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Date 2 guys 4 hours - My boyfriend at the time was nice and treated me amazing and he was so gentle with me and that stopped after this happened. I left to go over to his house which was a regular thing i was doing as we were dating at that time. His dad was home and so was he. And when i got in we went to the lounge and put on a movie. He paused the movie then he told me to take off my shirt. I told him it was a stupid idea since his dad was home and there is no way I would do it as I didnt want to and didnt feel comfortable. He hit me. He hadnt hit me before he was always gentle. But i got up and walked very quickly to the door to get out but it was locked. I went to the lounge to tell him to unlock it, then his dad walked in. He asked what was going on I said I wanted to leave. Then he got up from the sofa and grabbed my chest and said "your not leaving" i froze i didnt know what to do. He then said we were going up to his room. I couldn't refuse. I froze. I was scared i didnt know what to do. We went upstairs. He was holding my wrist as we went up the stairs it was bruised so badly. We went into his bedroom and he hit me again and again and was just screaming at me. His dad came in and locked the door. He stopped screaming and said take your shirt off or I will fucking hit you again. His dad was behind me and ripped my shirt off. He stopped screaming at me moved closer to me and put his hands around my throat strangling me and shoved me onto the bed. I had passed out because I had hit my head on the bed frame or wall in not too sure. I woke up to his dad ontop of me while I had my legs and wrists tied to the bed frame so I couldn't move. He said this is how it is done and then something in a different language. Then I felt a push. He was rapeing me. I didnt know what to do. I was frozen it hurt so much. They took turns rapeing me. Touching my chest fingering me and I remember them recording it all because they had a stand with a phone and i wasnt sure what it was at first. It hurt so much it is all blurry since I was crying from pain and how scared I was. I remember he was ontop of me while squeezing my chest and moaning while his dad was holding my legs down since I was trying to get out then after he finished they turned me over. I was too weak to fight and then they were reaching under me and grabbing my tits while rapeing me and taking turns. They stopped because they were both clearly exhausted. So they started to touch me instead. One was touching me while the other fingering me. I was in so much pain. I remember passing out alot but i remember every single part. It lasted for 4 hours. They then started to beat me and said if I told anyone they would show everyone the video, show my friends my teachers and people I knew. I remember after one of my lessons I had a huge panic attack and fell into my teachers classroom and started to break down infront of her. I told her everything. And showedher the threats he had been sending me and she saw the video. She helped me calm down then told me she had to tell safeguarding and the police . She helped me calm down and continously checked on me every day. Then she told me she was moving country . The Last thing she told me was I have to tell someone when I was struggling. My school safeguarding team didnt believe me and looked at me like I was crazy they had seen the video he had told them it was AI . Not one of them believed me because he was the 'nice kid who never got into trouble'. Every day at school i would see him he is in 2 of my classes. He got no punishment. He would wait at the end of lesson and pack up slowly or depending on how quickly i was packing up to walk behind me when we were leaving. He knew what he was doing. Once i was lining up outside my classroom and i felt someone grab my behind the corridors it was him. My school did nothing about it. The safeguarding team are ALL WOMEN . Not one of them believed me. When I had told them I was struggling with food. They checked on me once and said "have you eaten". They checked on me once. I showed them I struggled with self harm. Nothing. They didnt care. Later on that week I attempted. It didnt work. It was my last cry for help and the school did nothing. To this day he has had no punishment and I am still struggling. I just needed help and justice and he is still in my classes and still touching and assaulting me.

Four Years Later: My Story Didn't End in That Courtroom Four years ago, I walked out of a courtroom after one of the hardest chapters of my life. I didn't know exactly what healing would look like or how long it would take. I just knew that I wanted to move forward. Four years ago, I stood in a courtroom and shared some of the hardest parts of my life because I had to. Today, I'm choosing to share my story because I want to. I want someone who is struggling to know that they aren't alone, that what happened to them doesn't define their worth, and that there is still so much life waiting for them beyond what they've experienced. I'm not sharing this because everything is okay now or because I've completely healed. I'm sharing it because I've learned that moving forward is possible, even when the effects of what happened are still part of your everyday life. Several years ago, someone I trusted betrayed me in a way that changed my life. He was my cheer coach, someone who was supposed to be a mentor, someone I looked up to, and someone I believed I could trust. Instead, he took advantage of that trust. He was eventually convicted of crimes involving the exploitation of a minor, unlawful photographing of a minor, and attempted child sexual abuse material. I was a victim in that case. I remember how quickly everything changed. One day, I was a young girl going about my normal life, and the next, I was trying to understand something that no child should ever have to experience. The hardest part wasn't just what happened. It was realizing that someone I had trusted had never been the person I believed him to be. I questioned myself. I struggled with trusting people. I felt angry, embarrassed, confused, and overwhelmed. Things that had once felt normal suddenly became difficult. Even places and activities I loved could bring back painful memories. It also changed the way I saw myself. Being a teenage girl is already hard enough when it comes to confidence and body image. You're growing up, figuring out who you are, and learning to feel comfortable with yourself. After everything happened, I became incredibly self-conscious. I struggled with how I viewed my body and with insecurities that were already difficult enough to navigate at that age. What happened added another layer to those feelings, and it took a toll on my confidence and the way I felt about myself. One thing I wish I had understood sooner is that I had nothing to be ashamed of. I was a child who trusted an adult who was supposed to look out for me. The responsibility for what happened was never mine to carry. It took time for me to begin separating the way someone else treated me from the way I viewed myself. I wish I could go back and remind that younger girl that she was never the problem. Then came the court process. I had to face what happened, speak about things I wished I could forget, and watch someone who had caused so much pain show little to no remorse. I never received the apology I deserved. For a long time, I thought getting through court would mean finally getting closure. I thought that once it was over, I could put everything behind me, but I've learned that healing doesn't work that way. A court case can end, but that doesn't mean the emotional effects disappear with it. For the first year or two after court, I had nightmares almost every night. Sometimes they were about what happened, and sometimes they were about what could have happened if he hadn't been caught when he did. Even though the legal process was over and I knew he had been held accountable, my mind didn't seem to understand that I could finally begin moving forward. Sleep became something I struggled with, and even now, four years later, there are nights when I still have trouble sleeping. I was prescribed medication for PTSD, depression, and anxiety as I worked through everything. As of this past June, I'm no longer taking any of those medications, which has been a meaningful milestone in my personal journey. However, I also know that medication was part of the help I needed at the time, and I’ve had to learn that there's no shame in that. Being off medication doesn't mean everything has suddenly disappeared. I still struggle with trusting people. What happened made me question people's intentions, even when they've given me no reason to doubt them. That has affected my relationships. There are times when I find myself hesitant to trust people, not because of something they’ve done, but because of what someone else did years ago. It's frustrating sometimes, knowing that someone who is no longer part of my life can still influence the way I respond to people who genuinely care about me. I still struggle with my body image and confidence. I still have moments when I feel uncomfortable with myself, even though I know I have nothing to be ashamed of. I also find myself constantly aware of my surroundings. Sometimes, I feel like I'm always on alert, questioning situations or people around me. It's as if a part of my mind is still trying to protect me from something that happened years ago. These are things that don't necessarily go away just because a court case ends or because enough time has passed. While all of these things have gotten better, they still haven't completely disappeared. I think that's one of the biggest misconceptions about healing. People sometimes assume that once enough time has passed, you should be okay, but trauma doesn't follow a timeline, and neither does recovery. Something I've learned over these four years is that healing isn't linear. There are times when I feel like I've made so much progress, and then something happens that brings back feelings I thought I had worked through. I used to get frustrated with myself when that happened. I would wonder why I was still struggling, why I couldn't just move on, or why something from years ago could still affect me so deeply. I still struggle with this sometimes, but I'm learning that having a difficult day doesn't mean I'm back where I started. It doesn't undo the work I've done or the progress I've made. For a long time, I was incredibly hard on myself. I felt like I needed to be strong all the time. I didn't want people to see me struggling, and I didn't want to show what I thought was weakness. I was embarrassed by what had happened, even though I had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. So I pushed my feelings down. I pretended I was okay when I wasn't. I convinced myself that I should be able to move on and that I shouldn't still be struggling with something that was already over. Looking back, I wish I hadn't put so much pressure on myself. I wish I had understood that being strong didn't mean hiding how I felt. I wish I had opened up more, allowed myself to cry when I needed to, and stopped feeling like I had to have everything together. I spent so much time trying to convince myself I was okay that I didn't always give myself the chance to actually work through what I was feeling. That's something I wish I could tell my younger self. Let yourself feel. Be angry if you're angry. Be sad if you're sad. Cry if you need to. Talk to someone when things feel overwhelming. You don't have to pretend you're okay just to make yourself or everyone around you more comfortable. You don't have to prove your strength by suffering in silence. Most importantly, stop being so hard on yourself for struggling with something you never should have had to experience in the first place. Another important part of my healing journey has been my relationship with God. Throughout everything I've experienced, I've learned to turn to Him for strength, comfort, and guidance. My relationship with God has grown tremendously over these past four years, and I truly believe He has helped me get to where I am today. I've always believed in the saying, "God gives His toughest battles to His strongest soldiers." I believe that God wouldn't give me anything I couldn't handle, even during the moments when I questioned how I would ever make it through. There have been times when I've felt overwhelmed, when I've questioned why things happened the way they did, and when I didn't understand what my future would look like. Through those moments though, I've found comfort in knowing that I can turn to God. My faith hasn't taken away every difficult day, every painful memory, or every struggle I still face, but it has given me hope when I needed it most. It's reminded me that I don't have to have everything figured out and that I don't have to carry everything on my own. I don't believe that what happened to me was something I deserved or something I needed to experience to become a better person, but I do believe that God has helped me find growth, purpose, and strength in the years that followed, and while I know I still have healing to do, I trust that He will continue guiding me through it. My faith doesn't mean that I never struggle. It means that even when I do, I have somewhere to turn. When I look back at the girl I was four years ago, I wish I could tell her how far she would come. I wish I could tell her that she would find reasons to laugh again, that she would continue making memories, and that the things she experienced would not have to define the rest of her life. Because today, that's what I'm most proud of. I'm proud that I kept going. I'm proud of the person I've become. I'm proud that I've learned to appreciate life in ways I might not have before, and I'm proud that despite everything, I haven't allowed what happened to control my entire life. I don't want to pretend that what I experienced made me stronger every single day. There have been days when I've felt anything but strong. There have been moments of frustration, sadness, and setbacks. However, strength isn't always about feeling fearless or having everything figured out. This is a lesson I’m still trying to teach myself. Sometimes, strength is allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Sometimes, it's asking for help, and sometimes, it's simply recognizing how far you've come, even when you still have a long way to go. One thing I've come to understand is that moving forward doesn't mean forgetting what happened. It means learning that your life can hold so much more than what happened to you. To anyone who has experienced a similar situation, I want you to know that your feelings are valid. Healing isn't a competition, and there is no deadline for when you're supposed to be okay. You don't have to forgive and forget what happened right away. You don't have to pretend it doesn't affect you, and you don't have to share your story before you're ready. You are allowed to have good days and bad days. You're allowed to be proud of your progress while still acknowledging the things you're struggling with. Your experience is part of your story, but it is not the entirety of who you are. When I look back at the statement I wrote for court four years ago, I see a young girl who was hurting, confused, and trying to make sense of something she never should have experienced, but I also see a girl who, despite everything, still had hope for her future. In that statement, I wrote: "I don't believe in somebody being better than somebody else, but I do believe that people's actions define them as a person." Those words still mean something to me today. For so long, I struggled with the decisions someone else made and the ways those decisions affected my life, but I've learned that his actions were a reflection of his choices, not of my worth. I cannot change what happened or the decisions he made, but I can continue choosing how I want to live my own life, how I treat others, and what kind of person I want to become. Near the end of that same statement, I also wrote: "I hope to stay resilient to the pain you've caused me, and I hope to work each day to be a better and stronger person than you ever have been." Reading those words four years later brings up a lot of emotions. At the time, I wanted so badly to be strong. I wanted to prove that what happened wasn't going to destroy me. I wanted to believe that one day, I would become someone I could be proud of. While I still believe in the importance of resilience, my understanding of strength has changed. Back then, I thought being strong meant holding everything together. I thought it meant pushing through the pain, hiding my emotions, and refusing to let anyone see me struggle. Today, I know that strength can look completely different. Sometimes, it's allowing yourself to feel the emotions you've spent so long trying to avoid. Sometimes, it's admitting that you're having a hard day. Sometimes, it's giving yourself permission to heal at your own pace instead of constantly expecting yourself to be further along, and sometimes, it's simply being proud of yourself for how far you've already come. I've also realized that healing isn't about becoming the person you were before something happened. It's about giving yourself the time, patience, and grace to keep growing into the person you're becoming. If I could go back and tell the girl I was then anything, I wouldn't tell her to be stronger. I wouldn't tell her to move on faster or to stop letting things bother her. I'd tell her to be kinder to herself. I'd tell her that she doesn't have to earn the right to be proud of herself by being completely healed, and I'd tell her that one day, she'll look back and realize just how much life she's lived beyond the things she thought would always hold her back. Four years later, I'm still not exactly where I want to be. There are things I'm still learning to work through, feelings I'm still trying to understand, and parts of myself I'm still learning to give grace to, but I'm not where I was four years ago, either. I've grown in ways I couldn't have imagined back then. I've learned to appreciate the good things in life, to recognize my own progress, and to understand that having difficult days doesn't mean I've failed. I know I still have a long way to go, and I'm okay with that. I don't have to have everything figured out right now. I don't have to be completely healed to be proud of myself. He took away things I can never get back, but I didn't let him take everything from me. Four years ago, I was hoping that one day I would become someone I could be proud of. Today, I can say that I already am. While I'm still not where I want to be, I have hope that I'll keep growing, keep healing, and keep building a life that I'm proud to call mine. My story didn't end in that courtroom four years ago. I have a feeling, the best parts of it may still be ahead of me. 2 Corinthians 12:9 (KJV) — “And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” Isaiah 41:10 (KJV) — “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”

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

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

You Are Not Alone You are not alone. So many of us had so much taken from us by people who put pleasing their basal urges over our sanity. For their moments of bliss and dominance we suffer. We blame ourselves for their sickness. THEIR pathology. There is an army of us. That is what these stories teach us. They show us we are legion. We are strong. Our psychological reactions of fear, mistrust, hatred are not crazy. They are normal. It is also normal, but not easy, to climb out the darkness together. I grew up in a large low income black of flats that was like a village. My mum worked and we went about by ourselves. In the winter we were never expected to be seen if we left. We were in some flat mucking about with some kids or neighbor, and it all worked out fine. I did lose my virginity when I was eleven to a friend of my older brother who was in year ten. But that was no bother because it was not uncommon there, sadly. I am half Brazilian on my absent father’s side and was considered quite exotic and fit. My secondary sexual characteristics developed early. I was reasonably careful and in control. True abuse began years later when we moved out to a proper house with HIM. HE was my mom’s dream man. HE was fit for a middle-aged man. By that time my brother wasn’t with us because he took work in Alaska on a fishing boat. HE was ex-Army and seemed like a good man at first. I was a bit of trouble maker and over-cheeky and my mom gave HIM carte blanche to discipline me like father. We weren’t there the length of a full season when HE started treating me like a tart. The spanking part mom knew about and thought it was funny, even with me being fifteen. HE spanked my bare bum even when she was home. She said I’d always needed a man’s hand to block of my rough edges. It was cringe, humiliating, but nothing compared to what HE did when mum was away. Not to get detailed, HE soon got to a point where I was going to get HIS load whenever there was the chance. Since HE got to set my schedule he made sure there were regular chances. It was my HELL and HE was the Prince of Darkness. He was rough but careful not to leave any marks. Unless time was short I had to shower first. Sometimes after there would be something specific sitting out to wear, like a costume or lingerie, or my netball kit. The grating anticipation of what was going to follow was the real torture. HE would tell me to “Pick a hole”. My holes! My foof was one, my mouth was two, and you’d think I would never select three. But you’d be wrong. I hated HIM. I am very sensitive sexually and if I went with one I looked like I loved it and if I chose two I was doing work to please HIM. Three was the way I could shut down and brace myself without him ever seeing me smile, even if I was facing toward him. When I was strong with hatred I would choose three. I compartmentalized that small but brutal part of my life for my mum. If was a mere thirty to one hundred twenty minutes per a week of 10080 minutes. And I saw no other way then. Mum, for the first time was living a happy life. I could have won a BAFTA for how I seemed so cozy and content for her. It gutted me that my fear of upsetting HIM made it appear that HE had smoothed out my rough edges and made me into a proper lady. I kept my marks up and stayed on the netball team in spite of being the shortest. I kept going. I developed a habit of stabbing mechanical pencil tips into my skin and biting my nailbeds to illicit pain. I had one boyfriend for a short time. I went to the dances. Home was my hell so I did everything HE would allow to be anywhere else. I could not work but he made my mum keep her job so he could have me. My birthdays I would get my way of having a just girls’ night out with mum. There were only two birthdays before I got free of him. College cost 1000 pounds and when HE paid it HE did not know I was not going to be his tart anymore. I had a friend with a home much closer to my school. They had spare bedroom because an older sibling had moved out. Being seventeen, HE couldn’t force me to live with them if I had other safe accommodations. I took employment and paid the meager rent. He got me one more time when I was sleeping back at his house on Christmas eve. Probably drugged mum to keep her sleeping. I made sure he never got a chance again. Through my Portuguese class I met a man who lived in Portugal and invited me to come stay with him as long as I wanted rent free. I finished one year of sixth form and went to Portugal. I had fleeting relations with the man I stayed with but he traveled often we both had our own things. I worked at an American-themed restaurant as a server then. I spoke with my mum on the phone most days. She visited once, with HIM. I missed her and tried not to show much of my sorrow about being forced apart from her. Seeing HIM was horrendous, yet I kept it contained inside like a cancer. It helped solidify my decision. I traveled with a friend to Florida and got a job serving in a posh restaurant. I applied for a work VISA and on my second try I got it. I am thirty-eight now. Only three years ago did I confront my demons because I read online stories about other abuse survivors. It opened up a deep wound so I could start to heal. It was and still is hard work and an ongoing process. I confessed to my mum who had split with HIM after years of her own abuse that she also kept hidden. HE had let her go when she started having health problems, showing his true black heart. She lives with my brother and his family. I regret losing years with mum and my brother and being chased away from my home when I was young but it made me stronger. I have never married but I have a loving partner, two dogs and I speak three languages. I am a physical trainer and work near the beach where I go to meditate and body surf. Our journeys and stories are individual but we are in this together. Worldwide. You are not alone in carrying the pain and the shame and the fear and the flashbacks! Even if you are in the dark, start toward a path that looks like others are using to try to climb out. Use the resources, even if just right there on your computer, and build from there. Just start and keep climbing, especially when it seems too hard.