Community

Last year I was gang raped. I have an ear ringing called tinnitus that has not stopped since. I have nightmares. I flew with my mom to a wedding overseas. I was excited. She would be busy with her friends and cousin and I would get to spend time with my awesome second cousin who is two years older than me. After the rehearsal dinner we went out. It was fun because I was not legally able to drink there even though the age was lower than in my province, but they did not check ID’s. I did not drink much because it was not my thing and I had a boyfriend but I was able to go to some bars then a club attached to a hotel. So much fun up to when we met two soldiers in uniform who were cute and separated us from her friends because of our looks. My cousin is stunning beautiful. They had a private room at the club and several soldiers were there and two prostitutes also. Those prostitutes definitely hated us being there. I wanted to get out anyway and the cute ones that invited us acted like they understood and took us out of there. We stupidly let them take us to their hotel room where they totally dropped the cute romantic act and made us strip our clothes to music. They showed us a gun they had in a drawer. I was terrified. They made us lay on our stomachs bent over the bed side by side and had sex with us that way. They switched like we were interchangeable before finishing in us with no protection. We held hands. I was crying while my cousin was trying to be strong and cheer me up. We weren’t allowed to leave and our clothes were hidden. Before took our phones we had to text that we were staying at my cousin’s friend’s house. Then they called two other soldiers, one of them a huge tall dark guy with body builder muscles. He was the worst to me. They made us dance and then we had to use our mouths on the cute ones that had lured us there while the other two had sex with us. I vomited and my cousin cleaned it up but then it started again. They had cocaine and made us sniff it off their parts and sniffed it off us. Another one came and I think it was just those five during the night but they kept raping us and making us do things even when we would pass out. I would like to have been more unconscious but cocaine makes you so awake. I want to remember less and think about it all less. We showered many times. The big dark one peed on me and in my mouth the shower. He did it more than once like I was his toilet. The other men even had to tell him to chill out when he was making me scream liking his fingers and pushing them in my arse, but not when he made me crawl around like a dog using my hair as a leash. I remember one of them calling their friends to tell them to turn all their t.v.’s way up to hide the noise in our room. They watched sports news on the t.v. They had me and my cousin kiss each other and stuff. I could not act like it was a fun party like my cousin did sometimes and encouraged me to do. She tried to take some of their attention away from me over and over. I love her for it but they did not leave me alone. My chest is something they were obsessed with. They did not care that I was obviously distressed and freaking out or that in my country I was three years below the age of consent. There I was the minimum. We woke up in the morning on one the beds together with only the two soldiers sleeping on the floor. The black one was gone! They had sex with us again and another man who was much older and who they called SIR came in and had sex with both us but mostly me. They cheered him on and my head was pounding and I was crying and it seemed to last forever. Finally we got our clothes back but they took us for brunch wearing their normal clothes. They showed me pictures on their phones that made it look like I was having fun and warned us how bad it would be if we said anything different than we had a nice party. A nice party in hell! Before that I’d had sex with only my 1 boyfriend ever. One night of hell and now my number was seven!! We had to start getting ready for the wedding right away and I was exhausted. My cousin hid me and I took a nap in my dress, hair and makeup until the last minute. I cried in the ceremony but not for the wedding. I was so sore in my vagina, muscles, and brain that I got so drunk at the reception I barely remember any of it. Just part of being on the plane home. I told my mom the truth when I got back and she got all crazy, so did my dad, and they tried to call over there and the hotel and such but there was nothing the police would do. I saw my dad cry for the first time as I told the whole story. My boyfriend could not handle it and dumped me. I go to group and do therapy. I take a pill everyday and now benzo’s for break through anxiety. I try to hide my large chest under baggy clothes where before I used it for attention. STUPID! My cousin does not seem to have the trauma I do or the nightmares. In her country they are done with secondary school up to two years before us and are more treated like adults sooner. I said mean things to her once because of it. She forgave me but we talk much less since I asked if she has gang bangs all the time. I felt terrible because she even let them have anal sex with her to lure them away from me. I could tell it hurt her so much but at the time was just thinking about my own survival. My childhood is OVER but I do not feel like an adult. Her advice is -Don’t let it get you so down-. Like I have a choice in this!! She went to a therapist ONCE because her mom made the appointment and does not plan to go back. Her life did not really change!! She works reception at a tech company and models on the side and still goes to parties and clubs and dates. How??? It is unbelievable how attitudes toward something like this can be so different in different countries. I am a victim now and I usually feel like it. Definitely damaged. Everybody at my school knows why. I am THAT girl. My new more mature boyfriend is understanding but I feel like a sad little burden to him. I am hypersexual sometimes now and can’t help it. It is a coping mechanism that happens to some victims of sexual assault. I did not ask for it. I worry my boyfriend can’t trust me because of it. I had an older guy friend who’s been my neighbor for years take advantage of me after I told him the story of what happened at his house. We had sex and then he felt guilty for being turned on by my rape story. He admitted it and asked me to forgive him. The sex helped me calm the ear ringing for just short time periods so I did it with him more than once a day for a bit until my dad started to suspect something and talked to him. Since then I don’t trust myself. I want to marry my boyfriend in large part just to protect myself and show him I love him and am loyal even though I am not sure I can be. I worry I cannot love like a normal person. I worry I push him away being too needy and wanting to marry him so soon. I need him more than he needs me. Is that the way it will always be in relationships for rape victims??? I work hard at school not to ruin my future. It is so hard to focus. My ears ring constantly. Thank you for listening.

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.

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

I somehow got myself on Tinder at 16 years old. I know, not very smart of me but all my friends were on it at the time and I didn't think about it. I met someone who told me he was also underage, he claimed he was 17. He seemed perfect. We went on a date to a pumpkin patch, we got sushi at a restaurant, and after he came to my home to carve pumpkins. Everything was going so well. We were watching a movie and he asked us to move to my room. Honestly, I didn't really want to but I agreed and we went to my room. His demeanor changed immediately, suddenly he was cocky and dominant. We had sex which I had agreed to even if I felt pressured. Suddenly he put his penis in my anus, pulled it out after a few times, and put it back into my vagina. I was shocked, I was confused. Did that just happen? Is that normal? I am so grateful for the human survival instincts because I mostly checked out. But I remember him saying "You could at least act like you're enjoying it". Still, I didn't react. When he was done he got up and went to get a towel, I asked him to turn on the light and he said "Are you sure? You might not want to see the bed it's going to be graphic." I didn't understand and wanted the light on anyway. My white comforter was covered in blood and had feces stains on it. "wow" I felt embarrassed. He said it was normal. We went back into the living room and a few minutes later he left. Next, I threw out my comforter and went to my best friend's house. She had her older friend over. I told them what happened and they were shocked. Both of these girls were sexually experienced, and they told me that is not normal. You don't have anal sex by accident. You don't have anal sex without a discussion first. You don't "slip" into someone's anus which is the excuse I had thought up for him, "maybe he slipped?". They assured me it was not an accident that happens. I told the older girl his name, Name, it turns out she knows him and he is not 17. He told her he was 20. When he came over to her house before he was really pushy to have sex and her dog hated him so she kicked him out. My dog also hated him. Moving forward I reached out to him, he wasn't responding to my messages, then he said he was sorry but he's not looking for anything relationship-wise, he didn't want to see me again. At this point it started to become clearer "I might have been raped". I spent about 2 years going back and forth between did that really happen, was it rape, was it my fault, did I ask for it? A few days after the rape my vagina became swollen. I know, I'm sorry for the detail but it is crucial to the story. I went to the student based health center my school worked with because I did not want my parents to know I had sex. They did a test on me and I had bacterial vaginosis. The nurse said I had "bacteria that looked like a blooming flower inside of me.", this is because he went from my anus to my vagina a few times and I was bloody. Luckily it was an easy fix with some antibiotics. Another thing that confirmed something seriously wrong had happened. I spent 2 years of my life Junior and Senior years of high school in bed and I do not remember my high school time fully. I slept, I rotted, I removed my bed frame from my room in a mental breakdown, I rearranged my bed to different positions in my room, and I changed mattresses. Nothing was helping me. Eventually, I changed rooms. I began to resent my own home. I did not feel like I had a safe space. I started to be rude to my parents, I was mean when they would not let me go out, and I was snappy anytime. I skipped dinner, and avoided family time. In addition, I stopped going to school. I missed so many days of school, that they sent a letter that they might have a police officer come to our house to do a welfare check. My mom would drop me off at school, I would wait for her to drive away, and I would walk back home to go lay in bed. Until she started to wait until I got inside and then I would maybe go to one class and then walk home. My two best friends started to come to my window on school days and they would knock on my window to try and get me to come to class. One of them, my bestest friend in the world, would continuously knock on my window until I let her into my house. I also have barky dogs so they would be going crazy barking and I had to let her in, she also literally would not leave or stop knocking until I let her in. No matter how disgusting, and horribly messy my room was (I am talking can not see the floor, obstacles to the bed, garbage, huge piles of clothes, deep clothes on the floor) she would sit with me on my mattress on the floor. She would lay with me, she would cuddle me, she would make me watch videos with her on her phone. She would skip school for me. She would eventually coax me into leaving the house, going with her to get coffee, get food, go drive around, go to her house, go adventure outside in the woods together. I can't imagine what would have happened without her. She never made me feel like a victim, always let me talk about the gross details, and let me be my gross rotting self at this time, she made me laugh, she made me feel happy when I was so depressed, and didn't even really know why. As in I was still confused, still unsure if I was actually raped. Eventually, my school told me I would have to repeat my senior year. They never asked me what was wrong, they just told me I was failing bad. I had met a new guy at this time who became my boyfriend, he ended up cheating on me so I can't make him too nice in this story but at this time, he was really helpful, and beneficial, he taught me what real safe sex is and what it is supposed to be and feel like. It is communication, consent, mutual good feelings, and love. I want to add that when I did have sex with him for the first time after the rape my hands locked up. A physical result of trauma, I couldn't open up my hands, I was scared and not of him, but my body responded to this intimate act happening again. It was his first time having sex and I like to consider it my real first time too. He did not "slip" into my anus. Becuase that does not happen. After this, it clicked to me that I was anally raped. I had always searched on Google, Instagram, and anywhere I could for information on anal rape, and I could never find it. I wanted to be confirmed and validated. I wanted to find someone who had experienced the same thing I had and I still have not found it (4 years later). I only saw things about male prison rape. I am making a face right now that is not what I was looking for. Moving forward, one of my friends' sisters started dating the man who raped me a few days later. She messaged me and asked about him. I didn't tell her he raped me but I wish I did. Later on, I saw her at a party, a few drinks in, I went up to her and said I have a really personal question I need to ask. She said absolutely. I asked her if Name (the rapist) had tried to do anal with her. She whipped her head around and said "Yeah! He tried to during sex and I stopped him, I freaked out on him I was so upset.". Everything clicked for me in that moment and I am forever grateful for her and her honesty. She was a turning point in my healing. She confirmed what I had been questioning for years. My at the time boyfriend had gone to a high school that was inclusive, they had personalized education, and they really cared about their students. It was called School Name. He told me I should apply, they work with credit recovery and he thought it would be perfect to help me graduate. He was right. I applied to School Name, they asked me why I was failing high school. I told them I was raped at 16 and I stopped going to school. I told them I didn't want to repeat my senior year. I told them no one at my other high school asked about what was going on in my personal life. The woman on the phone said they could get me to graduate on time and that they could support me. My best friend who helped me through this time also transferred to this school. The two of us were in a new high school in our senior year. School Name changed my life. I enjoyed going to school again, I felt supported, and I was treated like I was smart and not like I was a delinquent who couldn't care less about their future. Every teacher in that building wanted me to succeed and I could feel it. I was in credit recovery programs, taking tests to prove I had the knowledge needed to graduate. My best friend and I finished high school early. It was a great feeling even though I graduated with a 2.3 GPA. Now I am sitting here writing this in a community college with my 21st birthday a few weeks away, and I have finally reached the point where I can think about the rape and not hit myself in the head until I stop thinking about it. I think about the rape and my rapist every day of my life since. I have always wanted to share my story and now I am looking for platforms to share it. I want someone else who was anally raped to be able to read my story, I want someone to be able to feel seen and heard like I wanted and needed. But for any rape survivor, I want you to know that eventually, you will be able to live with this new normal. I won't say "it gets better" because I am not sure that it does, frankly I do not think it does get better, it just becomes something you adapt to. I have gone to therapy and I am in therapy again now. I continue to try and put the work in to heal. I still think about it every day but I am finally less reactive. I still shudder and get angry every time I see his name somewhere. I will never be with someone named Name again. I shudder when I see someone who resembles him in any way. I am afraid of men. I don't like to go on dates, I don't like to be too close to a man, I don't want to be in a room alone with a man, I get angry or uncomfortable when a strange man on the street looks at me for too long, if they compliment me, if they try to have a conversation, or if they flirt. I have attachment and abandonment issues. I don't know if this will ever get better but it is a part of my new normal. Who I was before my rape is no longer me. I have accepted the fact that I am a new person and that I have to get to know myself again. I lost a lot of friends during my time of isolation, I have a hard time keeping a job, and I struggle to do well in school even though I really want to succeed. My depression is overwhelming most days. I want Name to be in a jail cell. I want him to be labeled as the rapist he is, I want him to suffer honestly. I want him to never be able to get a job. I hate him and I hate that he gets to live free and possibly enjoy his life. I hate that he probably still finds new victims. I did report him to the police, but nothing came of it. I also reported him to the Department of Human Services for abuse in my state, and nothing came of it. But I did my part, I can only hope that someone else reports him like I did and they see a flag in their system that he has done this before. I still see him on dating apps, he goes by his middle name now, and he is bisexual. I feel he used me as a test subject. When I was younger I would harass him online from fake accounts on Instagram. I told him that he was gay and that he should be a real man and find a guy to hook up with instead of torturing innocent girls. I told him I know everyone he has raped, even though I don't. I told him karma would catch up to him, and that someone will get you eventually. I told him he is a terrible person, but he never admitted what he did or owned up to it. I would like to think I can move on with my life but this is my story. It is a part of me now, it is why I act the way I do, and it is an explanation for most things in my life. I recently moved out on my own and got my own apartment. I thought I just didn't like having people over at my childhood home because it was the home I was raped in. My family moved out of that house and moved states. And now in my new house, my own personal space, I still can not invite anyone over. It is hard for me to have even just girlfriends, my friendly neighbor, or my best friend over. I do not allow guests to come over, and I never invite a date over. It is a huge step for me to have someone in my home and that is his fault. I only made this connection this year. I am afraid of having my space claimed by anyone else again. Wow, it felt good to get all of that out. It is hard to speak about and share my story when I do not have the justice I would like. It is hard to learn about the justice system when it is supposed to protect you and it does not. It is hard to think that so many people are raped so often. I am angry and I want change. I don't really know what kind of change but something. I wish I didn't have to live in so much anger and fear but that is also a part of my new normal. I am antsy, I can't help but look over my shoulder frequently when I am in public, and I can't help but worry about unlikely things. But I am adapting and you will too. Sending love to you.

I have lived through many battles, some visible and some invisible. Chronic pain has been a constant companion, and alongside it came experiences of assault, grief, bullying, and being overlooked or targeted in the workplace. Each of these left scars that ran deeper than I could admit at the time. For years, I tried to hold it all in — the pressure, the pain, the silence through alcohol and substances. But it built until I couldn’t contain it anymore, and I crashed hard. My mental health episode was frightening, for me and for those around me. What has made it harder is the culture I grew up in. In South Asian communities, mental health is often brushed aside, stigmatized, or seen as weakness. Instead of compassion, I felt shame. Instead of understanding, I carried guilt. I believed I had let down the people I loved most. But I am learning that what happened was not my fault. Trauma is not a choice. Crashes are not punishments. They are the body and mind crying out for care. I am still here. I am learning to see my sensitivity and survival not as flaws, but as proof of resilience. Sharing my story is part of releasing the shame and reclaiming my voice. My hope is that others who have lived through pain and silence — especially in communities where mental health is hidden — can know they are not alone. Our stories matter. Our survival matters.

He was my boyfriend. We had just had sex and he wanted to go again. I said “no”, he said “but I want to”, and he did. Those words ring in my mind so clearly. It wasn’t violent or aggressive, but it felt like something broke in me then. I carried that with me for a long time, and still do. Part of my shame was that I didn’t leave. Months later, I confronted him about it and he was so angry and not open to hearing me. That is not how someone who loves you, cares for you, or respects you acts. That is not how someone who respects women acts. It took me a long time to see that. Years later, I am seeing someone who is kind and safe. He doesn’t know this story but he cares for me and wants me to feel safe regardless. He has never been angry or upset when I didn’t want to have sex, if I wanted to stop or pause or talk about it or if there was something I didn’t like or wasn’t comfortable with. He listens when I explain a boundary and is always open to changing his behaviour to make me feel as comfortable and safe as possible. That is someone who cares, who inherently respects other people and wants to be a safe space. That is normal and the bare minimum. Abusers, perpetrators, and predators can warp your sense of reality but I promise you, people who are kind and good exist and there are so many more than you would think. You deserve to be treated with respect, kindness, and gentleness. That is never too much to ask for, that is the bare minimum.

High Priest, You are not my superior Nor would I say equal The darkness overtook you? Abdication of responsibility - not good enough "Call to my house" You opened the door to naivety and trust Vulnerability at the worst You - only lust. In this now New Earth With the light streaming in I see your cowardice, your sin You took the phone off the hook Now, two decades later, to be disturbed The light won't let the dirt hide any longer Now I am stronger. I forgive you to set myself free You have played your part I am at peace, in my power and to reiterate, free.

I love my self no matter what!

It is with great shame that I confess here. I was a passive enabler of abuse. I had been molested as a girl by an older boy in grade school and should have been less of a coward. I finally turned in my husband and ended his incestuous abuse of his own daughter. I deserve the tears I cry. I was a swing shift nurse and usually slept like a rock with my pill. That night I got out of bed after a few hours and wandered past the kitchen to the other side of the house where my stepdaughter room was. It sounded a little like crying, or laughing.  It was hard to tell what was happening at first though the cracked door on the other side of house. My stepdaughter's room. But soon I made out that my husband was kneeling and leaning forward over the bed with his head between his daughter's spread legs. The noises were panting and squeaking from him performing cunnilingus.  This quickly concluded and he took a position lying in bed and although her body was mostly blocked because she was on the other side of him from the door, It was evident that she was giving her dad fellatio. Her head was rising and falling and he had his hand on her head. She was only nine! I left  and went back to bed, wanting to forget what I had seen. Why not talk to him and stop it right away? I should have. But my husband had lost his wife only a few years before, and my step daughter had lost her mother.  The woman had been paralyzed below the waist and had severe back pain.  She took her own life two months after the injury, days after being discharged home from the hospital. There was a lot between them because of their loss that I could never be a part of. The idea that sexual contact was a means of grieving did not sit well with me but I did not want to make waves.  It seemed voluntary on her part. I loved my husband. It had taken a long time to find him after much hoping and dating and heartache and searching. So maybe I was selfish for wanting to keep my husband. I did not know if it happened very often. I turned a blind eye..   For at least a year and a half I did not get out of bed if I woke up in the middle of sleep time. Then on a Friday night, after I had worked a night shift and stayed up to run errands during the day, then attended my stepdaughter's dance recital where she performed ballet, jazz, and hip hop with her troop, I crashed. But I got up, restless. This time the door to her bedroom was closed and probably locked, lights on from below.  The sounds of my stepdaughter in the throes were loud enough that I went out the back door and around to the window, and stood up on the central air unit to see through the large gap in the curtains.  I had a direct view of my esteemed husband, who is quite good to me, up on his knees on the bed, pumping back and forth. His daughter was bent over in front of him with her bare posterior in the air, down on her elbows.  I could see him moving in and out of her and shaking her whole body with his thrusts.  I felt sudden anger.   I regret that my anger was not about what it should have been about. My anger was jealous anger.  Thoughts of my thirty-four year old body and how it could not compete with the firm adolescent body I saw before me, and that we had watched this beautiful curve-developing girl while holding hands with my husband as she danced in different outfits. I was a little jealous then, not even knowing that he was thinking of her, that way. I kept watching him sex her, unable to consider looking away. He slowed his thrusts and collapsed on the other side of her. I saw her shiny body collapse too. Her breath was so deep and fast. They took a couple minutes to recover and I got more upset when I thought my husband was going to fall asleep with HER. But he got up, talking. He dressed and walked around the bed. She got up, seemingly at his command and they hugged, standing up. He smiled at her and turned toward the door. Only then was the spell broken and I hurried back to the door and went in. He was already showering. I never said anything and let it fade, pretending I did not think about it often. I was more passionate and adventurous with my husband, and colder with my stepdaughter.      A couple years later when I found her crying in her room one day while my husband was out of town, I went in to comfort her. It got around to me mentioning her sexual relationship with her father in an accusatory way. She broke down even farther and told me about how she asked him to stop when she started 8th grade. She had become aware how “crazy” it was and begged him to stop if he loved her. He told her he couldn’t stop because he loved her. Something snapped inside me and I helped her fall asleep and then drove to the police station. I turned myself in and my husband. It was very messy and my life has been since. But I don’t regret it. I only regret waiting five years to end a marriage that I should have ended after five months. I deserve all the tears.

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.

Was it really that bad? Healing after getting out can be a rollercoaster of emotions and self doubt. You're not alone, sharing your story helps others to stop being silenced out of shame. Sometimes the healing process is hard because we remember more, or feel what we tried not to feel. You don't have to worry about being believable, focus on your own healing journey because you lived it, and need to trust the process. Your story, and what you lived, is testimony enough.

To my fellow survivor, I am a 9 year survivor of sexual assault. I am proud to be sharing my story, and hoping my words can provide comfort and courage. Something that was very important to me was reporting my rapist. Fear takes over our body, and we feel numb. I wanted to cocoon myself in a blanket and stay there forever. The thought of contacting law enforcement was terrifying. Taking that scary step can make you feel empowered. I wanted my voice, my story, and my emotions to be heard. There is a quote “speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.” This quote carried me through one of the most difficult times in my life. When we speak our truth, we are no longer carrying this alone. You are being heard and taking back the power. Share your story, heal with love and care, and most of all surviving is the bravest of all. “I now see how owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.” Brené Brown

website

Each year it crashes in like the waves beating the stand. It brings a swirl of emotion and feelings unbeknownst to my fragile mind. My body seises as it struggles to stay afloat. I gasp as the sharp prickly water traps my body, unable to move, but only to breathe, breathe... breathe... and breathe. A calm air slowly comes over me as I become conscious of this storm. Sobering me, I remember that it will pass...

This story contains descriptions of self-harm and suicidal thoughts. Please be aware of this. I am a single, HSP-afflicted freelancer. I am currently 38 years old. Like many people my age, my mother was violent when angry. She also broke things, accusing me of misbehaving, such as tearing down all the posters of my favorite idols that were hanging in my room. When she wasn't angry with me or my sister, she would repeatedly smash the frying pan she was using to cook food into the sink if the food burned or if she accidentally dropped a glass, or she would smash even chipped cups and plates. She would then run out of the house, often not knowing when she would return. I remember feeling lonely even as a child. When I was 13, after my mother broke a plate and ran out as usual, I couldn't bear it any longer and used the broken pieces to self-harm. I cut myself deeply on my arm. I think I told my mother I'd fallen, but the scars I still see today clearly couldn't have been caused by that. It wasn't until I turned 36 that I realized the abnormal relationship between my mother and me. Since the COVID-19 pandemic, we've had a series of unfortunate events in the family. My mother, who should be over 60, has a terrible ability to control her emotions and has no boundaries with me, her daughter. Gradually, I realized that my childhood environment was strange, and that the physical and emotional scars were deeper than I'd realized. It may sound unbelievable, but until recently, I didn't think my self-harm was a big deal. I'd barely thought about these scars in my life. I didn't hide them, but I'd spent decades without telling anyone. My mother and I were close, and we'd talk about anything, so now I'm really suffering. I've always been told by family and friends that I was quick to anger and had a tendency to get angry, which really bothered me, and I've struggled with my relationships. I've tried to understand why I was the way I was, reading various books, researching online, and trying to change my personality. So I really can't forgive my mother for taking out her anger on her children despite being a grown adult, for breaking things, for running away from home on a daily basis, and for laughing at my personality for decades, calling it weird. More than anything, I feel like my life is irreparable, and I can't bear the frustration. If I had realized my mother's abnormal side sooner, I think my personality and the way I build relationships would have been different. I'm in the midst of a flood of emotions. When I have more free time from my freelance work, I often think that being a Shin would be nice. It's a bit disorganized, but I'd be happy if it could be of some use to someone.

he wouldn’t listen to me when i told him i didn’t want to go to his room. i told him i was too drunk and i didn’t feel well, that i wanted to go back to my room. he took me with him anyway. he stuck his hand in my pants and i told him to stop. he did for a moment, then he tried again. i told him no again, and he did stop. we went to bed. i wish he had done more, because now i’m traumatized and having panic attacks but don’t feel like i should be, because he stopped. i feel even worse for wishing he hadn’t. because then my feelings would be valid.

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

You never think it would happen to her, but it did. Name was raped. She didn't tell us. When I learned about it, I was shocked. Who would rape a woman in intellectual/developmental disabilities? I write this narrative as my sister's co-conservator. I write this because justice has not been served and healing is a journey. Name has high support needs for her daily care. She relies on a tribe to keep her safe, healthy and happy. A man at her day program raped her when he was changing her adult underwear. The police report states that men were allowed to be alone her. One of them took advantage of her and gave her gonnorhea. She was in pain for months. We didn't know until an urgent care doctor did an STD panel. Other doctors didn't think to do this because "It doesn't happen in that populaiton." Little do they know that people with IDD have the highest rate of sexual asasult- 7x more than those without disabilities, per NPR's "Abused and Betrayed" investigative series. The facility still operates, the criminal case is still open and he is still out there- most likely caring for others. The family carries the trauma. As her sister, I have done so much over the past decade to raise the awareness, but I need help. We need more support. Link.

I was so small and I still have flashbacks.