from experiencing the same toxic masculinity. Five years later, I can tell you it still is hard. I often wonder late at night if I did the right thing. I set our family back financially. I lost my confidence. I did not lose my story or my integrity, though. I am slowly getting my fierce back. I accept I took the higher path, which is never the easier path. The most worthwhile things are the hardest things. I want to always be one of the helpers. For anyone else considering speaking up about what you're seeing happen to others, know that it will not be easy, but it will be worth it.

People think moving on means letting go, closing the door, and never looking back. As much as my nervous system would like that, it's not my path. I am staring the monster dead in the eye and doing my best to learn what happened to us in hopes we will heal—mind, body, and spirit. Don't give up, whispers a flickering light on a dead battery, let the thoughts come. Answers will bring closure and protection in the long run, but for now there's cancer inside the ravaged shell. Welcome to your crash course in psychopathy—put your seatbelt on, because it's a brutal ride. We now step into the realization phase. Cognitive dissonance. Watch your step, it's going to hurt like hell as it crushes you from the inside out. Close your eyes, rip off the electrodes, and let's find out who you are. We don't bury memories in this sobering abyss. My ears bleed as my heart listens to everything it knows but doesn't want to understand. It has a name now, a sequence, and a chill to the aftermath. She challenges me, the mother part, she begs me to let her protect me. The sirens are piercing as reality blazes. The merry-go-round of flashbacks is like a non-stop slideshow that fits perfectly into place. Nothing makes sense, yet it's all right there. Everything I thought was, wasn't. I'm dizzy. I always pictured the beginning as a gentle shining thing, but that's not right. God is a woman with sweat on her skin, blood on the floor, and no honest man to be found. So here we are, moving back and forth in the stages of grief, but this is not like normal grief that others know. This is the insidious type—unique to the encounter of a psychopath. It's a spiritual malady, a soul rupture if you will. The poison that's been bestowed upon us is called PTSD, and all its symptoms are vile. This is about what is the same, familiar, and repeated. It's complex to live in a house with a security system that is always scanning for threat. The house was the abuser, the alarm system is you, and once you moved in, the security was broken and replaced with coercive control. The eye of this storm is ugly, nasty, cunning, baffling, and powerful—it lives in your mind, body, and soul. This is with you at the doctor, you see it in the mirror. You hear it alone in bed at night. It haunts the pages in your journal, rolls around your tortured mind, and cries through your voice in the moments you feel like dying. But none of that, not one bit, is as horrifying as watching someone benefit from consuming your daughter's soul and tossing her aside like roadkill. This person is no person at all, but a parasite—self-centered, self-serving, and devouring. She's living this experience right along with you, as it tries to kill her too. I cannot express the brutality of witnessing that the most important thing in my world is the exact thing he infested. That's what evil looks like—the greatest trick the devil ever played, convincing the world he wasn't real. As a mother, this is the blunt force that leaves no visible mark. This is the gentle force into acceptance. Please stop, it says. You cannot make them understand. They must seek it on their own. Only if they do will you be safe to give them pieces of your story. This is the uncomfortable mothership of truths about human beings. Those who don't educate themselves as passengers on this flight will continue to inadvertently trigger survivors with insensitive responses. That won't change unless they do. Where there's no lived experience, there's no understanding; understanding is the necessity for connection—and connection is life. And what a disturbing realization: you've been caught in this endless loop. Crumbs of attention were the only hope you had to cling to. Trapped in desperation, you've been searching for something to make you real, but it doesn't sit right anymore. Survivors don't thrive held in purgatory. The stars look very different today as we step into the unknown. Floating in the most peculiar way, it's time to exit the painful space of bargaining with others. My dream for you is that someday you'll be able to talk about trauma from your core self with clarity, serenity, and certainty. It will glow with the resilience of new limbs you grew from a deadly climb. Those willing to hear will learn from you, but for now, we stop translating while we're drowning and we start sitting still in the muck. When we don't sit with our parts, when we give them away, we cannot fully integrate them; when we cannot fully integrate them, we stay fragmented. We are not the professor, we are the student, and our spirit is in line. I release you from the job of hurting, healing, and helping all at once. This was never a fair assignment. The mental torture you've endured was terrorism. You never had to apologize. You didn't take anything; it was taken from you. "They tried to bury us, but they didn't know we were seeds."

Coming out Gay and speaking out as a survivor have been the most beautiful transformations of my soul. I’m proud to say I’m Gay. I’ve been used, abused, and confused. I’ve been taken advantage of along the way. Letting the older men use me was something I learned to appreciate. It was all part of my path. I’m done with denial. My shame is my shine . My trauma is my treasure. I’m Gay and that’s fine. Through pain I found pleasure.

During grueling clinical rotations the department manager was male. While sitting at a computer, the dept manager entered through the door next to me. I heard a zipper sound and I felt a wet ridged object being stuck into my ear. A “wet Willy” as the kids call it. I screamed and looked up to see the manager laughing. He said “oh I thought you’d think I stuck my dick in your ear” I stood, and told him to NEVER touch me again. I immediately went to HR. The next week I was fired. Weeks later I learned that 3 other women filed complaints of sexual harassment against him and he was subsequently fired.

I grew up in an emotionally and mentally abusive household. I never knew when I’d be in trouble next, and the feeling of walking on eggshells created in me a need for hyper-vigilance. I became angrier the older I got, and when I was 17, I ran down the steps to try and intervene when my dad was yelling in my mom’s face. He chased me up the steps, and I was able to lock myself in my room. Even though I was never smacked in my face or punched or even beat, I was spanked within an inch of my life. Quite often I could barely sit, and it really did a number on me. I swore I’d never get married if this was what marriage was all about. I am very thankful I was able to break that cycle, and today I am married to a very passionate, loving husband who promised to keep me safe and has kept his promise. There is light at the end of the tunnel. You can break that cycle of abuse. It has taken me years to try and undo the damage that was done to me, and even now, I still struggle with the PTSD and automatic jumping if someone steps too quickly or raises their voice a bit too loudly. But I am thankful I have been able to raise my own kids much differently and show them how healthy relationships work.