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Disclaimer: This post refers to DSM and ICD diagnostic classifications mostly unquestioningly, not because of a lack of personal engagement with critical discussions on this topic, but simply for pragmatic reasons, since I am trying to explain something which is currently affecting and debilitating for me. CW: includes descriptions of severe, complex and childhood sexual, trauma. Severe bullying. I haven’t written for a while. I haven’t had the cognitive energy, nor has my mind possessed a state of functioning that would allow me to get the words down in print. Every survivor living with complex dissociative forms of post-traumatic stress knows the exhaustion of living with the inner chaos that accompanies survival - no matter our attempts to bring ourselves closer to thriving, closer to being more than the sum of what happened to us. This year, I got a lion tattooed on my upper arm. It is a motif that has been with me since I was only three years old; the first time I can recall sitting alone on my bedroom floor, trying to figure out how to stretch my mouth wide enough to roar. I remember my father walking in to find me and asking what on earth I was doing, his only response being to laugh at my attempt and to tell me something else I could do with my mouth for him instead. There was nothing I could do, so the lion withdrew, but he stayed with me. He resurfaced again - as far as I can recall - only at two specific moments in my life, possibly two of the worst, in different ways, when my consciousness was so overwhelmed by the horror of what was happening that it likely would have shattered into pieces if he hadn’t stepped in. The first of these moments was just two years later. I was only five years old, already living in circumstances unbearable enough to produce a variety of delusional experiences which functioned to keep my little mind going: talking trees, talking teddy bears, and spirits from the world unknown beyond - each of whom became compassionate witnesses to the pain I was enduring. This memory originally returned to me through a recurring nightmare. At the time, I rationalised it away as symbolic, for I could not then bring myself to admit that the scene I was remembering had been literal. That my mother had in fact stood by and watched as my father r****d me on the floor in plain sight. It wasn’t a symbolic representation for how it felt to be living in a house where one caregiver abused me and the other pretended she knew nothing about it. My mother had witnessed it happening, and then walked right away. I fought with myself and defended against this interpretation in my therapy sessions, not wanting the wall of denial that was protecting the innocent version of my mother to break. It was one I had constructed to survive and maintain a relationship with her, and if it broke, I knew I would be even more alone than I already was. Unfortunately, as more and more details resurfaced, enabling me to piece together in full what really happened that day, my mind and body only had more heartbreak to prepare for. The fullness of my being wanted the fragile love of at least one of my negligent parents to have been real, albeit even if insufficient. But my parts? They knew the truth. At least, some of them did. Some of them knew the terror of what it felt like to be abused and degraded, and treated with a total lack of empathy by those who were meant to protect them. Some of them knew that the testimonies given by each of my parents would never be credible. In order to explain what I mean by that, I am going to have to tell you about one book I have managed to slowly begin making my way through over the last couple of weeks - if only by listening to the audio version, going over and over the same paragraphs multiple times in attempt to process at least some of the information. It is called The Haunted Self: Structural Dissociation and The Treatment of Chronic Traumatization, by Onno Van der Hart et al. It has been helping me (finally) to make some actual sense out of the bewildering symptoms I’ve been experiencing for some time, and the often-unsettling experiences I encountered during Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy towards the end of last year. How to escape when you cannot For those who are not familiar with IFS or structural dissociation, there are two things I should first make clear: IFS is a model of therapy which focuses on working collaboratively with various ‘parts’ within each person, which the theory explains have developed through the internalisation of certain specific roles and functions in childhood in response to family dynamics (these are known as firefighters, exiles, and managers). In contrast, the clinical literature on structural dissociation outlines what happens to the personalities of those exposed to chronic and prolonged trauma in the developmental period: how it effectively fragments into component parts to survive, instead of becoming whole. The authors of the book define the personality as ‘a system comprised of various psychobiological states or subsystems that function in a coordinated manner’, which in healthy subjects function together cohesively: ‘An integrated personality is a developmental achievement’, not a given, the authors helpfully note. In cases of structural dissociation, however, what happens is that instead of developing towards integration, these subsystems become adaptively organized around the traumatic environment in such a way that a division occurs between two categories of subsystems: Those which support the individual in efforts to adapt to daily life Those built for detection of, and defense from, threats These are the action-systems which characterise an individual’s interoceptive (awareness of internal bodily signals) and exteroceptive (awareness of external) worlds, comprising their propensity to act in accordance with certain types of basic motivations. They are always shaped in order to best adaptively respond to their environment. Effectively, the more that prolonged exposure to trauma makes integration between the various goal-directed actions (i.e., those oriented toward exploration, caretaking, and attachment, vs. those oriented towards defence, hypervigilance, and fight/flight responses) unfeasible, the more rigidified and hardened these subsystems can become, leading to the emergence of dissociative ‘parts’. These parts are not like those postulated by IFS, though their functions can overlap: “Dissociative parts together constitute the whole personality, yet are self-conscious, have rudimentary senses of self, and are more complex than a single psychobiological state.” These parts can possess varying degrees of elaboration - referring to how differentiated and distinct they are with regard to characteristics such as names, age, gender, etc - and emancipation - referring to how much separation and autonomy they have from the trauma itself. This variation depends significantly upon the severity and complexity of trauma, and how chronic it is. Most people are aware of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). In cases of PTSD, structural dissociation exists, but it is not as complex as those seen in cases where secondary, or even tertiary forms are present. The key difference between them has to do with the presence of one or more of different types of parts: Apparently Normal Parts (ANP’s): which are dominated by the action systems which are oriented towards exploration, caretaking and attachment and Emotional Parts (EP’s): which are dominated by defence systems These parts are not reducible to these action-systems, but they are mediated by them. This is why a person can consist of parts which are in conflict with one another. For example, an emotional part can contain the raw sensory trauma and all its accompanying feelings of fear, shame, and guilt, while another ‘apparently normal’ part goes about its business of focusing on the avoidance of those feelings through engagements in various activities which compensate for them and bring them esteem; not just because the raw feeling is in itself overwhelming - the authors refer to these emotions as ‘vehement’ because of just how overwhelming they can be, and how they can lead to maladaptive coping mechanisms when the person lacks the resources to cope effectively - but also because those action-systems we outlined are structured around meeting our need for attachment to others, and regulating our social position. If the vehement emotions the trauma instilled feel like they pose a threat to our most significant relationships, or even our social standing, EP’s are forced to contain them, and often banished from vision - both others and our own. In cases of primary dissociation, like PTSD, it has only been adaptively necessary for a single ANP and a single EP to develop. In secondary dissociation, as is often seen in cases of C-PTSD and those which more frequently invite the diagnosis of ‘borderline personality disorder’ (don’t get me started on that), further fragmentation has led to the development of multiple EP’s, each containing different fragments of the traumatic experience: moments of terror, raw emotions, and a variety of defensive responses. Tertiary dissociation is where things get really complicated. Most people are broadly aware of something known as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) - inaccurately popularised as ‘split personality disorder’ - mostly as a result of horribly stigmatising portrayals in the media. In reality, DID is itself far more complicated, and individual experiences far more varying, than is commonly thought. The key thing which differentiates it from the other dissociative disorders already mentioned is that there is evidence for tertiary structural dissociation: which not only involves multiple EP’s, but also more than one ANP. Contrary to belief, however, these ANP’s do not necessarily possess the most extreme degrees of elaboration and emancipation. It is not always the case that a person can be seen to shift between completely distinct identities whose ages, memories and personalities are themselves entirely different. There are a range of Other and unspecified Dissociative Disorders (OSDD) listed in the DSM-5 - whatever you think of its validity - which point to these variations. For me personally, this has manifested differently at different times in my life. Let’s go back to the memory I started describing, when the lion motif first tried to reappear, to unpack some of them. The first of the worst I was just five years old and something awful was happening to me. Not only was the act itself something so painful, so gut-wrenchingly horrifying it could traumatise even an adult, but it was being perpetrated by one primary caregiver while the other stood by and did nothing. This is a profound form of betrayal and neglect, and ultimately, abandonment. In that moment, my dependence on my caregivers to survive meant that I had limited options to process what was happening to me if I wanted to live. On the one hand, I could accept that neither of my parents were capable of providing me with the care and nurture I needed. I could accept that no one was coming to save me, that no one was going to defend me from either of them, but then I would have to face a reality with no hope of ever being safe, or being loved, or being protected. Not only was I smaller than small - let’s be clear, I was tiny - there was no chance in hell I was ever going to muster up the strength to protect myself. I just didn’t have it. I don’t quite know how to clinically describe what happened in my consciousness after that. It wasn’t the dramatic dissociative break that came seven years later when the lion reappeared once again (more on that later) - it was subtler than that. I simply gathered whatever crumbs of evidence I could to construct a narrative in which help would be coming in the end. And if it didn’t? Then I would become something that could defend and protect itself instead. After my mother walked away from me, somehow, I dragged myself up from the floor and went running in the direction I saw straight ahead: to the closed door of my brother’s bedroom. I burst in unannounced and declared my new reality to him: “Name Everything is going to be okay.” I said. Whatever had just happened didn’t matter. The fact that I had not even felt it didn’t matter to me either; that part of me had already been buried while another took over through numbness and desensitization. If my body had been burned, I had left it. My father of course followed me into the room and wasn’t having any of it. He told me to back away from his son, referring to me again as a little slut, having only moments before branded both my mother and I filthy whores. But my body didn’t shake. “I was just telling him that everything is going to be okay.” I repeated. In that moment, whichever part of my father had been incensed to violate me so grossly immediately left him, I saw the flicker in his eyes. “What?” He asked gently, half-smiling. “What are you saying, my dear? What do you mean everything is going to be okay? Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He laughed again. As he lowered himself to me to pick me up onto his lap, I continued. “Everything is going to be okay because I know that it isn’t my fault when you get angry with me” I elaborated plainly. Actually, I had told myself that everything was going to be okay because I thought the look in my mother’s eyes when she stared blankly into the distance had told me that what she was seeing was enough to finally shift her into leaving him - which she eventually did. “Have I been angry with you today?” He asked. I rolled my eyes and decided to change the conversation. “I’m going to be a lion when I grow up.” I explained proudly to him. But of course, he just laughed. “You’re not a lion! You’re a little girl, a ballerina…” I continued to educate him on imposing limitations on what I could be. I’m well aware that there is something in this very real sequence of events which sounds almost artificial. How does a child of five years endure such trauma, only to emerge as if untarnished, even heroic, just a few seconds after? That is dissociation. Instead of shattering under the weight of cruel circumstances, my psyche reached for two things to keep itself alive instead: 1. A rationalisation which meant that the abandonment and betrayal I had just experienced wasn’t really abandonment at all: “Mummy knows now. Now, she knows how bad it is for me, and she is going to do something about it.” 2. An identification with a future-promise of transcendence from my own limitations “I am going to be a lion one day.” Not only did I need to hold onto the attachment I still had to my mother, I needed something to gestate within myself that could one day be birthed to contain, and even transmute, the experience of absolute vulnerability. While the part of me that held all the pain got pushed further down into a space I could not access, not even if I wanted, another stood tall in its place, clinging to its own source of esteem. The truth was that my mother had already known before this how bad the abuse was for me already. She had seen the blood-stained sheets in the aftermath of r*** and complained about having to clean them, this was no revelation. The reason I thought that she had not understood was because of what had been happening moments earlier, before my father had entered the room to see it, and become violently enraged. The descent into… Instead of taking you back to those moments, I want to take you forwards in time, to the second reappearance of the lion. This was a far more dramatic occurrence than the first, when the lion became somewhat real for me, not just an idea. Around seven years had passed, and in that time my mother had left my father, taking my older brother and I with her. By then, the court investigation had concluded that my father was innocent of the allegations made against him. Some of these allegations had been my own, but the original witness allegations were made by a friend of my brother’s about what he had seen for himself my father was doing to him. “I couldn’t understand why she didn’t leave him immediately” a distant aunt of mine explained to me recently, over the phone. “She kept saying innocent until proven guilty, I kept telling her children don’t lie about these things”. This aunt had grown up with my father - though she was fifteen years younger than him - and it seems had known very well that he was capable of real darkness. She and her sibling - my uncle, my father’s half-brother - had seen how he was controlling and manipulative. They had witnessed him go from the disgrace of living in absolute poverty as an immigrant child to a high-achiever in elite universities and official church positions. She knew the tell-tale signs of my father’s deflection from painstaking questions. I don’t quite know how or why it is that she eventually lost contact with my mother, living all the way over in the States was obviously a part of it, but I do know that she didn’t hesitate to drop him immediately out of her own life when she heard about how he was refusing to cooperate with the process, or talk honestly about things. My aunt saw my father’s darkness and used the light of truth and discernment to deal with it. Meanwhile, my mother stared his darkness right in the face and adorned it with grace. The other aunts on my mother’s side of the family were instructed to stay out of the situation; not to attempt to even talk to us about it, not to risk contamination. My American aunt told me that my uncle, had he still been alive, would have handled things differently. “He’d have been on the first plane over there to beat it out of him.” My aunt lovingly explained to me. “He was that sort of man.” Somehow, I myself had understood that about him from the few times we had visited him in America, before he passed away. Whether real or hallucinatory like the other experiences I was having, I had been experiencing visitations from his spirit ever since I had learned of his death. I spoke to him - and my teddy bears - about everything that was happening to me. They became my closest friends. It was the involvement of social services that eventually triggered my mother to leave almost a year after that, probably sometime soon after they explained to her that if my father was eventually found to be guilty, she could herself potentially be found to have been complicit as well. Again, the truth contradicts my mother’s claims about how this all went. Her version conveniently forgets the many times I tried to speak up on my own for myself before she finally allowed me to say the minimal things that I did, at eight years of age. My brother stayed silent throughout, choked by the fear of what would happen if he dare betray his kin. The outcome of all of this was that I was forced into contact with my father throughout the investigation with varying degrees of supervision, and thereafter none. This meant that every other week, I was to be collected by him from school, in full view of the public. This might not have been so bad had my father’s name not been printed in the papers, or televised on the local news for all to see, and given that his name was Polish and therefore very uncommon, the dots were not hard to connect. We had been moved by the council to a relatively deprived area, none of the other mother’s spoke or behaved in the way my own mother did, and all of them knew each other. Gossip easily spread. Having dropped down the social ladder already in the move from my town of birth - the time spent at the women’s refuge and the school we attended there being particularly difficult - I had already become accustomed to bullying. But the cruelty I experienced from older children who knew about my father took things to a whole new level. Sadism is apparently more common than we would like to admit. One girl in particular went out of her way to make my life a misery. “It’s no wonder you’re daddy rapes you” she used to tell me plainly as she towered over me. “You’re the vilest thing I’ve ever seen.” I have no doubt that this particular bully was going through the worst of it herself in her own home looking back on it now, the conditions were right for it, but that didn’t make it easier. And the actions of her peers - whose disgust towards me paralleled her own - unfortunately went further in their bullying. By the time I reached twelve, I had already experienced repeated sexual assaults and abuses from other lads in the area who knew about my vulnerability and ‘openness to experience’. Some of these incidents were sadly the result of my own active propositioning - or at least, a specific dissociative part of myself who applied all the lessons she had learned about how to appease males (more on that another day). I had been reminded over and over again by the aforementioned group of bullies that my dad was a paedophile. I knew very well that I was dirty, gross, not okay. What I had not yet experienced was the humiliation of being targeted specifically because of the abuse, like I was some sort of prey. The second worst memory A predator does not hunt immediately; first, he surveys. If I wanted to give the lads I mentioned the benefit of the doubt - to show them their own grace - I’d spend these next few lines telling you all about how that dissociative part acted like a little slut, how she got herself into it, and how their ignorance about my history of abuse was its own kind of bliss. They didn’t really know about daddy, I’d tell you, they thought I was just sexually mature for my tiny little age. They didn’t know about his friends. Actually, in their own words - thanks to how daddy’s friends had trained me to act - they thought I ‘must have been born gagging for it’. So who can really blame them? These bullies were different. They might not have known about the full extent of sexual exploitation my father had put me through in those earliest years, but they knew about him. And for years they had seen that I was helpless, without a defender, even after I’d escaped living with him. My older brother, they also knew very well, was himself his own target. Everyone knew who he was and considered him a freak. Perhaps they even knew that without another person to unleash his anger onto about everything, even that came spilling out onto me. Either way, they knew that they could cross him in the street and make jokes about these encounters - without so much as risking a punch in the face. “Oi oi, I know your sister, wink wink.” By this point, thanks to the extent of my dissociative capacities, these people knew far more than I did. I didn’t know about the girl that came out in the night when nobody was watching, or about all the things that had never really happened, because that’s what they kept saying. “That sounds like an awful nightmare” my godmother (an enabler) once told me. “I wouldn’t say that to anybody else if I were you, they might think worse of you than me.” They did think worse of me. When I retracted my allegations, I had been forced - even convinced - to tell them that it had all been a lie: the product of imagination. That’s what my father told me, that I was just sick in the head. “I’m sorry for causing all the problems and telling lies mummy”, I wrote to her in a card that year. This was my ANP running full-steam ahead, taking the lead in the show, keeping it all stitched together. As long as it could do well enough to cover up the many little cracks; the other parts holding all the trauma, including the gaslighting, could fade into the distance. “Whose going to believe you?” Is what my mother herself had actually said to me, the time I finally threatened to speak out about her own abuse. “You and whose army?” She continued. “Everyone knows you’re the girl who cried wolf. It will be unfortunate if one day you really are in trouble, no one will be coming to save you.” My bullies knew this well. They had seen me through primary and, now, I was beneath them in secondary. It would not surprise me if they had heard rumours from the other lads in their year and above about all the other incidents. They certainly knew that I was fair game, and that the secrets which passed quietly between them would never be allowed to reach a soul who would step in and do something. I guess they followed me home one time to determine the exact house that I lived in, because one evening, late in the night, one of them came to pay me a visit. It was another girl I had known since primary, who hung out with the group of older boys who used to watch me as I walked away from school with my father - throwing pebbles in our direction as they chanted over and over again ‘PAEDO’. This wasn’t the one who had towered over me those times to tell me I was vile. It was another who had punched me in the face when I was only eight or nine. She fractured my nose, or at least seriously bruised it - I can’t tell you the real damage, although my septum is still deviated; my mother refused to take me to the doctors to have it examined. She just laughed at me instead and told me about how she had been bullied for her appearance when she was a kid, so I should get over it. But it wasn’t my appearance this girl was targeting me for, at least not that I could tell. Whatever the reason, I knew that she wasn’t my friend. So when she pulled up to my house on her bike and called up to me in the window asking me to ‘come out’, I didn’t exactly smile. “Why?” I asked. “To have some fun!” she said. We exchanged various arguments for and against my trusting her sudden display of kindness. “You’re not my friend, you’re never nice to me in school!” I barked. Eventually she managed to coax me out. I can’t tell you why a young girl in my position would be so foolishly easy to manipulate, except what is already obvious: these relationships had quite literally shaped my entire life, and my nervous system. They were the food to my existence. Those action-systems I mentioned? The push-pull threads which weaved together my longing for safety and belonging - well, they were twisted to fuck. When the girl gave me reason to think I had a chance to impress her, to have a little fun, to ‘have a laugh’; the little girl in me choked up. I sat on the back of her bike and we rode into the dark. By the time we reached the park, my consciousness had already been flickering in and out of the moment - going back to times lived before which mimicked the power dynamic I was suddenly frozen in: the taking of my hand by an older person leading me into a situation I had no control in, the promises of ‘games’ we were going to play, the trust that was about to be broken. The lads themselves were already drunk and more than willing to do it. What followed begs not to be spoken. All I can repeat for you now are the words that continued to ring in my ear as I collapsed on the floor that night, soon after I got home: “Isn’t she gross?” “Isn’t she vile?” “Oh my god, the sick little bitch - do you think that she actually liked it?” The last question was of course referring to the act of being r***d by my father. In their own sick little fantasies - the very ones which I had been accused of having by my father myself - they envisioned me actually enjoying being assaulted in childhood. Together, they mocked me in sync as they groaned, and they moaned, and they yelled: “Yeah daddy. F*ck me harder.” I can’t tell you exactly what happened. The moment the older girl turned her face from me and left me alone - apparently shocked at the scene that was unfolding precisely as they told her it was going to, convinced that they must have been joking - this was the moment I blacked out of consciousness completely and saw the lion take over. While my body was most likely limp and unable to move, something in me escaped. This makes sense in the context of structural dissociation. The full scale of betrayal and abandonment - across communities, institutions, families, entire systems - should have been enough to break me altogether. I don’t know how to make sense of what I experienced in that moment: all I know is that if my body could not fight its way to freedom, then some part of my psyche had to try. Had to find some kind of strength. When I first accessed this memory, the image I saw I can only describe as a spirit rising out from my body in the shape of a lion, this time roaring; set free from everything which bound him and cast him down as prey, without dignity or respect. The rest is mostly black. I don’t know if I screamed, I don’t know if I attempted to fight back, or if my mind simply vanished, leaving my face looking empty, blank. Perhaps I never will. All I know is that the apparently normal part of me banished it from memory, until I was ready to remember. A reckoning Unfortunately, this wasn’t the last time my sexual abuse history was weaponised by males as a pretext to take what they wanted. This memory was brought forward intentionally, along with others, by my parts during a session of trauma-informed hypnosis. The night before the session I went to bed in extreme agony, feeling like the pain I knew I was going to be forced to face the next day might actually be enough to kill me. Remembering what I did in that session went against everything the script my therapist was reading to me was meant to evoke: it was a standard protocol, the first of six sessions. Everything in it had been about calming my mind and evoking a sense of complete safety; it was setting the scene for my parts to come forward to release all the emotions and dysfunctional behaviours they were still clinging to, which supposedly kept holding the adult part of me back from moving forward from the past, and into a better future. I knew for myself that this wasn’t what my parts had in mind: that they had new information to share with me. Crucial information they refused to leave hidden in the dark, in any thinly-veiled attempt at ‘recovery’. There was no way they were going to allow me to move forward without reaching this part of my consciousness. But why is that? My parts know that what happened to them happens to others. While much of my abuse was experienced in isolation, it involved witnessing the abuse of other children, not only my brother - who these parts felt abandon them for years as he defaulted to identifying with and defending my parents, instead of joining hands with them to fight back - but also other children. And just as they held onto the truth of what happened so that I did not have to hold it myself, these parts watched as other ‘Apparently Normal Parts’ took over in other children just the same, to keep them alive. Both of my parents relied upon my brother’s silence to isolate me. While they abused him in their own way, they made perfectly sure he had a vested interest in playing their game, in taking their sides. Not only did my brother have parts of himself split off to keep him functioning, parts which knew the truth for themselves and had their own memories of deep pain inflicted by my parents, but he also had parts of himself that just wanted to belong, to have some power, to feel safe. Beyond the bullying he faced, the abuse we both witnessed involving other children had happened across multiple contexts: in the teddy-bears picnics my father held, organised through his role as a vicar and enabled by church members who owned significant land and wealth; and then again in his position as a vicar overseeing young children’s first communions, which allowed him to have access to them without the presence of their parents, for twelve whole private sessions. Eventually, my brother found a way to become more like the big friendly giant my uncle had been. He put aside the misogynistic, homophobic and other-phobic bullshit he’d internalised to defend against his shame. But for a long time, in both childhood and adolescence, my brother had learned that nowhere else could bring him that safety. And he had learned that there was always someone beneath him he could redirect his anger and violence about it onto, without facing accountability. There are other things which happened in other contexts we were exposed to, some of which only further inflamed my mother’s own capacity to abuse, knowing that no one spoke up about these things when they themselves witnessed them. The more my mother saw others turn a blind eye and herself got away with it, the more she slipped from passive victim into enabler, and perpetrator. The details I will not go into here, and I admit my theory about her own process here is somewhat speculation. I have no way of knowing if my mother had abused what little power she had managed to hold over other children before in her relatively low-status occupations. The important point is that my parts know very well what it means to be powerless and small in a system that is built on coercion in the place of autonomy, on oppression, and on exploitation. They know that where accountability fails, evil thrives, and that dwindling reserves of empathy can bring out the worst in everyone. They know the darkness of shadows cast by people parading as the light; and they know the pain of being marginalised by a system that centres might as right. And what about me? I know that none of this is inevitable. Thanks to the higher-functioning parts of me who got me through higher education, I know that men aren’t born rapists and children aren’t born into cruelty. I know that hierarchies are not fixed in nature, and that neither is patriarchy. But that’s for another essay. I also know that (unfortunately) I am not a lion, nor will I ever be. But the archetypal traits that humans associate with them are ones which we, too, can possess: leadership, courage, protection, the instinct to defend. I got the lion tattooed on my arm to remind me of this. That those parts of myself whose raw and primal urges were suppressed could be harnessed again. The parts which tried to fight back, which said no, which protested. The parts which often tried to protect vulnerable others, even at their own expense. This, too, is part of our mammalian legacy. Part of our DNA. There is another part of me which was exiled for quite some time, banished into its own hiding. It was a part who had wanted to know for itself why the abusers were doing what they did: a part who tried to re-enact what she had witnessed to try to make sense of it, but only traumatised itself. She had learned that that was what people did: took turns in taking the baton, and going crazy wielding it, as soon as they had the opportunity. But for every part which fawned and folded itself into whatever they wanted - the good girl, the slut, the follower - there was a part who fought to preserve dignity, empathy, and truth, parts which always threatened them. None of my parts want me to forget or let go of the past. They want healing, they want witnesses. In fact, more than that, they want a collective reckoning. They also want to hear that their abusers were wrong when they drilled it into them that no one would ever believe them. As the person now sitting in the driver’s seat, in charge of this system - it is my job to get those younger parts what they are telling me they need. At least, to finally try.

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.

In my story, IT STARTED WITH MY BROTHER, I briefly mentioned 3 instances of avoiding being raped by letting men just have me when it seemed like they were going to do me whether or not I consented. I do think I avoided emotional and physical trauma at the time, but the anger, self resentment, and feelings of being wronged and about it did snowball after. I never shared or released those stories. Please read my original story for context. In this instance the sex was already happening when I awoke, and my reflex was to take the non-confrontational path. The easy way, not the right way. I had gotten home from work as a server at my bar and grill restaurant and my female roommate had her father staying with us for the weekend. I had already met him since they drove straight from the airport to the sports bar I worked at. That’s were he told me, “Just call me, ‘Dad’”. They sat in my section, ate, and left. No issues. Then, back at our 2 bedroom apartment there was a small party for his benefit with a couple of our friends. I had a couple hard ciders and chatted about college and my roommate and heard stores of when she was a kid from. I flirted and humored “Dad”’s sexual innuendos directed at me, and ignored his eyes all up and down me. I was used to it. I played the good hostess and waited until it was all dying down probably around 2 or 3 am, before I showered and went to bed. It had been a long day with both class and work. I was stirred out of my sleep a few hours later with "Dad" already inside of me, thrusting in and out between my legs! By the light streaming in through my dark blinds I could tell it was day. But WTF was happening?! My panties were off but my T-shirt was on. Underneath it the dark figure who I quickly was able to identify as "Dad" was caressing my breasts with one hand while holding me down with the other. Still dazed and confused, I guess I put my arms around him and responded like a willing partner. He soon finished and then it got awkward.  He told me "That really hit the spot". He started to make conversation! The longer I had to think, the more I realized what happened. That he had just helped himself as I lay sleeping. I was 19 and dating a hot university baseball player at the time and would not have gone for this fifty or so year old guy on purpose. He was sure drinking that night but I had only had a few ciders. So there I was, realizing I had been kind of raped but held hostage by a sense of politeness! Not to mention as I was 5'3'' 110 pounds, so there was the physical intimidation from a much taller man with a dad bod.  I always pee right after sex but felt captive by "Dad"'s ramblings as he propped himself up on one elbow hovering over me while he ran his fingers over me and stroked my hair sporadically.  I shared his cold can of beer with him that he must have opened right before he came in to rape me because I remember drinking deeply the cold liquid soothing my dry throat. I suffered through some dad jokes and stories I did not care about, as well as answering some personal questions about myself and my sexuality. I was looking for momentary pause to get up and away from “Dad” when he said, "I'm ready to go again, baby." NO! He moved on top of me! Instead of fighting him off me or even saying "no", I spread my legs to accommodate him! WTF! The second time did not have the desperate eagerness of the first, unfortunately. As he even said, he wanted to teach me a lesson this time. I guess about how good he was is bed. A definite case of ‘whiskey dick’. So I let this man I had never wanted or considered sex with jostle me into several positions. He was large man and so much stronger than me it was a joke. After the missionary he picked me up to prove some point and did me against the wall right next to my window. I remember seeing through cracks in the blinds and knowing it was early because the parking lot was full and nothing was moving. Then SLAM onto the bed. We did 69 with me lying on him where I sucked him with all my might wanting to END IT while he was licking me. I failed! He had me being on top riding him at one point. I was on my hands and knees with him ramming behind me when I collapsed under his weight to flat on my face. He enjoyed never letting up on the thrusts as I was completely pinned down by him. I let him give me two or more orgasms in hopes he would just finish. I was so loud I was embarrassed my roommate would come rushing in my room any second. She was passed out drunk. He finally left as soon as he finished. I am sure his ego was massively inflated and the terrible man still thinks of me today! I lie there in my bed catching my breath and getting more anxious. I got up, pulled on some sweats, and B-lined straight out the door to my gym. I wanted to get away so bad. I drank water like I had just walked out of a desert. I showered for so long at the empty Saturday morning gym without any products but hand soap. Then I started to work out like crazy, on three hours sleep and exhaustion. I was trying to sweat him out of my system, to scream and thrash through my exercise. I showered again then went out and fell asleep in my car in the back of the lot. The rest of the weekend I only went to my apartment for minutes at a time to pick up things I needed. I sure as Hell did not sleep there! When he was gone I answered my roommates questions that I had been blowing off with lies and short answers. I told her the truth. She shrugged and looked at me skeptically, like it was just one of those things. I was promiscuous in college and she knew it. We sort of made a joke out of it and moved on. The easy way, not the right way. I still have big time guilt at how I was back then. At the time my things was not that "I wish I had fought him." What I wished was that I had been too drunk to remember!!! So that was that. Something I kept inside, festering. Other things added to it and it got swept under the rug of my damaged psyche. Not one of the worst skeletons in my closet but what I was willing to share for now. I am working up to the others. My first story I shared helped a lot. I hope it helped somebody else too. I thank all of you and I empathize. I will read your stories and support you in my thoughts and prayers.

At the age of twenty-six I was raped by a stranger. It took me many years to name what had happened to me as rape. Although, distressed when it happened, I blocked it from my mind for a number of years before going to a therapist for support. I decided to attend therapy as I was struggling with a deep depression. I didn't attend a Rape Crisis Centre. It took me a number of years before I disclosed to my then therapist that I had been raped. I had buried what took place deep within myself and I had never disclosed to anyone what happened that night. The person who raped me was a friend of some friends of mine. I was away for the weekend and thankfully, I never saw him again. While my healing journey has been long. It has been deeply supportive and has allowed me to heal from many different issues within my childhood and to heal from sexual violence. I no longer carry guilt or shame for what took place that night and would encourage any man or woman who is a survivor or sexual violence to go to a therapist who specialises in sexual violence and allow an experienced professional to support you on your healing journey. I have no regrets and am grateful to a number of wonderful women who have supported me to heal from a deeply traumatic experience. Healing can and does happen. Don't give up on you, as I have never given up on me. I have learned that I like so many survivors of abuse am a very resilient woman. I live life today, from a very grounded place and although, I remember what happened to me in the rape I have emotionally healed from the hurt and the pain of that traumatic experience.

A friend and I dated within the same friend group, and I used to hang out with the guys a lot--I considered them as my brothers. One night when we were altogether, I felt too drunk to take myself home and felt safe with my friends ex to get a cab and drop me off. He came in uninvited and kissed me, then all I remember are flashes of us being naked, him being inside of me, going down on me, etc., but I felt like I couldn't move. I woke up to shower, my bed was broken, and he was gone. I called him the next day to confront him about it, and that I don't even remember what happened. He said he thought "i enjoyed it" (I was unconscious half of the time), and only stopped because the bed broke. Although he apologized he had the audacity to tell me not to share this with anyone, and to this day only very few close friends know about this incident. It truly broke my trust even with platonic guy friendships.

I love my self no matter what!

He planted spyware on my phone and computer that gave him full access to my life - calls, texts, contacts, photos, browsing activities, location. He couldn’t stand not having power over me and my life when I broke up with him. As if he thought I was an object he owned by doing kind things that he gradually bought and paid for. The kindness was never real, it was just him justifying his eventual perceived ownership of me. He used to tell me his favorite person is Robert Greene. I would later learn he is the author of 48 Laws of Power, a book about obtaining total power over people by manipulating them. When I saw how he became a completely different person around his friends it was honestly terrifying. As if the person I had spent 3 months getting to know was never actually the real person. It was scary. After dumping him he went scorched earth: sabotaging my job search, harassing me and my family after a sibling died, sabotaging my education, and eventually sabotaging my career. Literally 6 years later and he has still went through my new phone after getting another one, having no social media and no life to get away from him. This weekend I went on a day trip 3 hours away from where he lives with someone new I was seeing. Sure enough I see him driving up there on our way back. Apparently he did the same to the partner he had before me he claimed he “found” with someone else (he was actually stalking her). He can’t handle the thought of being unable to control me to compensate for his complete lack of control he has over himself. Below are my personal thoughts on the past 6 years of being tortured by this person (from me to him, since he has hacked multiple of my phones he is likely reading this anyway): I am sorry that when my family member died you thought it was more important to have attention from me and supply instead of letting me heal. To the point you destroyed my computer with spyware, lied about our breakup, and ran a smear campaign against me. I am sorry I went to a better university than you (even though you harassed me and sabotaged my education the whole time I was there to the point I had to get an attorney). I am sorry I got into a real CS program and you didn’t so you had to minor in IT and major in something else. Or worse that you were so bothered by it you couldn’t handle me being able to independently pursue my education in it without you harassing me the entire time. I am sorry your mom left when you were younger and instead of seeking therapy you take your anger out on me, sabotaging my healing and success. Apparently childhood abandonment is the catalyst for narcissistic personality disorder. I am sorry you blame your drug and alcohol addictions on me instead of seeking treatment and going to rehab. I am sorry you were fired for incompetence at your first real programming job so you think its acceptable to be jealous of my tech career and sabotage it. I am sorry the only way you are able to feel anything is by trying to control people and have power over them. To the point you are willing to crush the good in life just to mean something, anything, to anyone. What will you do when you can’t access my life anymore? What will you do when I leave and you can’t find me again? Will you turn back to hurting people, destroying everything around you and drinking or finally wake up and get it? No one thinks you are a sophisticated hacker, a genius, an intellectual, or that you have any substance. Underneath it all you are an angry man who can’t get over the fact that multiple women including your own mother left you. It will keep happening and you will never be satisfied until you change. You are in your 40s so this is what the rest of your life will be like until you wake up. You want power? Stop thinking about how everyone around you owes you this or that and what will benefit you. You will never be full and you will continue draining people your whole life. Move on, go to rehab, and think about the people you hurt while you are there so you don’t do it anymore.

HOW I STARTED MY HEALING JOURNEY by Name My healing journey began after I spent five years in a narcissistically abusive relationship. It was a constant cycle of hot and cold, back and forth, until I finally got sick of the bullshit and chose to walk away for good. In the beginning, I simply sat with my feelings. I reflected on everything I’d endured and allowed my emotions to flow naturally. It’s easily one of the hardest parts of the process, but you have to let those feelings out for the healing to begin. I then moved on to one of the scariest tasks: breaking down my past. When we look at our trauma as one giant mountain, it just feels like a jumbled mess of chaos. By identifying each experience as its own separate event, it becomes much easier to process. To get these thoughts out of my head, I put them on paper. If you’re starting this journey, get a notebook and write down everything as it comes up. Use it as your primary tool. I began with my most recent experience of narcissistic abuse. I dove into podcasts and articles, desperate to understand what had happened to me and how it was affecting my mental health. Once I understood the 'what,' I started researching the 'how'—as in, how do I heal from this? That’s when I discovered the connection to childhood trauma. It’s a major key to the puzzle because we carry those early experiences into our adult lives. There is so much information available; you just have to find the pieces that fit your life. Healing is deeply individual, and you get to choose the path that works best for you."

I worked at a Corporation as a Temporary. I have a Bachelors Degree that I studies hard for. I was working with a woman who worked at the iffuce for about 28 years. Also, others on the group who are there for about 10bto 18 years. Since I was the temporary they found an emotional outlet to emotionally exclude me from events. I went in on time, worked all days for 7 months did my job effectively. One of the women didn't like me so I didn't get my contract extended. I find it appalling that I now am overlooked and can't get my foot in the door. I also think 90 percent of the problem os that people making leadership decisions are on drugs. Shameful. Corporations need to hold these hostile companies accountable.

It's sad trusting someone and being hurt by them. I invited him to the zoo. We liked each other. When we came home did I want to take that extra step? No. Did I say no? No. I was young and scared. It was assault. It wasn't rape. But it hurt. Being hurt by someone I trusted in that way was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. It happened twice by that same person. Second time worse. Was that time rape? Maybe, I blocked it out. I was stalked in the dark on church grounds being chased like prey. Weird how it happens in a church. I'm healing though, and I trust my male friends. If they were ever to say something or do something to me, I don't know what I'd do. But I know that I'm stronger now. And I hope that maybe someone will see this. It's not your fault. It's a no if you don't say a clear yes. And "No" is a complete sentence.

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.

Freedom is Glorious I've been working alone the past two days, and instead of taking out the scissors and cutting my hair, I took out an old CD of pictures and remembered how far I have come in this journey. I found pictures of the animals I left behind so very long ago ~ his pets who were like children to me ~ I teared up at their precious faces and remembered how much I love and miss them every day. Then I found some pictures of me taken in my old rental office on campus the night before my 41st birthday. And I was amazed at how clear and blue and full of life my eyes were in each picture.  The weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  I stood tall and proud.  The color was back in my face, and my face was fuller because I had finally started to regain the weight I had lost when my food intake was so limited on the weekends. My eyes sparkled in those pictures.  I could not stop staring at myself.  The pictures were proof that I was free.  That I was me again.  I looked at the CD and reached for a snack.  And I thought about how I can eat whatever I want now.  There is no watchful eye mentally counting my calories ~ keeping the cupboard bare.  I am no longer charged $20 to eat a home-cooked meal.  I am no longer ridiculed for not cooking that home-cooked meal myself. I can do what I want, say what I want, feel what I want, wear what I want.  I am not some dress-up doll used to cloak in leather to be propped up on the back of a motorcycle for the whole valley to see ~ no I am middle-aged now, often without make-up, and finally comfortable in my own body not to care if I am not perfect. Because perfect was never good enough anyway. I can speak again.  I have a voice.  I can have an opinion on anything I want.  I see my family again on all holidays.  I do not have to lie about where I am living.  Where I am going.  What I am doing. There is no shame anymore.  No more secrets.  Even the writing I am doing has eliminated the secrets from the people I care about the most. I think about all of these changes as I ponder what it is like for him to be sitting in jail right now.  To have his freedom finally taken away from him.  To be told what to do, when to do it.  And to be isolated from family and friends. It took the news of his jail sentence to wake me up to what I had blocked out for so long.  To bring those horrible memories back up to the surface in dreams, flashbacks, and fleeting moments of sadness.  To finally realize that I had to write down my truth, or they would never go away.  He would still be controlling me in my head through those nightmares, those flashbacks.  He would still be present in my life if I did not get rid of him by writing down all the ugliness of our time together and sharing it with the world. He never wanted me to be a writer.  He made fun of my dream every day.  And it hit me today that the irony of my life story is that one of the biggest stories of my life will now be about him.  And maybe there will come the book or the screenplay out of all of this ugliness that I have shared with the world.  Because if you can skim off the scum, if you can sand down the rust, beneath the surface of all that pain and sadness is the beauty that was once there ~ that was once my life ~ that was once me. Beneath the surface lies the freedom that never really left my side.  Freedom was waiting in the distance for me all along.  Freedom was God taking care of me through the whole ordeal and seeing me through to the other side.  Where life is precious and pure and sweet. Freedom led me to a new life where I can now help others as they had once helped me. Freedom came with its own price ~ the scars beneath the surface that may have scabbed over ~ in order for me to survive. But those scars are my battle wounds for my freedom.  I paid the price for a new life.  I earned my freedom.  I survived.

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.

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.

I got out of an abusive relationship. It wasn’t till I left there was physical abuse and emotional abuse. Even if the physical was minimal. I’m so glad to be apart of a group of women who are healing. Healing is hard, it’s been countless sleepless nights, extra periods, and nightmares over and over. But the reward of being free is so much better than anything I could’ve imagined. I don’t wish to ever be back in that, and am glad I left every day

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

Im still trying to heal through all of my issues, I stay isolated and quiet and find it hard to make friends sometimes. my story started years ago as a lil boy my my older cousin always kept touching on me and laughed it off until he took me upstairs and told me how good it would feel to me. I later cried and told family in front of him he laughed and they laughed but at least it stopped . other cousins would tell what happened to me to there friends making it awkward to be around people. but with time people forgot. fast forward 3 or so years i'm nine at least I think ,and my older female cousin tells me im pretty I should stop being shy she would show me how to have sex and be a ladies man. well she did but it didn't end there her and a friend of hers set me up with a girl my age and watched me have sex a few times with her until I got old enough to stay home by myself . today I much older but very hyper sexual and long story short my past has caused a lot of my problems. it feels good to finally tell somebody.

In innocence lost, I bore the weight, A survivor, facing a cruel fate, Yet within my heart, a spark did gleam, To mend my soul and reclaim my dream. Through pain and fear, I found my voice, Breaking the silence, I made my choice, No longer hiding in shadows' embrace, I rose from the darkness and found my place. With courage as armor, I faced the past, A survivor's strength, resilient and steadfast, I'll not be defined by the harm that's been done, I'll rise, I'll heal, my journey's begun. Together we stand, survivors unite, In the warmth of compassion, we find our light, With hope in our hearts and love as our guide, We'll mend the broken, side by side.

I am an independent woman who did not grow up in a loving home, but had nonetheless moved from the UK to Australia, and had managed to live a reasonably productive life by hard work and paying my bills on time. I enjoy solo travel, exploring new courses and film and am not afraid to try new adventures. It is important that I set up my story this way, in order to show that I have a lot of resilience and self reliance - however, this would not protect me when the unthinkable happened. 10 years ago, I was 51 years old, and managing stress, mortgage repayments, and looming and unpredictable menopause symptoms which I hadn't yet fully processed or mastered yet. During this 'transition' I remained productive, working, going out, going to the gym, believing that I was doing the right thing - and had no idea that my struggle with symptoms and stress overwhelm had set me up to attract a most sadistic, predatory abuser. I barely knew him, he was a personal trainer at my gym. I recognised his behaviour as kind of perhaps that of being offended by me. He was a dominant male, with lots of people vying for his attention and unfortunately, with my menopausal symptoms being new to me and unpredictable, I chose to keep a low profile, get my reps over and done with, then exit the gym, though remaining polite as I went about my routine. The personal trainer began a smear campaign, and it became obvious from the behaviours of other staff members that something was brewing. I chose to come to the gym at odd times or alternative days and downplayed what was happening. Finally, I was pushed into taking action, having been ambushed by some members (who physically sandwiched themselves front and back by members) as I coming into the gym. The personal trainer had pushed his campaign to becoming almost physical, and at this point, I left the gym, but not without putting in a written complaint to management and a detailed explanation of what had happened. I thought that would be the end of it. Little did I know, it was just the beginning. This personal trainer was psychopathic, a very very clever abuser, with a range no doubt of extreme level personality disorders. Within 2 months, he had moved into my apartment complex, and began recruiting my existing neighbours to carry out abuse by proxy. Ceilings and walls were banged, synchronised events - and I was now under siege. I had street theatre out side of my window, right around the clock and relentless, death threats, gang stalking and noticed that my contacts on Face Book and my work place relationships were all changing, and were replicating some of the phrases and behaviours of those already recruited in the smear campaign. This man, had thus, infiltrated every corner of my life, and recruited all people who were closest to me. This is a common scenario when being abused narcissistically. Eventually, I had to let the people go, it was too toxic and unhealthy. My now ex mother and ex sister were also recruited by him, and to this day, have dropped contact with me, and stand firmly with his dominance in this situation fully supporting him. The smear campaign was long term - and although the shouting has subsided, what remains is his dominance in the community, he gains entry to people's dwellings, and is constantly inside my devices, tracking, monitoring and controlling for new alliances that I may form which he is paranoid about. I had reported frequently to the local Police, and unfortunately without anyone to corroborate my story and objective evidence I was not able to prove my situation to them and all they did was to send me to acute care with a complete misunderstanding of the situation I was dealing with. Almost 10 years passed. I had stood my ground, and had survived, and wasn't pushed out of my home (which he had pressured me to do so). I stayed in resistance to his 'game' of trying to make me less financially secure, or have homelessness insecurity. I had withstood his attempts and remained solid, thanks really to my self reliance as a person. Me, an almost senior aged single woman now, and him, in his prime, with powerful allies, with enormous support and resources and the benefits of having taken all of mine now his. The crux of the story is actually not about this psychopathic person. But rather, how our leaders in our community are afraid to "judge" and he was permitted to stay and had the OK from my now ex-mother to engage me by acting out as part of his "therapeutic" process. To this day, he has never accepted an invitation to 'communicate' with me as an adult and explain himself and try to work out an outcome he would be happy with. I stood my ground, but with his current dominance and tracking, i am not able to pursue "fair go" relationships, and the social isolation he has created is a common trait with abusers. This is why I am using my voice and to share my story. This is every bit about him as it is the character of those who can make a difference in the face of extreme abuse, and choosing the path that was easiest, rather than what was right. Thank you for hearing the intro to my story. I am wondering if I will use what has happened to write a book?