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If there's one thing that I've come to understand about survivors, one thing many of us have in common, it's that we weren't equipped with the language to understand that what happened to us was a specific crime or immoral action. We knew it was wrong because of the visceral, bodily reactions we had, but we didn't have a reliable way to describe why our bodies did that. We questioned ourselves in the absence of safety to question the experiences. We stayed quiet many times because we doubted anyone would listen if we screamed. By the time I found out that what had happened to me was a crime, the statute of limitations had long since passed. I knew all too well that in a place like my home state, where I grew up in high-control religion, more people would worry about ruining a bright young man's future than about the nightmare I lived in. I thought about pursuing a criminal case, but it was such a brief thought and shut down so quickly by my own conviction and insistence that nobody would listen to me. It happened on the love seat in the living room of my parents' house, with my whole family downstairs, and I hadn't screamed out then because I knew, sick beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I would be painted as the reason it happened. I would be questioned about what I'd done to lead him on and make him think it was okay to do that to me. If I couldn't have cried out to my own family, what made me think I could cry out to the courts and be heard? I try to come on here when I think about how it messed me up. I try to come here and make a few encouraging posts, uplift other people who may not have anyone who sees them as they are. Recently I had this incredible moment out in public, at this craft supply thrift store in my hometown. A teenager came in with her battered guitar case and her dad, who hovered at the edges of the store to let her browse for patches and embellishments for the guitar case. I ended up chatting with them, and halfway through the conversation I saw her scars. Before I left, I told her that the real secret of learning an instrument is that it has to sound noisy and terrible before it can sound good. "Don't be mad at yourself when it sounds noisy and terrible," I told her, laughing as I said it. "It has to do that first before it can sound good!" I cried the whole way home thinking about how I'd been that teenager once. I had needed someone to say something kind to me, to see me and offer me something warm and genuine, and I didn't have anyone. I tell you all of this just to say: Keep going. If you can't do it for yourself, don't do it for me. Do it for the small reasons that make you smile and cry bittersweet tears all the way home. Do it so you can offer to someone else what you didn't get yourself. Do it because it would feel amazing to outlive the person who hurt you. Do it because they would hate to see you thriving, and it's not wrong to be petty and thrive just to drive them nuts. There is no stupid reason to keep going. I'm in this for the long haul because I like living, and I especially like living so that I can prove wrong everyone who thought I wouldn't make it this far, including myself. No stupid reasons to keep going here. So keep going.

March 15 — The Day I paid my rapist. I was 18 years old. I was a virgin. It was March 15, and I was so excited because I was going to get my first tattoo. I had chosen two phrases with deep biblical meanings: Tattoo Details I had no idea that I would leave that day feeling as though my dignity had been taken from me, having paid the very man who raped me. I didn't know what I was walking into. I didn't say the word “no,” but I did say, “I have to go. I have to go. I have to go.” I kept saying it, but he wouldn't let me leave. He pushed me against the counter and pulled down my sweatpants, my leggings, and then my underwear. He penetrated me with his penis while touching my vagina with his other hand. I didn't know what to do. I was frozen, terrified, and completely overwhelmed. It was just the two of us. There were no cameras, no one else around, and I felt like there was no one who could help me if I called for help. There was a baseball bat in the corner, and I was beyond scared. I have always had a fear of men because of things I experienced in the past. Imagine how terrifying it was to find myself in a situation where I felt so powerless. He didn't stop until I said, “I'll come back later.” In that moment, I thought those words were my only hope—my only way out. I wasn't thinking about what I wanted to say or what I should have done. I was trying to find a way to get out of that situation. He finally pulled my pants back up, but before he did, he slapped my butt and grabbed my vagina. And then I left. I had gone there excited to get my first tattoo, choosing words that meant so much to my faith. I never imagined that I would walk away carrying the weight of an experience I never wanted and never deserved. I had just paid my rapist. Needless to say, you broke me. You broke me in more ways than one. I don’t think I will ever fully recover from what you did to me. It has simply become a part of my story one I never asked for and never deserved. I lost myself. I haven’t been able to look at myself the same way since. I don’t know how to love myself anymore. Some days, I don’t even know who ******* is. I lost a piece of me that I feel like I will never get back. I blamed myself for something that was never my fault. I went to get a tattoo, but I left without my dignity. I paid for a tattoo, but in reality, I paid my rapist. This is my story. I am a survivor.

When I was a very young age, (around 4-6 years old) I became friends with another boy on my street about 3 houses down. He was the same age as me, and had an older brother, D, who was probably about 16-17 at the time. There was a time we were watching the movie Movie in the basement of their house with the older brother there, and I had told them about how I walked in on my parents naked and how I thought it was funny. D used it as an opportunity to explain to me what sex was. He had me and his little brother take our clothes off and touch each other and said it was just a fun game and that he was teaching us. I don’t recall anything beyond that. A lot of this day is blocked out of my mind and something tells me that more even happened beyond this as I still continued to hang around here. There was a specific incident where me and the boy my age got naked together and laid in bed and my dad came in and caught us. I felt so much shame. I felt like a creature. My nephew is 2 years younger than me, so we grew up together sort of like brothers. He would often spend the night at our house. When I was somewhere between 10-13, there were a couple of times that I would touch him inappropriately in his sleep. I don’t know what my thought process was, and I honestly didn’t even process that I did these things and what they meant until I was much older. I’ve felt like a disgusting monster for it. I love my family more than anything, and the kid that did that is no where near the man that I am today. But I did that. That was me. And I’ve found it hard to process and realize. My nephew has struggled with alcoholism and drug abuse for a long time, and even though our family has a long history of the men in the family having addiction issues, I can’t help but think that I did that to him. I changed the trajectory of his life because I was a sick abusive little kid. His mom, my sister, is officiating my wedding soon. My nephew got drunk and for the first time confronted me about what happened when we were kids and just texted me “I’m not coming to your wedding. you touched my dick when I was little and I remember. Fuck you. Bitch.” And I felt my life flash before my eyes and all of a sudden this shame and hate towards myself boiled completely up. My first thought was that my life was over. My second thought was what the fuck have I done. I’m not sure how to heal from this or how to keep going. Hopefully therapy will help.

I had an entire story written out but don't know if I'm ready to tell it in detail yet. Basically as a young man in my early twenties I was lured to a house by an older man, drugged, raped, and then essentially sexually and psychologically tortured over a period of two weeks. All of this was an attempt to condition me to essentially believe I deserved it all, and to continue to participate in these acts where I was degraded, raped, humiliated, which I did. I pulled away a few times over the years but would always come back. Usually personal setbacks would trigger the shame for what had happened to me and what I had willingly done and I would go back. Finally I got married and moved to another state. But I never really cut contact with them. During the marriage I was in pyschiatric hospitals two times. I had been developing loss of sexual sensitivity issues for a long time and refused to get them treated, because I felt I didn't deserve my wife. 6 months before it ended I started engaging in self harm that increased this issue. I wanted to stop any chance I had of being with her in that way. Eventually she divorced me. I left for my home state and went straigh back to the group I was with before. I lived that lifestyle until two years when I stopped completely. There is more to tell but basically I don't understand the actions of most of my life. I was lured into this against my will, but willingly entered into it after some coercion. When I experienced my first rape my entire thinking and understanding of the world shifted. If that hadn't happened, would I have sought out some similar group of people and done similar stuff? I don't see myself as a victim. But if I do secretly want the life with the “group,” why do I keep leaving it. Why when I leave it am I able to live a somewhat normal life? But end up seeking destruction again? I'm writing this because within the last few weeks I have felt that despite the force and coercion, I chose to participate. And knowing that have had feelings that I'm essentially bad, and thus put myself back in harmful situations.

I am age 60. I was raped, I guess, a few decades ago. I cannot recall the year due to blocks. Not sure why that is. But I don't pressure it. My rapist was a federal executive, with a secret clearance. He defrauded me in the marriage, with held his autism and clearance status from me. Deeply manipulated me. Spied on me with tech in our home. This was between 1990s and 2017. Spying on me enabled his raped of me. I learned he was spying on my computer as he raped me. But, I have an art degree, in 2017 (the rape was previous to 2017) I could not grasp how he spied. But the raped proved to me he was. It destroyed me. As an empath, trusting, I guess to a fault, I never comprehended he was violating my privacy and when he violated my body: it crushed me. It took decades to walk again, by this I mean stand. Emotionally stand. I hid it from therapists. I told hospitals he raped me and they ignored that report then released me directly back into his power. This continued assaults. All I can say to young women is; you are not to blame. I learned my ex was a legitimate pyschopath. And that enabled the rape. Few can navigate psychopath abuse. But, even fewer when your rapist is a federal executive with a secret clearance. Don't give up. Ever. Don't ever give up. You don't deserve to be treated like a female animal. Nor your daughters. Sadly, white men in power? Never progressed into civility.This is my story. DON'T GIVE UP.