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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.

I was 18. In college I was part of a ladies team on in college sports team. There were also male teams. There was a inter college tournament that our college was hosting for other male college teams within Ireland. We all had nights out planned and a 'play hard, play hard' attitude. It was great to be part of something - I genuinely loved playing and being part of the club. On one of the nights I was drinking and got to talking with a guy from another college mens team. It was fun and we ended up back at his hotel room, where we had consensual sex. After, I remember feeling groggy and then being suddenly awoken to all these lads barging in. They ripped the bed cover off us and I remember phone flashes going off. It was year so, not exactly amazing phones back them. Slagging of various types ensued but then I remember being held down. At least 2 different men. I remember saying no, please stop. Flashes in and out while I just stared at the corner of the bedside table, thinking how similar it was to the one in my parents room. Weird. I must have slept at some point because I woke up. I got dressed. I remembered nothing. Nothing but the sex with the lad I kissed. Naturally, the next morning is always awkward so I wanted to get out of there. Just as the hotel room door clicked shut I realised I had left my shoes. I knocked back and had to do so loudly as everyone was deep asleep. As I was doing that one of the other team members opened a door across the hall, he stared at me. I said sorry for waking him but I needed my shoes. He just said he was so sorry. I was confused, having no memory of what he was actually talking about, so I said I'm sorry I left my shoes. Eventually someone opened the door and I got my shoes. Leaving the hotel and walking to the nearest bus stop, I felt appropriately hung over but sore. Down there. I'd never been sore before. Guess we must have really gone for it, I thought. Fast forward to lockdown 3 during Covid, I began experiencing severe nightmares that weren't nightmares. The missing memories came back over 2/3 months and I realised that I had been rated multiple times. That my brain had protected me until now. My SA, unknowingly, had a huge impact on my formative years - I came out as bisexual just 2 years ago. I feel I would have had a very different 20's but I met a decent guy, stuck with him like glue and am now married with a child. Due to the memory block, I have no recourse. No sense of justice so I just hope those boys, now grown men, are better than they were.

Hey! I'm 18, and all this happened a year and a half ago, I was 16. It's a really weird and messed up story, I never heard a similar one. I was going home late afternoon and got literally attacked by a group of I think 3 or 4 people older than me, all male. I dont know which language they were speaking. I really really tried to kick them and scream and resist but there was nothing I could do. I dont know how long it lasted, I was scared what they would do when they're done, if they would kill me or let me run away. They let me go when they were done, I picked up my things and literally ran home without stopping. I am so grateful there was nobody home and that nobody saw me going home. It was this feeling of emotionless and numbness when you cant feel anything that saved me. I showered, last time next 9 months, got dressed and prayed no one gets home soon. I didn't go out much next few days, acted normal enough that my parents wouldn't notice and tried to not think about it. I only told people online: a close friend and anonymously to hundreds who would read my reddit post. After a few months of constant crying in my room, I tried to kill myself, every time I decided I'd rather not die yet and threw up the pills, then be mad and try again... I cut myself, hit myself, would cry and scream in a corner of my room and hit myself with something when nobody is home. Hid all pretty well, parents would tell me I've changed and tried to get to me, mom would cry and ask me what's wrong but I would, barely holding it in, tell her shes making it all up and go to my room rolling my eyes. I still cut myself, sometimes hit myself and pull my hair, subconsciously pick the skin around my fingernails so it bleeds, my hands look absolutely horrible. My thighs are covered in 30cm long scars from knee to hip and it's sometimes a pain to walk and even sleep. Idk how I survived the summer, people at the beach would look at my leg but nobody ever said anything. I've still never told anyone in real life, I am extremely ashamed of all of it, cant walk down the street with my head up, cant imagine telling parents or talking to a therapist. I really just dont want to be sad anymore. This text is poorly written and doesnt really transfer all emotions well, I didnt really see the keyboard because of crying. But thank you for reading this. Knowing someone knows I'm going through this helps. And that there are other people. Thank you really.

I was assaulted by a man, who was an acquaintance, in my apartment. We had hooked up once before, and it had been quick but fine. Things started consensually, but at one point it began to hurt me and I asked him if we could stop. At that point, he pushed down on my upper back, high enough that my mouth was half pushed into the pillow. I froze, and couldn't move at all. I just waited for him to finish whatever it was he wanted to do. The aftermath was extremely confusing. I first thought that it was just a bad experience. But as the months went on, I realised it was playing on my mind too much to be dismissed as that. Six months after the assault, I sought some medical tests. It was a year after, amid a particular run of sexual assault stories in the media, that I contacted rape crisis centre to get help. I also reported to the Gardai several years after my assault, and while they handled it well they also warned that if I was to pursue an investigation that the process could be very exposing and I chose not to take it further. My assault took place only six months after I had come out as queer, and so it felt like much of what I had worked hard to accept about myself and to go through as part of coming out was impacted -- the freedom to be who I was and to enjoy my sexuality was taken away for a long time. My assault was not the first time nor the last time I experienced non-consensual behaviour, although was by far the most serious and impactful occurrence.

As an only child, I had no one to look up to really as a kid. But I always looked up to my Dad. Even though he was never really around due to work (although Mam worked more than he did and still found lots of time to spend with me), I still idolised him. He was my hero. He would always say 'Dads know everything - remember that', so lying to my dad (even little white lies) were pointless. Though when I hit 13 I began to realise he actually DID know everything. He knew what myself and my friends would talk about, he would know exactly where I was and who I was with without even needing to ask me, and I would always wonder why. In reality he had my phone tracked and could read all my messages. Now that I have been through the court system and he has been imprisoned for the abuse he inflicted upon me, I can confirm that he was in fact grooming me from the age of 13. About a month after my 18th Birthday, began the horrific 7.5 year abuse that I suffered. My Dad, masked for the first 2 years as a stranger, blackmailed me into performing sexual acts with strange men in our home - the one place I should've felt safe. When I finally realised it was him, I couldn't tell you how it then turned into just open ended abuse and rape from him. He would advertise us as a couple on hook up sites and in order to avoid physical beatings I would go along with it. I feared for my life so much that endless rapes and sexual assaults were easier - imagine that being the easiest choice - until you're in it, you just don't know how you'll react. I stopped going out, I gave up my hobbies, whilst in college I gave up my part time job - he controlled every single part of my life. And if I even let my "everything is rosey' mask slip even for a second, especially in front of my Mam, well it just doesn't bear thinking about. Fortunately for me, once Mam did find out, he was gone out of my life within 30 mins. Unfortunately, he went on to groom and abuse others after that. He was convicted, and is currently serving his prison sentence - but the fear of him stilll remains.

When that person tried to kill me, no human tried to save me. Only my cat, then 1-year-old, warmed my body which was going to be cold, losing 1 liter of blood. My mother told me "you choose who you marry" and went on to complain about my father, who was also abusive. I told her "You choose him". (I didn't victimize anyone except my cat, unlike my mother) Why I as a woman and women in East Asia are taken so lightly?

Okay, so I’m sharing my story. Crying on a random night on Date When I was little, my oldest brother would be so touchy feely with me. He always gravitated toward me and wouldn't keep his hands or his eyes off of me for some reason and I was unsure what it meant. That went on for a while and I still feel sick seeing the child hood photos of us and him holding me in his lap. I was still innocent at the time… but, I remember this one time in specific. The night I can’t seem to forget about. We were playing a hide n seek game in the dark… and he had to catch me ! Once he did, he pushed me down on the ground and forced me in place, holding me down so I couldnt get up. He was touching my body. And then he took my pants and underwear off and pretty much forced my legs apart and said, “Let’s see how long I can last,” and then he put his head in between my thighs and started using his mouth on my vagina. He stuck his tongue inside me and I just couldn’t move at all. After that, I wasn’t sure what it meant. I was busy dealing with my horrible, abusive mother so I didn’t know what to believe but my brother? He wouldn’t leave me alone. There were times when my dad would jokingly scare me and I would scream my brothers name and get all scared, even not knowing what it fully was. My dad was all contused. But yeah, this is my story shortened down. I need to share it so I’d stop crying

Shortly after I turned 18 we went on our senior trip to Amsterdam. I wasn't really someone that enjoyed going out at night so I hung out at the hotel with some friends. I was a virgin at the time and the whole concept of sex scared the shit out of me, because I was really unhappy with my body and have never been comfortable with getting naked in front of someone else. On our last night, we met some other travellers, that had just met each other as well. One of them was a 26 year old Australian. I was super drunk and it was already really late and we ended up outside in front of the hotel, kissing. He opened my pants and put his fingers inside me. The first time someone ever touched me there. I went to bed shortly after, but my friends and I had invited him earlier to just come to Germany to visit us and on the next morning, when we got on the bus to drive home, he got on a train and followed us. I later picked him up from the train station close to my home twon and we went to my place with some friends that had nor been on the trip with me. We started drinking and talking in my room and eventually decided to go to a bar in the town nearby. After some more drinks I was super drunk and my best friend dropped me and the Australian off at my house. I was super horny and confident because I was so drunk and from the moment he undressed us, I don't remember a thing. Only little bit and pieces of him choking me and having his dick in my hand.

After spending a year being single on purpose, I had decided that I was finally ready to invest myself in a relationship. The very next morning, I opened my phone to see a message from someone on Facebook asking me out on a date. Apparently they were following my photography page on Instagram and we had a mutual Facebook friend, and they decided they would shoot their shot. From the very beginning they were extremely funny, our sense of humor seemed to mesh really well, and they were easy to chat with. We met at a pub, and it seemed to go pretty well for a first date. It ended up getting crashed by their coworkers, so it turned into some drinks and karaoke. My cheeks hurt from laughing, they seemed really outgoing which I appreciated and their coworkers said really great things about them. On the second date we talked for hours - I felt like I had known them my entire life. No nervousness, I felt seen and accepted right away for who I was, and it was comfortable. It was a dream come true, which is how it felt for the first few months of the relationship. They appeared to check all of my boxes: self aware, empathetic, honest, open-minded. We fell in love quite quickly. The early signs of psychological and emotional abuse started within the first 6 months, but I didn't recognize it as abuse at the time. They were extremely jealous and would often say very hurtful and derogatory things about me. I'd catch them in lies and then they would break up with me stating indifferences in morals, but then would return the next day with heartfelt apologies and promises to work on their insecurities. I believed them. Of course I did, because I excused this behavior as a result of their trauma, the stress they were enduring at work, they were drunk, etc. I thought I could love them through it, so we made plans to move in with each other. That was when the insults, gaslighting, stonewalling worsened - and new aspects developed. Now I was being criticized daily, punished if I didn't tell them where I was going before leaving the house, threatened to send emails to my boss or intimate photos to my family, and my things would be written on with permanent marker or urinated on. That was when the violence started. I didn't feel safe in my own home because my things would get smashed and broken regularly. Police came to the house twice and told me if they came a 3rd time, they would make an arrest, so I ensured they never got called again. However, if I tried to call someone else for support I would get chased, held down, grabbed so I couldn't make the call. I locked myself in the bathroom once and the door was kicked down. I didn't see that as abuse at the time though, because they never hit me. I was so lost in this disillusionment of "love" that I thought they just needed my support, I needed to be more compassionate, I needed to love them better, that's what they told me anyways. This was my fault and I had to fix it. All areas of my life had been threatened: my home, my job, my relationships with my family, my pets, my safety, my health. I became extremely depressed and lost in a state of dissociation. My family became aware of some things (I kept most of it secret until near the end of the relationship, but there was much I wasn't able to hide), and they told me they feared for my life. I didn't respond, as that thought had crossed my mind already many times before and it no longer evoked a reaction in me. I was completely dissociated by this time and I had accepted the possibility. One night while I was driving, they grabbed the steering wheel and steered us into the ditch. That was when the fears became a reality for me. I started safety planning with the hopes that we could still make the relationship work. The trauma bond was strong. One night they started drinking and things were escalating, so I left the house and went to my sister's. In the past I would stay to ensure the things I loved most didn't get destroyed, or I would leave and sleep in my car - but this time I chose to see my family. I started getting text after text all hours throughout the night with horrible things being said. They hinted that my new kitten had "escaped" from the house, and my family had me back at the house, kitten and bags packed, and out the door in 20 minutes. At this point my family had seen everything and there was no turning back. Ending the relationship was confusing, because I didn't feel like I consciously made the choice myself. My family drafted my messages to kick them out of the house. I accepted it, because I just felt so drained and defeated by that point, I had absolutely nothing left to give. We continued to talk for a few months and both discussed how we missed each other and wished things could work, but I knew I could never go back to that, I didn't have the strength. My heart hurt and I definitely grieved - on the floor sobbing - for months on end because I truly felt as though this was my person, this was someone who I thought knew me and saw me for who I truly was. But the truth was, they didn't know me. They didn't even know the color of my eyes after 2 years together. I eventually realized I was grieving a version of them that didn't exist. I was grieving the life I thought we could have, the future family, the relationship that I thought we could work towards. I also realized I was grieving myself. My self esteem was diminished, I felt a huge loss of identity, I couldn't make a decision to save my life, I was exhausted and irritable and angry. I didn't recognize myself for a very, very long time. I felt betrayed and manipulated, and there was a lot of shame towards myself as I felt it was my fault for not seeing the signs or for somehow finding a way to make it work, or for staying as long as I did. I felt like I couldn't trust my judgment anymore. It's been two years now, and I am finally feeling closer to my old self. I struggled for a year and a half with my grief and learning that what I had gone through was abuse. I experienced survivor's guilt, hypervigilance, nightmares, depression, and panic attacks for months. I would start to feel better with the support of my therapist and the domestic violence specialist that I was working with, and a new trigger would happen or another development in my story would occur and I would be back at square one. I felt like I had no hope in finding myself again. I missed the person I used to be and it seemed impossible to ever shake these feelings. But even when I felt the most stuck, I still pressed forward. Even if that meant just making it to work that day, then staying in bed for the rest of the weekend. Or eating a piece of toast before bed if nothing else. Or attending the therapy appointment even if I didn't have the words. There would be weeks of darkness, but then I would have one day where I would cry and felt a little bit lighter. I would visit my family and a genuine laugh would escape my lips. It took very, very small steps, but I do believe I am finally at a place where I am surrounded by the light. I know there is still so much more work to be done, but once I started allowing myself to feel the anger, feel the hurt, feel the pain without shaming myself for it, things started getting better. Keep going - after everything you have survived, I know you can survive this.

Pretty much everything about me is apologetic, but especially the opening passages of my writing. I start with why I’m here, why I’m not somewhere else, why I’m thinking about this, why I’m not thinking about something else, why I think about it in the way I do. I always swear that this time its different, and it never is, and I keep trying. I’m here to talk about something I call my bed statistics. Since my moral watchdog is a Rottweiler that was abused, starved, and neglected as a puppy, it tells me that I’m seeking pity, secretly I love the role of the victim, and I’m no better than the people I’m planning to speak about. It feels damaging to say those words, and I said them anyways. See how I always explain? See how my explanations are apologies? On my childhood bed at home, my childhood best friend and neighbor name came onto me while I was blackout drunk. Premeditated, drunken, horny, and careless. Worse than careless. He put his hands down my yoga pants, pulled them down, ate me between the legs, fingered me too urgently. It was painful at times, uncomfortable most of the time, disorienting all the time, and at times even neutral. I didn’t say yes, and I eventually said no. I’m not sure to what degree I participated, and I interrogate myself about this all the time. But I since I can’t remember because of the time and the alcohol, I don’t think I was capable of much. I remember that he asked me to suck his dick and I declined. He went home. I thought it was my fault. I thought I should have done more to stop it. I wondered why I didn’t do more to stop it. I thought since I didn’t do more to stop it that meant I had given my approval. I didn’t know that how I felt about the situation mattered at all, I was only after facts and I didn’t have many. All this happened on my childhood bed. There’s no concise way to explain what happened afterwards. I kept his secret for months. I finally came forward because I couldn’t bear lying to His Girlfriend (who was a close friend and in the same friend group) about it. The safe unlocked and the feelings came out. I let him talk to her first. He lied to her about how it happened and when. Or at least he told her how he saw it, maybe it didn’t feel like lying to him. My opinion about whose fault it was had changed by then, but I was terrified to own this. I knew intuitively what he did to me. He used alcohol and isolated me to make sure I wasn’t coherent enough to refuse him, but it took awhile to come to this consciously. He was my best friend after all. What kind of person had I been friends with all this time? It was easier to think it was a mistake both of us made. Now I want as much distance as possible between the kind of person he is and the person I am. What kind of person is he? Perhaps he wasn’t coherent either, but I don’t make moves on my friends and cheat on my significant other when I’m incoherent. At least I hope I won’t. In my dreams I do, and my moral watchdog still tells me I’m no better. The Rottweiler says I’m the same, a liar, a cheater, and a coward. In weaker moments my mind rots, and I agree that I’m awful and to blame. But by the time I could bring myself to tell The Girlfriend, my opinion about whose fault it was had changed, and I was terrified to own it. My persistent nightmares confirmed my new opinion, but every waking moment there was someone telling me it was equally my fault. A Close Friend, name himself, The Girlfriend, and most frequently, myself. My sister was the only person who told me it might not be my fault. I clung to that. It was a train wreck when I tried to defend my thesis to The Girlfriend in the coffee lounge of a bookstore. I didn’t have the strength to convince her of something I was still convincing myself, let alone figure out how to apologize for what I was willing to accept. She didn’t believe my thesis and this shattered me. I shudder thinking about what my mind was like during that time. With time and distance it doesn’t matter as much to me that she doesn’t agree. It matters less to me now that my moral compass and perception of people wasn’t enough to accurately interpret name’s actions for what they were in the immediate aftermath. I wish I could have seen, but I guess this is how I had to learn to see the bad in people. It matters less to me that name doesn’t acknowledge the truth about his intentions. It matters less to me that after he texted me “I’m sorry Lik I’m so sorry” the morning after, and then around the time we separately told The Girlfriend he said that I always lie and try to get out of situations blame-free. Those words are less damaging to me now, even though they are still the most damaging things that anyone has ever said to me. My watchdog uses that same idea as fuel; it catches me in small lies and equates them to name’s actions. It doesn’t matter that much that name strikes up friendly conversations with me to save face in front of our families and his New Girlfriend. It matters less to me that he called me a bitch and a liar to my brother. Thankfully my brother punched him for that. It matters less to me that A Close Friend told me I was equally to blame the first time I opened up about that situation to anyone. She apologized for that when I asked her to, and I forgave her. It matters less to me that I couldn’t apologize better to The Girlfriend (now ex-girlfriend). It matters less to me that I avoid connecting with the village I grew up in and people from high school because of their proximity to this situation. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t matter to me at all. All this, because of something that happened on my childhood bed. On a different bed in my childhood home, the guest room bed, I told This Highschool Asshole I Dated while making out I didn’t want to have sex. He said verbatim: “If you don’t want to have sex with me, then get off me.” I let him cuddle me and apologize instead of kicking him out. Apparently kissing means you want to have sex, and if you don’t want sex then kissing is indecent and misleading. I really internalized this message at the time since I was having my first sexual experiences. I was a virgin when I met This Highschool Asshole I Dated and he was much more experienced than me, so he put a lot of pressure on me to move very quickly to things I wasn't comfortable with. I tried other sexual stuff that was new to me on that same guest room bed with That Same Highschool Asshole I Dated. I told him to stop moving because it hurt and he heard me and continued. His excuse was something like, “I’m sorry it just feels so good.” Eventually I had sex for my first time ever with him, but I don't even remember how it happened at all. It''s like a blank wall when I try to recall. I told him I wasn't ready clearly and verbally many times. He told me if I didn't want to then I must be scared, implying that no other reasons for not wanting to were valid even when I told him not being ready wasn't the same thing as fear. He constantly pushed my clearly communicated boundaries in "the heat of the moment," and broke my hymen in one of these occasions. When I bled we stopped and he said that "he just got psyched out about the whole pregnancy thing." He never asked how I felt about it. I always felt like he was trying to do things he knew I didn't want just to see if he could get away with it, and simultaneously he acted like it was the most normal thing ever that he was so insistent and manipulative. Eventually we got to the point where we were having sex. Not on a bed, but in the back of That Same Highschool Asshole I Dated’s car, he got angry when I told him he had to use a condom because by his reasoning, it should be okay since we had done it without a condom before. He asked for one quick raw stroke, which once I relented turned into three and four. I didn’t say anything to see what would happen. It just continued until he decided he had had enough or maybe he thought he couldn’t possibly get away with more. We never talked about this. On my parents’ bed while no one was home (I know I’m a sick bitch), That Same Highschool Asshole I Dated pulled my cotton shorts that be bought me from his travels abroad and my underwear to the side and plunged his raw dick into me. I’m not sure to what degree I participated, and I interrogate myself about this all the time. I’m sure I kissed him and rubbed myself on him, but when it came to sex, he didn’t ask. We never talked about this. I wonder what went through his mind when he did this, and I honestly think that nothing did. I wonder what went through my mind when he did this, and I honestly think that nothing did. It feels weird to wake up from numbness. I doubt he has thought twice about this. On my freshman dorm room bed, I had sex with a virgin boy I was dating named name. I was nervous and dry but did it anyways. It hurt, but I didn’t tell him that. At least we used a condom. At least it was consensual. I had more painful sex with name on several dorm room beds over almost 2 years, and I still didn’t say anything, until eventually I did. He didn’t like to hurt me and told me to speak up more. I thought it hurt because I was doing something wrong, but it turns out I wasn’t. A year later in the bed in my apartment that I go to sleep in every night, name raped me. I thought he was different. We had built trust. I didn’t have to pretend to enjoy sex with him. He detested name and That Highschool Asshole I Dated, but he hated when I talked about them. He preferred not to hear about it. He wanted my present not my past, and he didn’t want my present if I was too upset. He didn’t understand “what about my past was still holding me back.” We had both been drinking. He was choking me consensually and anxious to start having sex. I told him he could have one stroke, which has a scary common thread with another situation with That Highschool Asshole I Dated. At least he was wearing a condom. He had his stroke, and after that he just continued until he decided he had had enough or maybe he thought he couldn’t possibly get away with more. Except this time I was also being choked, so I really couldn’t say anything. After the rape, I was confused and slightly panicked and in disbelief, but my main focus was sadly on finishing the job. I wanted to be finished with my obligations. My screwed up face revealed my hurt, and he said I could stop. I was relieved and I put on my pajamas and rolled over to sleep. I told him I would do anything to help him finish so I could still fulfill those pesky obligations that came with kissing and consenting to sex. I felt very much like I had failed him for needing to stop and be alone. He tried looking at pictures of me, but when those weren’t enough, I offered and performed other tasks for him. He still couldn’t finish, and because of my reassurances that I would still do anything for him, he asked me to pull down my pajama pants and let him “fuck me slowly.” Those pesky obligations. I said sure. After he orgasmed, I rolled over to finally be alone. As I fell asleep he whispered to me, “You’re so strong. I love you. You’re so strong. I love you.” It took me most of the next day to realize what happened. Why did name break such a clear boundary? Did he hear me what I said to him so clearly? Why did I feel obligations after that? Why did name let me feel those obligations? What kind of person is he? The next day, I asked him if he heard me tell him just once, and he said that he heard me and offered no explanation for why he didn’t listen. I realized the truth about what name did more quickly (in a day instead of months) because I wasn’t going to give someone I loved, and who I thought loved me, the benefit of doubt like I once did. After I brought it up, name told me he wanted to “work through this until we become the ultimate couple.” He didn’t apologize until I asked him to. He said I should have told him that what he was doing was rape, to help him realize the level he fucked up. I broke up with him. He told me to wave, smile, and say hi if I saw him around. At least he acknowledged it? At least he apologized? And those are my bed statistics: my current bed in my apartment that I fall asleep on every night, an array of dorm room beds that many other 18 year olds will inhabit over time, my parents bed that I open stockings from Santa on every Christmas morning, the guest room bed where all the guests in my childhood home stay, the back of a car, and my childhood bed, the place I stay whenever I go back home for the weekend.

In the months following my assasult, I grew so angry. Poetry was my outlet, to not be quiet and be as angry as I wanted. 100 pages of poetry marred by tears, anger, betrayal, hope, and happiness. On the 100th page, it was dedicated to survivors, I hope that whoever reads this, will find some degree of comfort as I did when writing it. Dear Survivors, You are more than enough. You are worthy of all the stars and gold combined on this Earth. What happened does not define you, you are more than that. From one to another, it’s tough, it’s difficult. You’ll have your ups and downs, happy moments and miserably haunting ones. But, I’ll say this; Thrive. In all honesty, thriving will be tough. But it’s the best reward there ever will be. You deserve to thrive and live and have fun and experience life. What happened to you does not define you, but it is a part of you. What happened to you is not shameful, what happened to you is not your fault- it never will be. Do not let those around you shame you and beat down on you, quieting you and your story. You are the writer of your own story. You decide if you want to forgive. You decide if you don’t want to forgive. You decide if you want to be the bigger person or not. You get to decide. Don't let anyone else tell you any differently. C.P.

On date, I was dating a guy, he threatened me into making sexual videos with my little brother. He showed me his stepfather's gun and told me he had my address and would hurt me or my family if I didn't give him what he wanted. I gave him the videos but got locked out of my phone the next day, he got mad and sent the videos to a girl at my school, I explained everything to her, but she didn't care and her and a guy at my school showed the videos to everyone. I was forced to live with family members who told me it was my fault. Still to this day I blame myself, I'm in therapy now, but it still hurts and idk if I'll ever truly be able to forget the events of that night.

I grew up thinking that my body was not my own. I experienced child sexual assault and rape all before the age of 14 and that shaped how I viewed my body and the world around me. It took years, almost a decade, before I would seek therapy and try to start my healing journey. I felt so disgusting in my own body and it made it hard for me to have romantic relationships. Therapy has really been helpful and sometimes I still feel that discomfort in my body but I am learning everyday that what happened to me is not my fault. I also have grown to learn that there are bad people out here and that there is nothing that I did to deserve what happened to me. Although my abuser is free to roam the world as if he didn't harm me and my rapist is free to live his life as if he didn't rape me -- I find peace in knowing that I am healing despite what they did to me.

I just learned what the term COCSA is. I’ve been in trauma therapy for a year and finally told my therapist, after 8 years of seeing her, what happened to me when I was a kid. I was around 6 years old. One of my best friends, who was also a girl, told me that she wanted to play a game. Once she started doing what she was doing, I felt really confused and scared. She threatened to tell her mom that I was mean to her if I told anyone what was happening. This happened for years and she also introduced me to other things like pornography. One time, her mom caught us naked and SCREAMED at us. Another time, MY mom caught us but only shut the door and never talked to us about it. Two adults saw the inappropriate touching between children and neither of them did anything. And unfortunately, I ended up doing the same thing to another friend, because I thought it must be normal and okay. I was only 7 years old but I hate that I did this to another person, too. It happened to me but I made it happen for someone else. For over 15 years, I kept that shame all to myself: obviously nothing happened to me because she was also a girl, a year younger than me, and i never stopped it and neither did the adults. And then the extra shame now that I put another person through that, and who knows how it’s affected her to this day? My heart aches for little me. Things would’ve been different if the adults who saw what was happening did something to stop it.

My name is Name, I’m an indigenous person from Place, USA. I’m a daughter, sister, mother, and a Survivor. I never really thought that I would end up in the relationships I ended up in but, here I am sharing my story! The last 12 years of my life I had been in and out of relationships, had two sons out of two of those relationships. They are the best parts of those relationships and times in my life. I know they in some way saved me and helped me survive to be here today sharing. My last two relationships I were in, were the worst abusive relationships. My youngest son came out of one of them, and to this day I still have to deal with one of my abusers because we have a child together. In that relationship I was physically, emotionally, mentally, financially, and sexually abused. I went through things that I didn’t even know that happened until the next day or days after. My ex we can call him Nameabused me mostly when he was already drunk, it was always when we were drinking that he would start arguments with me or his jealousy would come out more. Little did I know that at one time he had sexually assaulted me while I had passed out from drinking and when I woke up asking if something happened; something didn’t feel right. Nametold me “yeah you don’t remember?” And clearly I had no clue but according to him “I wanted it!” But how could I even know that or even say “yes” to anything being passed out. This was the first time he raped me but it wasn’t the last. Nameand I were in a relationship for 3 1/2 years in that time he physically would hurt me, force himself on me or take advantage of me while I was sleeping . It became unsettling to sleep at night knowing something might happen. At that time I was also taking care of my oldest son from a previous marriage and my youngest who was a baby on top of working full time. So I was exhausted from everything. I used to wake up to either text messages saying how worthless I was or name calling me because I had fallen asleep and not awake when he would get home. Or I would wake up to him yelling at me because I was defending myself in my sleep as he was trying to sexually assault me. Everything became my fault according to him. It was so dysfunctional, that at that time I was even drinking heavily. The pandemic hit and that was the beginning of the end of our relationship, I was so exhausted, depressed, just at the point of breaking! Our last fight ended with him calling the police on me and turning the narrative like I was the aggressor because he had spammed me on the ground and was hurting me, I defended myself, I felt so misunderstood and betrayed especially when the police wouldn’t let me speak and listen to me. I know now I’m not the only woman this has happened to in domestic violence situations. I take that as that was my way out yeah I got booked, finger printed and had charges which in the end Namedidn’t want either for me because he knew I didn’t do anything. In his words he just called them to “calm me down” he honestly thought I would go back to him after that NOPE! That was the end of it my freedom from him, with my sons. At that time I thought I would never get back into a relationship like that again, I knew the signs; I thought I knew it all! BOY was I wrong! My life at that time was spiraling out of control, I was lost but yet still thinking that I was completely mentally okay! I was dating and still drinking, I was rebellious at that time. It was almost a year later that I ended up meeting my last abuser, the one that almost ended my life! They say something you repeat things until you learn the lesson and I sure did that! This guy was handsome, charming, everything I ever wanted in a guy or so I thought! I’ll call him Name for the purpose of privacy reasons, but he really put on a great performance and mask! He was a small business owner and he made himself seem like he was down on his luck. He used the fact that I was previously in an abusive relationship as away to get close to me and give me false promises. Name promised me the entire world, I was “the best thing to ever happen to him!” And he was going to treat me the way I always should’ve been treated. Things went very fast for us when we first met. Our first meeting he was already referring me as his girlfriend. At the time I thought it was just so sweet and I felt like I was dreaming. For the first two months our relationship was amazing, he was good with my sons, and my family liked him. But at that point he definitely showed me a side of him that I didn’t like his jealousy. He made it clear that I couldn’t tapk to anyone of the opposite sex or have friends that were either. He slowly cut me off from everyone and everything! I quit my job because he told me to in the end and that I would be better working for him. Which that was a huge mistake! He and I were together 24/7 and it got to the point that where he started to verbally abuse me; his words were hurtful! He would tell me if I just listened and he obeyed him then none of it would happen but if I counted to be “bad” then he would continue to get mad at me. It wasn’t until about 6 months into our relationship is when Name became physically abusive with me. The first time it happened I was completely scared out of my mind, I froze, I was crying but I was told to be quiet or it would be worse. After that every time he would get mad at me I would be physically hurt on top of being verbally, emotionally, mentally, and financially abused. Those were the darkest moments of my life, there were days that I thought I would never get out of it. I felt trapped, and alone. Name made me completely dependent on him and I had to ask him to do anything right down to using the bathroom. I did nothing alone, showering, getting dressed, taking care of myself when it was that time of the month all of it! I was his prisoner! He would refer to me as his “Indian Slave” amount other very racially charged names that were so mean and hateful! He told me that if I ever left he would blackmail me, he kept complete control over me. He got my addicted to substances that I had never even done in my life, even doing drugs I had never even thought I would do! All to keep me under his control! This was a daily thing every day to obey him and if I didn’t then he would get mad for hours even days u til he would get over whatever he was mad at me about and then things would be “normal” for about a day or two then right back into it again. It was a sick cycle! I was exhausted mentally and physically! Survival mode every day is a lot for a person. The last and final time he abused me was complete torture, he tortured me for 3 to 4 hours and in that time He almost took my life! He strangled me to the point I couldn’t breathe, I lost my sight, the ability to see, and hear! I was close to dying! When he finally let go and I came back I knew I had to find away out, after being physically hurt more after that, hours had past he made me fall asleep with him. When we woke up I knew then I had to get my son who was in another room away from me and run! Somehow, someway I did just that, Name tried to hold me son against me not letting me take him, but it was my voice of screaming for my son that I was able to pick him up and run into the woods with him. It was the only thing I could think of to do and doing that with the clothes I had on and the clothes my son (youngest) had on I saved our lives, I ran to safety I knew the way I was going that the police station would be there. That was the motivation for me to keep going, thankfully someone had seen me with my son running and they called the police along with others who had called before, letting them know “hey this woman and child need help!” And they did I managed to make it on the main road and I was scared walking looking around hoping that Name wouldn’t drive up and try to take us or worse run us over, I almost asked someone for help but it was at that moment that I had looked up and saw the police coming right at me! I was all kinds of emotions, happy, sad, sacred, relieved! I told them what happened and I’m so glad I did as scary as it was to speak up it was the best decision I made for myself and my youngest son my oldest son thankfully want there at the time. But I knew that this was the time that I either needed to smarten up or I was going to end up not being here! I finally said to myself I learned my lesson and now I must truly, truly that this serious and heal from this and take a good look at myself so that this doesn’t happen to me again in any relationship. That was just over two years ago now and my abuser has been in prison for what he did to me, he got sentenced to 9 years, but he only has to do 5 years then he can get put on probation with speculations if he violates that then he goes back to prison for 4 years. I am one of three women that he has abused, I was the third one to speak out and the first one to put him prison for domestic violence. I’m in therapy and counseling for all the abuse I’ve been through and have been single since this all happened I’m taking my time, being smart about it all not rushing anything. I also will always speak out and share my story to help others because no one deserves to be treated this way! This wasn’t love! Love isn’t supposed to hurt like that or almost get one killed over it! So if my story can help others I’ll always continue to share. Thank you for letting me share this on here for others!

No matter what your abuser says, it isn't your fault. You are braver than you think and stronger than you know. Your truth is THE truth, and your voice matters. My abuser would gaslight me constantly to where I was no longer certain of what had actually happened in a given situation. He emotionally, verbally and psychologically abused me yet claimed it was all my fault. After I ended our engagement and finally left him for good, he put an AirTag on my car and used it to track my location and stalk me. According to him, this was also my fault. He was convinced I was cheating on him - something I never did and would never do. I got an Order of Protection against him, and we went to court multiple times. It was the worst time in my entire life, but I survived. Two years later, I've moved across the country, started my own business and rebuilt my life. You aren't alone. Even if you feel like it, you have the strength of the survivors who've gone before you that will carry you through your darkest days. We stand by you and with you. It ends with us.

I was 14. I fell in love with a boy who was 18. I was young and blind to the age difference, I’ve never felt love before, I grew up in an abusive household. The first bit of attention I got, I fell Inlove. I would lie to my parents about where I was and stay with my boyfriend. I stayed one night & he suggested we drink alcohol. I said yes & we started drinking, he kept feeding me alcohol until I was puking. I remember passing out and waking up to him and his 3 friends sitting on his bed with me. I fell back to sleep & I remember going in and out of consciousness to him and his friends raping me. I remember laying on the bed peeing myself while they took turns, crying. I was in and out of consciousness the whole time. One of his friends laid with me while the other bragged about “finally losing his virginity” and the friend laying with me was playing with my hair apologizing and telling me everything was going to be okay. It’s been 11 years. I am not okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay. I never got justice. I was so scared to tell anyone, couldn’t tell my parents because my dad would have quite literally killed me. I still find myself stalking their social medias. They all have atleast 1 daughter. No remorse for what they did to me. Married with children, and I can’t even have sex with my husband without crying afterwards. I can’t enjoy sex unless I’m being harmed during it. I have so much trauma I can’t stop thinking about it and crying. I suffered with drugs and alcohol & still suffer with alcohol even after being clean from drugs. I now have a daughter and I promise if anything ever happened to her I would make sure she could come to me and we can hold those responsible accountable. If I stayed home that night & didn’t go behind my parents back I would have been okay. I blame myself. I feel like I should have known better. My innocence was stolen from me & so was my life. They took my life from me. I’ll never recover.

I was 12. He was 31. He was my step father. I was supposed to be his daughter. I've known him since I was born. He became a father figure for me when my real father wasn't present. I started calling him "dad" at age 8. In all ways except biological he was my father. Even though he beat me and then bullied me into staying quiet. I never ever thought he'd be capable of this. It happened 2 weeks before I turned 13. On the morning of my younger siblings 4th birthday. We had decided to watch a movie downstairs in my room because it was so early, no one else was awake. At first it was fine. Then after a bit, he started getting a little touchy. Always wanting to hold and cuddle me. I found it weird, but didn't want to say anything for fear of him getting mad and hurting me. So I allowed it to continue even after I was uncomfortable. I kept trying to move and get away but I couldn't. He just kept telling me "that this was my special spot". Eventually he allowed me to move away a bit and lay on my back, as long as I was still close to him. A few minutes later he put his hand on my stomach.. and started working his way down to the waist of my sweatpants. Then eventually he trailed down further and stuck his fingers inside of me. It wasn't for very long, I'm assuming because he didn't want to get caught because of the other people in the room (children). I don't know much about what happened after that, I just remember being scared and hurt. I didn't know what to do or if it had even happened at all. It was so quick that I almost assumed I imagined it. Which is why it made it so easy for me to be manipulated into saying nothing happened. That night I went to a trusted friends house and told her that earlier that day I had been molested by my step father. She and her parents were horrified at what I had just said, they called the police and they were there in minutes. I stayed inside of the house, I didn't want to see them arrest him. I couldn't stand to look at him. Eventually the police officers brought me into the car to take my statement. I told them everything that had happened. After sometime I started thinking about what had happened and still after days, weeks I just couldn't wrap my head around it. Then one night my mother comes into my room and tells me that I have to recant my statement because he's in a lot of trouble and she was scared that he'd be killed when they found out what he had done. I was being pressured by everyone to recant. His family were saying and calling me horrible things. I was 12-13 years old and I was getting blamed and called a "slut", "whore" and my favourite that I had "seduced him, and that it was my fault". Everyday I had people who I thought had loved and would protect me, telling me how awful I was and "how dare I do that and ruin an innocent man's life". It was one of the most horrific things i've ever experienced. I thought that being taken advantage of was the worst, but that didn't even scratch the surface compared to having "my family" either not believe me or tell me that its my fault. It was like I was being assaulted all over again.