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

Just words. You have trouble talking about these things. You realize you have trouble talking about a lot of things. You remember being excited about your first job at Company Name. One of your friends works there and you know a lot of people work there as a summer job. It’s the 1990’s and it’s been grandfathered in that they can pay you less than minimum wage because it’s like a part time training experience for students getting their first work experience. Like a newspaper route. Those are for boys. You got so excited after being nervous you asked for an application along with your friend. You don’t remember meeting him then. So many people want to get chosen for that crap job because for some reason it’s become a sought after thing among the cool kids. You do remember the phone call that you can come for an interview. Walking home you wonder if being cute and having larger breasts than most almost freshman girls had something to do with it. You met Name and remember him for sure this time. The way you look has been a curse far more than a blessing. One reason people would not feel that bad for you. 'God sure blessed you, honey." You have so many bad memories, blocked memories, repressed memories because of Name. You are having second thoughts as tears build up. You need a drink. You quit drinking years ago and today you have three months and eight days sober. Your record is nine months and two days. You are strong. Most of the time. You are hollow. All the time. Name wasn’t the last but he was the first. You change his name although you don’t want to. He is the symbol of your hatred of all that is wrong with men. You were tricked. Name got what he wanted from you. Too many times. Too many times before you stopped going back. Just stopped. You could have just stopped after the first time he held you close and caressed you before your mom picked you up that night. The first time. You still don’t understand or forgive yourself for that. You had let a boy at a party and a boy at an 8th grade dance put their hand up your shirt. You had liked it so much those times. It had been exciting and happy. Name did not make you happy. You went back. You want to talk about something else now. Not the other men who thought your body was their plaything. Not the time you went to Ireland with your Aunts and mom. You miss mom. That was a good trip. You got back to that a lot. You sat down to talk about things you don’t talk about. On a family trip to Adventureland you asked your cousin if was considered losing your virginity of a boy did it to your boobs. You pretended it was a cute boy, not Name. It was hard to breathe with him sitting on your torso thrusting. You sometimes break things and scream. Never when your son is around. You have two jobs and don’t really like the one that pays the most. Your college degree does not count much. How much life is wasted on despair and doubt and taking the wrong path? You feel relief when he finally finished. You hate when he finishes because you know he is stealing his ultimate pleasure from you when he has a wife. He acts like it was just another day at work to keep you on his leash. You are pathetic. His remnants are inside you every time you go home after closing with him. Just another miserable day in the life. You say nothing. You tell no one. You are worthless except as a vessel for him. Your parents say nice things to you, about you. They always have. They have to. They don’t know what you really are. A black shame is the times you felt pleasure in your body while he was doing it do you. At least while you remained quiet and motionless there was some dignity. Defiance. Insult to him. When your body and voice reacted like you liked it it was a betrayal. Like you liked that tub of disgusting man on top of you and inside of you, fucking you on that tile floor, kissing you like a lover. You befriended a group of guys by mid high school. Over a year after Name was more than thorn in your soul. A deep callous. The group figured out what you were. They played football. They were important and had strong will. They shared you and passed you around. They told you they loved you. That you were the coolest girl. They took what they wanted when they wanted. Why? Name 2 was you lab partner for biology. He was the first. He was the only one your age. You went in his car for lunch and met some others. They wanted you. You volunteered. It is all you are good for. Draining them of their juice so they can be happy and feel like men. So you can feel empty and dirty. Even after they graduated they got together for group fun, or had you sneak out at night to go for a ride. You headed far west after you graduated. A fresh start. An exodus. An escape. You went to one reunion. The ten year reunion. Name 2 came with his wife. He introduced you as his ex-girlfriend. You let hm take you to the disabled restroom and have his quickie. You went to the bars afterward and ditched your real friend and let Name 3 take you back to his hotel room to live his fantasies just because he claimed that he always loved you. They say attractive people have sex more frequently with more partners than normal people. The darkness behind that statement is that for females it is no always because they want it that way but because of the relentless pressure from men and how they will do anything if they get the opportunity. You are not a nice innocent girl. Would you have been if it had not been for Name like you want to think? Would you have let your much older cousin you barely know take you back into the woods with him behind their house to the shack where he smokes pot after a wedding. Then wait there for him to call his friends after he found out you were a bad girl and wait for them too. Swatting flies in your underwear while you waited for them. You did not drink because your mom did not allow it even though kids younger than you were. But your cousin and his local friends did. Four of them counting your cousin old enough to be your uncle. Still, you acted like you liked everything they did. They took it so far like you were the world's greatest toy. Porn star, they called you like it was the best thing you could be. The anal was excruciating. It was easier to just wash off all your makeup than to try to fix it after all the sweat and sticky. Smiles and complements followed by the deep hollow feeling of total isolation in the station wagon on the way back home from Kansas city. Hating Name and feeling like you betrayed your aunt because one of them was her fiancé. You got an infection and it was embarrassing when the doctor told you. At least it was a female doctor. The idea of a male gynecologist is unnerving. The one time you were examined by one was terrifying. You were in college. He was way too thorough and talkative like he was working up to asking you out on a date and you decided never again. The only one you ever had that did not wear gloves for the breast exam. The most sensual digital vaginal exam you ever had to check the cervix and ovaries for pain. Was his thumb supposed to be brushing your clitoris? You even wonder if he was recording it on his phone that you saw him adjust twice as it was peaking out of the breast pocket of his lab coat. His stupid November mustache he asked you if you liked. So some days you don’t eat. You exercise to maintain the body they want. It gives you value to them. You are nothing. People always say nice things. Hollow things. What if you had never met Name? What if you never got fucked on the floor for $3.45 an hour. On your back, on your hands and knees, sometimes even on top of him. Your first orgasm on that floor that smelled like stale milk and bleach. Having to tell your mom pick you up 45 minutes after the place closes for your cleaning duties. You used tampons just to keep from his semen leaking out on the way home. You pretended to be a virgin when you were far from it. He told you not to worry because he had a vasectomy. That part must have been true. You don't got on dates even though they always try to set you up. Not a chance. Your son is a good excuse. And a real reason. Real love. The Earth spins in space. Why can’t it just freeze and die like me? Your boss doesn’t go all the way with you because he won’t cheat on his wife. You give him oral because he doesn’t think that counts. Preserves his purity. He says he wants to so badly, like he can take whatever he wants from you but he is strong and valiant. You are nothing. He is handsome. You let him kiss you and fondle you. You long for his touch. He is not a great man but you long for him. The closest thing to a good man you have known. A father figure. Your son needs a father figure. He is everything. He deserves better. He loves you. He tells you are a good mom and that is worth enduring the world for as long as it takes. You put on a good face but he knows you are hollow, deep down. A wounded duck pretending to be a swan. Always pretending. Was there no pretending before Name? Maybe not. The days begin and your mind pretends and it is hard and the days end. Bad dreams on both ends. Will he be a good man? The funny thing is you want him to be a prince because he is your prince but even if he is like most men you want his total happiness. You want beautiful girls, good times, and strong friends for him. You exist to fake it and to have let those men enjoy you but mostly to give your son the best life possible beyond you. You are not worthless. It is not your fault. You are stronger than you know. Hollow words. They have to say it. They always have. No creativity. No insight. No truth. Just words.

I’m a 27 year old female now but when I was about the age of 6-7 my sister would kiss me on the lips. I vividly remember laying down on my bathroom floor (which she told me to do) and would just tell me to relax. She is 4 years older than me. I also remember one time I really wanted to kiss her and she said yes. I think it was a game to me at that point. She had left for a moment and I got naked. I remember she came back and said to put my clothes on because our dad was going to take us out to eat. Those are the only moments I remember but my mind might be pushing down other similar moments I had with her. I’m struggling now to have a relationship with her. She has never talked about it, but I feel like she remembers. It’s so hard to speak to her without getting annoyed or frustrated. She is annoying to me and never communicates well, she tends to always ask a question when asked a question. She’s never wrong and is hard headed. At this point I feel like I need to speak to her about this and distance myself to heal. I don’t even know what I want but I just don’t want to feel this way.

The day I ran from my abuser, I felt an intense urge to turn the car around. My sister’s voice kept replaying through my head. “Catherine, keep your eyes on the road. Don’t look at your phone. Don’t stop.” For five years, I had been raped, beaten, brainwashed, stripped of my identity and isolated from my family and friends. I knew if I turned that car around, I wouldn’t survive. At first, I couldn’t do anything for myself. My sister had to remind me to brush my teeth, bathe and eat. My abuser had controlled everything, and I mean everything. From what and how much I ate to what I wore, how I spoke, and who I spoke to. I didn’t know how to live outside of him and his needs. For years, I had been operating in survival mode. Everything had centered around him, what he expected from me and what would set him off. I was constantly walking on eggshells. The day I escaped, he told me I was pregnant. The only birth control allowed was the pull-out method. Rape is a hard word for me, because I think of it as being physically held down. But he had psychological control over me. I had no agency or choice. I was to abide by his rules or there would be repercussions. Although pregnancy may have been physically impossible because my weight was around 90 pounds, I was still terrified. I was in the South. If I were pregnant, there would be little to no abortion access. Luckily, I was able to get the Plan B pill within 72 hours. In my mid-20s, I was diagnosed with HPV. My abuser had prohibited me from getting health insurance and health care. The domestic violence hotline gave me resources for health care in my sister’s area, a small town in Georgia. None of these resources would take me because I didn’t have health insurance. The only one who agreed to see me was the health department; they only tested for certain STDs and did not perform gynecological exams. Like many women who have been in my situation, I felt lost. I knew I would be going back home to New Orleans for the holidays. Fortunately, I was able to schedule an exam with Planned Parenthood. They were sensitive to my situation and provided me with information and options. Most importantly, the staff treated me like a person. Since I left, my life has gotten much better, but I’m still on edge. Daily, I have traumatic flashbacks and second-guess and dissect most things.. With holistic therapeutic modalities, I’m healing. The only time the police were called was for me to escape. I had told my abuser I was leaving. He held me hostage in a hotel room for a couple of hours to keep me from leaving. I was able to get out once the police arrived. A year and half after my escape, I called to look into pressing charges. The police had never written a report. There was only documentation of the phone call and the time they arrived and left. They told me to file my own report, which at the time of the incident I didn't know about. So, I filed my report. When I spoke to an investigator, he questioned me on why I was looking at filing charges over a year later. I told him that I had dealt with intense trauma where I couldn't even eat and bathe without being told to do so. He said that it was too late, I. didn't have enough evidence, and it would go no where. And when I called back to at least get the report I filed, the woman was dismissive. And they had NO REPORT. Why would I go through a system that enables, ridicules, and disempowers victims? I am still healing and getting back on my feet, and because of this treatment from the very department that is suppose to have my back, I have decided to put it to bed. For now, my focus is on speaking up and helping other survivors.

When I was 13 was sexually assaulted by a person I'd rather not name. I've known him for a while yet never spoke out because I like him. He never saw it as sexual assault because it was "only the fingers" Whenever I think about it, I get sick to my stomach. Knowing I had no strength to stop him. I cry everytime I think about it and I'm too scared to tell anyone. Please anyone, what should I do. What can I do.

Inappropriate touching is how I would refer to what my ex-husband would do. We were together for nearly numberyears. There were countless times that I would wake up with his hands down my pyjamas, him having intercourse with me, him forcing me to do things to him, that this just became normal. I felt that this was part of my marriage. I now know that this should not have been the case and no man should ever treat a woman like this. That consent cannot be taken it must be given. We separated and he was still living in the house. I had a hospital admission. He was helping look after our three children. He would come into my bedroom at nighttime after I came home from hospital and rub my back and belly, even though I had asked him not to. This progressed on two occasions to rape, I had said no, he continued to do it. I did not realize at the time that this is what it was. Even writing this now is difficult. It was only three years later after discussing the inappropriate touching with a therapist that she used that word with me. Deep down I knew how fundamentally wrong this all was but never saw myself as having been sexually assaulted or raped by my husband while we were married or just after we had separated. I still find it extremely difficult to say this word out loud. Most of my friends or family do not know this has happened. It is a very lonely place but speaking to professionals certainly helps with the shame and guilt that I hold myself.

In March, I met someone. By summer, we were friends—the kind that share meals and watch anime on weekends. There was never any hint of more. Then, one night in August, a bottle of bourbon and a game of truth or dare blurred the lines I thought were solid. The conversation turned intimate, and the dares followed. What started with a kiss escalated into something I did not want. I remember saying "no," many times, my hands holding tightly to my clothes as a boundary. I was told "no means yes." In my intoxicated state, my resistance was overcome. I held onto one clear thought: no penetration. That line, at least, was not crossed. In the days that followed, I did everything I was supposed to do. I reached for every lifeline. I took the emergency pill. I made the calls to 1800RESPECT and SARC, navigating support systems in a language that isn't my own. I am awaiting medical screenings. I devoured Chanel Miller's "Know My Name," finding solace in a story that mirrored my own confusion. I talked to AI, tirelessly analyzing every emotion, trying to logic my way out of this pain. I found the courage to call a friend and speak the words aloud, and her belief in me was a anchor. And yet, a persistent voice still circles in the quiet moments: Did I overreact? Was it really that bad? He was nice once. This doubt is a ghost, and it haunts me alongside the heavy grip of my history with depression, which makes everything feel so much heavier. I have made a decision that brings both a sense of relief and a profound sadness. I will likely make a report, but I do not think I will request a full investigation. I have come to the quiet, painful understanding of how difficult it is to prove a violation without concrete evidence, of how the system often fails to deliver justice. My heart breaks for all my sisters who have stood in this same place, who have chosen to prioritize their own survival over a fight they know they cannot win. So, for now, I am choosing to fight for myself instead of against him. My act of rebellion is not in a courtroom; it is in my own healing. It is in believing myself when the world teaches me to doubt. It is in acknowledging that even without legal justice, what happened to me was real, it was wrong, and my pain is valid. I am choosing to care for the person who matters most in this story: me.

back in the summer of date i was 12 years old mom, dad, and myself went to city for a week o see my grandparents because i was summer break from school and we were having a cookout when relavives from my grandmothers side of the family came down to see her, they stayed at the ramada inn down the the road from my grandparents house, when it happened, after dinner i excused myself from the table so i could stretch my legs and i started going into the woods to go see the deer that were not far from my grandparents house, when lee came following behind me and took me by the arm further into the woods so nobody would be able to see what was about to happen, he made me strip naked and touched my naked body including my penis and my genitals and said to me this is how people have sex then he pulled his pants and boxers down and made me feel his penis and made me try to swollow it and threatened me by say dont you tell your parents or grandparents about this or i will say that you are lying about it so i never say a thing about it, then the next day he found me behind the house looking down the hill at the 18 wheelers going by on the interstate and took me into the basement forced me to take off my clothes and then forced me to masturbate well its a was good thing that i kept myself from ejaculating sperm because the basement floor was dirt and had my grandmother asked me about why the floor was wet i would have had to tell her because i could never lie to my grandmother because of our special bond between grandma and grandson, so once i got dressed again i walked around spread dirt all over where my bare feet were this way she had no idea about what had happened, to this day i wish i had told them because then that bastard would have died in prison but he has since passed away a very painful death so i dont ever have to worry about him ever again.

It’s a shame to be you. So wrapped up in you. Clinging to your innocence. But I know it’s untrue. I know you! Your mother-raised a rapist. Wish I could say it to her face. “Your son- is a disgrace.” “You’ve never felt pressure, sweetheart.” That’s what you’d say But I felt your abuse… Every single day. Your words were like poison ivy. Your presence like quick sand. But I know in my soul, You’re the weakest type of man. But that pressure built up. My skin became tough. No longer sinking in your quick sand. Because pressure- makes Diamonds. It’s a shame to be you. When I get to be me. Someone worthy of love. And I get to be free. I get to feel safe, And I know who I am. I know I deserved better. I deserve a good man. I’m so glad that I’m me. And I’m so glad that you’re you. Because- while I am a Diamond, Well, you’re nothing, aren’t you?

I tried to kiss my girlfriend at the end of our second date, and something was wrong. She flinched. She moved. No, she backed away. Then later, she told me about how she had been attacked by a man two years ago and hadn’t been intimate with anyone since. So what now. She went through something I would never understand. I do not understand. How can you go inside her, feel that level of connection, and want her—knowing she was tied down against her will, and tortured for hours with foreign objects, starting and finishing with physical abuse. She will not say out-loud the source. But I now know she still carries scars on her skin and damage to her internal organs. With bravery I will never understand. The power of her story was second only to the power of her choosing to share that story with me. Since that day I have tried to make good on that trust and make her feel safe and enrich her life, however I am able. It does not come close to the insight she has given me. Now, my partner continues to show signs of the trauma almost every day- Yet it is not even close to the first thing that comes to mind when I think of her. She is one of the gentlest and most thoughtful woman I have been lucky enough to meet. Sometimes her teacher voice comes out, when I have misunderstood her directions or done something wrong—and honestly I don’t mind it in the slightest, because I truly consider this confidence an extension of her desire to resolve conflict through positive emotions. This is no damn small feat, considering what she’s been through. I sometimes think about the man that attacked her. I hate him. I do not know his name or what he looks like. And I am not sure what I’d do if I did. But ultimately it’s not for me to decide. She has forgiven him and so must I. She is kinder and more patient than this world deserves. I am proud to know her and proud to love her.

I experienced COCSA, but no one really takes it seriously. This isn't my only experience of sexual violence. I was forcibly sexually assaulted at 19 by a friend, someone tried to kidnap me as a kid for presumably sexual reasons, I experienced sexual harassment from peers in secondary school for years because my bullies figured out sexual topics made me uncomfortable, I faced creeps following me home, old men commenting on my body when I was around 11 and one asking me to "dance" for him, faced people online trying to groom me into sending nudes when I was still a minor (fortunately I never took any). Plenty of non sexual trauma and abuse on top of that. But, for me, the COCSA was the worst trauma. I don't know why that one impacts me so much. We were just kids and he couldn't have fully understood the damage he was causing, so why was it the hardest one to cope with? I always hesitate to use the words "sexual abuse" when I talk about this, but in terms of what it did to my brain, that's what it was. When I was 6, a boy my age would take me into a part of the playground hidden from anyone else and would make me suck his penis. I'd say no, that it was gross, I didn't want to. But he was one of my only friends at the time, and I was terrified of losing friends because I was experiencing a lot of difficult things at home. It didn't start off like this, we had become friends for a bit before this and he leaned me into it. First by doing normal kid things like showing me his genitals, progressing to asking me to touch it, then lick it, suck it, and once even bite it. I still remember how it felt, and it still fills me with panic. It wasn't painful or anything, it just felt absolutely horrible and wrong. He would threaten to embarrass me and not be my friend, and would also say he loved me and I had to suck his penis to prove I loved him back. He would keep asking until I gave in, and because we were in a isolated part of the playground I didn't feel I could just walk away, especially since he was known for being violent (though had never physically hurt me). Its what people who love each other do, he said once. He was a bully, and when I did it he would laugh and tell me that he didn't really like me but maybe he would if I did it again. He'd do this with his friend who would watch. I don't think that other boy really understood why he was doing that to me, I didn't. But the one doing it at least understood that it upset me and didn't care, because he would laugh at me when he made me upset. It often feels so stupid that I am even experiencing any trauma from this. We were both kids, and it feels like it was my fault for not resisting more or not just walking away. But I didn't know what was happening, and I was really vulnerable and lonely at that time. I just wanted a friend. This continued until I was 7. I don't entirely blame him. To me, he's more akin to a bully rather than an abuser. But I do blame his parents for allowing him porn access since the age of 5, I blame his father for teaching his son misogynistic views which he continued to perpetuate onto other girls our age as we grew up. I blame whoever taught him how to do those things, because the way he spoke to me sometimes sounded too adult to be from a kid who stumbled onto some pornsite. I blame my school for knowing what was happening, and not lifting a finger to help EITHER of us. We both needed some sort of intervention, but they did nothing. I now deal with various diagnosed mental disorders and sexual dysfunction as a result of what he did to me. Worst part is, I still see him around town on rare occasions. He doesn't recognise me, and while I'm grateful for that it also angers me that he doesn't even recognise me while I freak out if I see someone who even looks like him.

I was a freshman at a frat party. I had one drink, which I made myself, but still became incoherent suddenly after about an hour. I don't remember exactly what happened, but I woke up the next morning without my underwear and covered in bruises. I shrugged it off as a crazy, messy night of college drinking and my friends did too, but secretly I was terrified.

As I grow older - I am 27 years old now - I keep thinking about my first sexual experience and it confuses me so much. I was around five or six years old and my friend at the time was in the bathroom stall next to mine when she crawled underneath to get into mine. She touched me and I knew it was wrong, but I was afraid to tell her no because I did not want to hurt her feelings or get her in trouble. So, I let her. As she was doing so I felt like all the life and joy had been taken from me. It felt like a depression blanket had been wrapped around me. I felt so heavy, shameful, mortified, and I have not been the same since. It felt like rape or assault, but how could it have been if I didn't say no? I let it happen and have never told anyone. On top of that, what right do I have to feel so terrible about it when the girl was the same age as me and it seems she had been exposed to the sexual narrative at a too young age herself?

I can safely say here that last year I have been sexually assaulted by my boyfriend at the time. I was a virgin and wanted him to kindly lead me to make love but he took it from me and so til this date I am working through that. I have been introduced to this platform by a girl who reads my blog and so I am ever so grateful to be able to share these and to follow you on Instagram I am forever grateful Regards with much love, g.

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

I had just turned 15 years old. I was dating a guy that I felt very safe with. We had been dating for 3 months at that point and we moved pretty fast. It was his birthday in October and my parents were gone for a few days. I invited him over. He stayed 2 nights at my place. The first 2 days all we did was eat and lay in bed together. The first night was a lot of fun. On the second night though, we had just had sex (consensually) and we were going to go to sleep. We were both naked, and I woke up to him inside me. I told him to stop and pushed myself away. I fell asleep again, not really thinking about it, and when I woke up the next morning I had blood and semen on my inner thighs. I had realized, after looking back at our time, he had been raping me in my sleep for our whole relationship.

I was hit as a child. I know what a reader of this post expects me to do next is add examples of what could be called ‘extreme’ violence or ‘abuse’. Most people do not equate a ‘pop’ or ‘whapp’ or ‘cuff’ or ‘slap’ or ‘spank’ with domestic violence. We should. For many of us, that first slap from a parent who believes they are committing an act of love...that they are teaching me...that the slap was a ‘consequence’ - was all we needed to find, amongst a definition of loving acts, an understanding of how a person learns, understanding of what is meant by the word ‘consequence’ is physical violence. A good many of us here were struck as children. A good many of those we identify as our assailants were hit as children. I was hit by my adult partner. Blood pouring out of my nose and onto the front of my shirt that third time motivated me to put my hand in the blood and rub it on the front of his shirt and , then, leave. THIRD TIME. We MUST stop accepting adult on child violence.

I was 21 on my university exchange me and my best friend were out one night and near the end of the night this guy pulled me to the side and we started making out. I was so drunk I’m sure I was falling over I told my friend I was going home with this guy. I had just had my heat broken by another guy I had met recently and was looking for any male validation I could get I guess. I was so drunk I don’t remember anything that happened after we left the bar I don’t remember getting into the Uber or his house. I told him at the bar that I didn’t want to have sex with him and he said it was fine we could do other things. I don’t remember getting into the bed or how it started all I remember is him putting himself inside me. I don’t remember saying yes or no and I don’t remember why I let him do that or if I even did. I remember it hurting and I remember wanting to stop but not knowing how. I remember letting him do me again in the morning I don’t know why maybe to make it feel like I wanted it. I was a virgin and would have never let him do that to me sober. Maybe it wasn’t rape but all I know is that it keeps me up at night.

Growing up was completely different from my older brother and myself. He had a great friend that lived one block away and my brother has never known that his sister was molested by his friend for over 9 years. I normally relive my experience in my had consistently and have no emotional attachment due to how sick I feel about how I was a child. Every sleepover. Right after my brother went to bed. He’d come to my room. I’d pretend I was asleep. He abused my when he little brother was asleep in the same room as me. He abused me when my brother would run to the bathroom quickly. He abused me under a blanket in the back seat with my father driving. I asked him to stop so many times, he never listening. I tried telling friends, they never believed me. I am not attached to these emotions. I feel emptiness from my experience. 7 year old should not experience sexual abuse.

I write this while my husband works on the computer and my son plays with his fake sword. I write this while I try not to cry. I write this because holding it in is making me sick. I feel it swirling around in the pit of my stomach, sitting there like one big lump of heavy sludge. The night started off fun, it was supposed to be a casual get together for a co-worker moving on to a new position. I was excited to go out because most of the time I don’t get to do that. I’m a mom, a wife, a hard worker. I take care of others. My days consist of working, making meals, going to tee-ball and swim. My weekends consist of catching up on laundry, getting the occasional pedicure and going on Costco runs. I struggle like any woman with my identity as a mom and a wife and the person I was before. I was getting drinks, sharing stories of our crazy job and enjoying my time off. I was laughing so much. Here is where the blame kicks in, and even though I know better I can’t help but blame myself. I blame myself for drinking too much, I blame myself for being too chatty. I blame myself for being too friendly. I blame myself for not going home sooner. Everyone was done, but I wanted to keep going. One more bar, and so did he. I was so glad one person was on the same page and they didn’t want the night to end just yet. I felt young and free, running around different bars with a new friend. We kept talking about girls he liked, and I was giving him advice on being young, carefree and taking advantage of that. The bars were closing, I had to get a ride and I had to walk to my car. The alcohol was running through me and I felt so good. I thought I was chalking up the night to a fun carefree evening, where new friendships were made and it turned out I was wrong. Things started to get blurry, as we sat on the cement waiting for my ride. We were still talking and it was fine but then he pulled up a video of a man and a woman having sex, and he asked me if I liked it. He started to ask me more questions, if I watched porn, how often, and what kind. I was shocked, I answered the questions like a robot. He told me he was hard, and I kept looking away. My ride finally appeared and I left, made it home and I didn’t fully understand what had just happened. Just how uncomfortable I was and how wrong he was to do that. He texted me, asking to come over, asking me to watch the same video as him. I responded and pretended I was ok, pretended the questions he was asking me were normal …I don’t know why. It makes me sick that I didn’t just say fuck you!! You sick fucking piece of shit!! Don’t ever fucking talk to me again you mother fucker!! I just kept saying yeah sure which video, you can’t come over and lol. He finally stopped and I passed out. I woke to an alarm and I later got a message from him laughing it off, and asking me to delete the messages from him and I did. I went about my day, I went about my weekend. But flashes of what happened keep creeping in. I can’t stop them. I dread seeing him at work. I fear that he will spin what happened into a story that makes me look like a cheating wife. I feel like I was unfaithful. I know I did nothing wrong but I hate myself, I hate what happened, and I hate that I have to live with this. I feel like I can do nothing, and can’t tell anyone. Ever. I question my whole being, why would someone think they could do this to me. Why , why, why me.