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Hello. I am a woman and a survivor of prolonged childhood rape by a very close relative. He was someone very loved by the rest of the family, someone who was "loving" with me, and that's why when everything came to light, almost no one believed me. I wasn't the only victim, and yet they still treat him as if he were untouchable. That scarred me deeply. Today I am a mother. I love my children deeply and I am very protective. But for some time now, I've been having intrusive thoughts that fill me with fear and disgust. They aren't desires; I don't want to hurt them, on the contrary: just thinking about it distresses me. It's harder with my daughters, even when bathing them, and that makes me question myself and feel guilty. I never crossed any boundaries, nor would I, but my mind sometimes attacks me with the "what if?" I would like to know if anyone else has experienced something similar: this fear of becoming what I suffered. Thank you for reading.

It seems like everywhere i turn, I am getting assaulted and or preyed upon. From 17 to 18, I was in a relationship with a 35 yearold man. He had phone sex with me before I turned 18. My brain fog is very bad, so i honestly dont remember much. At 17, I worked a job where customers would openly make remarks about having sex with me. One of my older co workers even grabbed my hips, only to apologize and say "all you women are just so beautiful." I was told not to report this, because he was so sweet and loving to his wife. Right before I turned nineteen, I was violently assaulted by a man i went on a date with. He groped me in a public area and I told him no. He proceeded to tell me to "tell him if anything he did made me uncomfortable." And then he proceeded to grope me again. I gave up at that point. He was also kissing me with nicotine gum in his mouth, which i told him to spit out. He did, and then later kissed me with it again. It gave me the worst migraine. Like my head was splitting open. But I still went home with him. I didnt want to be alone. Obviously that entails sex. I knew that. What I didnt know was that he was going to spend the next combination of about 9 hours trying to get off. Not only that, but in the most aggressive ways possible. He yanked my hair and held me down so hard it formed a scar that still reappears sometimes. I believe at some points, because it wasnt penetration, i remember him shoving my head into a pillow. I wonder if he was trying to suffocate me. He jerked off on top of me, digging his fist into my ribcage. He bruised my spinal cord. I didnt truly understand what had happened. I tried to explain to him i had prior experience being assaulted- but he told me rape was only penetration. I cried in his bed that night. The next morning he resumed. I didnt consider this sexual assault and possibly even rape for a while. I was angry about my spine though- and texted him that. He told me I had said "choke me daddy" which i did not.. and that I better not start acting like one of those "bpd bitches." I also sometimes wonder if this was somehow an attempted homicide of some sort, even if that sounds extreme. Some people around me have told me it doesnt hold up as trauma, because I put myself in that situation. My boyfriend now just tells me hes sorry over and over. Its not the comfort I need, I need the pressure to have sex be totally gone. I wish I was dead. I still worry that I made this up.

I'm hoping this is truly anonymous because I am in a sensitive situation that no one I know can know a thing about. I have to get this out some way and it must be anonymously. I have been with my boyfriend, well, fiance, for 8 years in January. He's always been my best friend. The love of my life. My person. Until last night. He suddenly turned to me out of nowhere and said, "I raped you." When I asked him to clarify because I couldn't believe my ears and I was taken aback, he responded, "I would try to wake you up for sex but couldn't get you to wake up (I take medication that knocks me out) and I couldn't handle you pushing me away and saying no anymore (zero libido due to meds and mental health struggles) so I resorted to betraying you in your sleep. My hand wasn't working and I never saw a reason for you to say no. I'm so sorry I allowed myself to do this. The last time I did it, I felt so guilty I was afraid to touch you ever again." I was completely unconscious, no memory of any of this at all. I don't even know how long this went on for. He can't recount how many times or when the last time was. Only that it was sometime earlier this year. I can't believe this. This is not who I thought he was. At all. He's been my best friend by my side for so long. I have never been sexually assaulted before. He is the very last person I would have feared doing this in the entire universe. He's supposed to be protecting me from people that commit these atrocious acts. He always swore he would. I always believed him. I suffer immensely from an emotional disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and I am having a very hard time right now. I don't know what to think. I feel used and dirty and I can't look at myself. I can't look at him either. I feel like all I am is a body to use right now. He even had the audacity to ask me if I can see this as less than what it is because of the trouble I have put him through with all of my mental illnesses. I can't lie, that set me off. "How can you possibly see my emotional burden as equal to raping me in my sleep, stealing my body to do with as you please without me knowing a thing??" I can't tell a soul and all I want to do is run to my mom and spill my guts but I know I can't. Not now. I have nowhere else to live but with him. We have a 10 year old who worships him. I have become terrified of getting a job and being independent. I have never lived on my own and am severely dependent. I wake up every morning feeling like a different person than the days before. My emotions control my reality. I have never been stable or able to hold down a job for long. My insurance was taken in january and my mental health has been declining rapidly. My mental health is at a record low. I never in an infinite amount of years saw this coming from him. No one in our lives would have expected this. We've always seen him as a very good man. How could he do this?? Who would he have done this to if he had been single? I suddenly feel like I've never been anything more than a body to him. I feel like I don't know who I've been living with for almost a decade. It feels like our entire life together has been woven with his lies. I didn't go to sleep last night, just stayed up bawling and shaking and panicking and hyperventilating. I'm exhausted and frightened of my future, our future. My little family feels like it was just torn apart. He has been crying all night, apologizing profusely. As someone with BPD, I get very, VERY attached to certain people and it feels IMPOSSIBLE to let go of them. Especially him. This is my longest relationship and we've faced so much in our lives together. One of my biggest fears in the world is abandonment. Thinking about him being gone makes me feel incredibly abandoned. I don't want to be judged for this, but I love him, I truly do. He is a part of me and I can't control that. But I'm also afraid that he isn't who I thought he was, not really, and my whole world will never be the same or okay. If he could hide this for so many years, could there be more that I deserve to be aware of? I don't know what to do and I need to be strong for my child. Thank you for reading if you made it this far. This is so new and petrifying and I truly do not know where to turn. My world has come crashing down on me.

Témoignage d’une survivante de mutilation génitale féminine Ce jour-là, on m’avait dit que je devais aller voir le tailleur pour une nouvelle robe. J’étais tellement contente. Le matin, on m’a réveillée très tôt, bien avant mon heure habituelle. On m’a fait prendre un bain chaud, puis on m’a habillée avec ma robe préférée. Ensuite, on m’a prise par la main pour, disait-on, aller chez le tailleur afin de prendre mes mesures. Nous sommes arrivées dans une famille où des cris d’enfants retentissaient de partout. Des femmes étaient assises, chacune tenant un morceau de vieux pagne auprès d’une fille. Je pensais qu’elles attendaient leur tour chez le tailleur. Mais j’ai vu une vieille femme sortir des toilettes, d’où provenaient des cris stridents, accompagnée d’une fille en larmes, demander pour la prochaine. J’ai voulu fuir lorsque j’ai vu la troisième fille sortir, mais on m’a retenue. Jusqu’à ce moment-là, je ne savais pas ce qui se passait dans cette toilette. J’avais peur, car les filles en sortaient en pleurs et la vieille femme venait ensuite chercher chacune d’entre nous à tour de rôle. Lorsque mon tour est arrivé, j’ai suivi la vieille dame. Je n’avais pas la force de me débattre contre les deux femmes qui m’accompagnaient. Elles m’ont conduite dans la toilette, où se trouvaient deux autres veilles femmes. Elles étaient trois : deux pour me maintenir et m’écarter les jambes, et la troisième tenait un petit couteau ensanglanté entre ses mains. On m’a déshabillée et fait asseoir sur une pierre. Elles ont alors procédé à l’opération. Jusqu’à ce jour, je n’ai aucune comparaison pour décrire la douleur que j’ai ressentie. Je ne trouve ni les mots ni les explications pour la décrire. Après l’opération, on m’a entouré les reins avec un petit morceau de pagne et le reste a été plié pour former une sorte de caleçon que l’on m’a fait porter. La douleur la plus insupportable est survenue lorsque j’ai eu envie d’uriner. Je n’ai aucun qualificatif, aucune explication et aucune comparaison pour décrire cette douleur. On avait préparé mon plat préféré, mais je n’ai pas pu manger. On m’avait également préparé ma boisson préférée, mais je n’ai pas pu boire. Ce n’est que lorsqu’on m’a dit que cela pouvait réduire la douleur que j’ai essayé de boire et de manger, mais la douleur était toujours là. Je ne pouvais pas m’asseoir. Je ne pouvais pas me coucher. Même rester debout me faisait mal. J’ai passé trois jours dans cet état et une semaine pour recouvrer de cette douleur forte.

As I continue my book journey, I learn why traditional therapy is so harmful—it causes further traumatization. While listening to book, I am literally being walked through a slide show of my life and the only kind of relationships I've ever known. The education process is brutal. The deeper I get the more it touches I just inherently know this type of individual the way I knew my Father. I was targeted because of everything beautiful about me. This is a person who knew how to ask me to fix their brokeness and walks away from the relationship saying that they couldn't help me because I'm too sick. Do you see it now clearly? You were set up. My search for help has been an incredibly difficult and overwhelming process. The more I understand how trapped I was made by the mechanisms of abuse, the more rage I feel. How many times have I had to scream in my car, punch my pillow, and hide in my closet when I cry my eyes out? And here I am, exactly where you designed to leave me—with no means to support myself, seeming as if that was my choice. But you and I both know that's not the plan that you made. You designed this very well. I am in a mouse wheel society that offers the abuser a comfy landing and survivors with severely limited resources. It was never built for me to get out of. I have listened to four distinguished authors in a row say: do not settle. Find a therapist who is 100 percent qualified and watch out for bad help. This is multilayered trauma with specific needs, and you are fighting for your life. Somehow, government insurance plans missed this information. They are much more comfortable with me joining the multi-million dollar pharmaceutical plan than actually healing my core human needs long term. According to all the authors, trauma gets stuck in your nervous system, keeping your body in survival mode, and you can't think your way out of it with talk therapies. I am definitely stuck—finger in light socket soberingly aware. Physically, mentally, financially. There are no bootstraps to use; they were taken. Physical self-awareness is the first step. Trauma victims cannot recover without understanding the sensations in our bodies, which have been blocked with numbing medications and other substances. They advocate for body-based therapies like Somatic Experiencing, focusing on bodily sensations to release stress and trauma trapped in the nervous system rather than just talking about the events; EMDR, a rapid eye movement exercise that safely revisits traumatic events (from what I understand, it's reworking memories using a dream sequence, removing harm and creating safety); and IFS work, which focuses on healing protective parts of the mind created through dysfunctional family systems. The more I learn, the more pain I am willing to step into, the more I understand. The behaviors, thoughts, and feelings that impact me from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep—the ones I've been labeled with, the ones that have been used against me—actually stem from abuse, not something I was born with. According to the authors who specialize in what I've been through, my brain wasn't born with these mental health labels. My nervous system created adaptations to survive continuous threat. name and name explain that families often pathologize victims, calling it mental illness, which deflects from abuse and survival behavior. They also identify how trauma can be passed down genetically, meaning these adaptations are learned across generations. As I continue to listen to a complete stranger tell my story, I am struggling with full acceptance. I don't want it to be true, but it is. Now I know about psychopathy, and there's no going back. I'm shell-shocked. Being walked through the exact events of my personal life leaves no room for questioning. I often think someone needs to hear this, someone needs to know—specifically my mother. It's lonely, partly reassuring, and incredibly devastating. These books explain every thought, behavior, and symptom. I hear how my sense of self and belief in the world was changed. I've been brainwashed deeply through my own love, and somehow it's so much softer for me to blame myself than truly accept what it actually is. For the longest time, my brain learned if it was me, then I could do something to fix things. It became the obsession and a constant state of mind that protected my body. I have lived fear, trained helplessness, and hopelessness. There's no damn way my nervous system can let that go after what I've been through, and I hate it. I hate it so much. Every so often I still have a false sense of comfort, the fantasy that helped me regulate for so long but was never real. I will do whatever it takes to pull that little girl from the ashes and restore her. We will recover.

i have only told this story to maybe three, four people, so, i do not really know where to begin. do i start with the first time i was touched inappropriately? the first time i was photographed without my consent, without my knowledge? the first time i was physically assaulted by a boy? i was eleven. but, rather than sit and explain how i was sexually assaulted in multiple different ways by multiple different men from the ages of 11-17, i want to talk about what happened when i was sixteen. (the story is long, so please, bare with me.) when i was sixteen, i was dating the first person i ever loved, (who is now my ex and one of my dearest friends) and he had a best friend, who later became one of mine. we did everything together, we were a trio of sorts and truthfully, i think we were happy. i mean, i have happy memories of the three of us, yes, but they’ve been overrun with negativities. this friend of ours, he wasn’t a good person, not really, his humor went beyond just being dark, it was cruel, and humiliating, and discriminatory. he would make these awful jokes; about women, about rape, about racism, homophobia, jokes about children, about illness and disease and death. and each time he thought he was being funny, he would wear this smile, this evil smile, one that said “i know what i am doing and i like it” i wish i could say we cut our ties right then and there, perhaps we should’ve, but we were young and naive and well, everyone needs a friend. so, we lived through our adolescence together, and formed a bond. though the closer we got, the more things started to get weird. and the closer we got, the clearer i could see the signs, the red flags. my boyfriend and i had our own demons with addiction and mental illness and we inevitably struggled, and our friend was witness to the darkness that had emerged, as it appeared he watched everything from the sidelines, literally and metaphorically. there was one night in particular that stands out - my partner and i were hanging out at his house and he said he had some weed he wanted to smoke so we walked into the woods by his house and smoked out of a pipe that he supplied. at first glance, i thought i saw white flakes mixed into the weed but i thought i was imagining things. a few hours later, we were watching a movie in his living room. he was on one couch, lounging on his computer, and my partner and i were cuddling on another couch. i remember we felt so affectionate and mushy and we couldn’t understand why, i narrowed it down to just being high. i then noticed our friend had fallen asleep, my partner and i began fooling around, nothing crazy, just a makeout and frankly, a blowjob. afterwards, our friend had woken up and suggested we go in the hot tub, so we did. it was there i started to feel very, very high. i remember feeling a foot rub against mine, i felt it go to my leg and up to my thigh, i remember thinking it was my boyfriend’s doing but i was too high to realize it was actually his friend. once i realized that, i felt incredibly uncomfortable and began heading home. the next morning, we all felt awful, we woke up feeling very down, depressed, just overall not well. we had reached out to our friend to meet up and see if he also felt as horrible as we did, and that was when the evil, know it all smile appeared, and he said “oh yeah well it was molly”. i remember my heart sank into my chest. he had laced the weed with molly, hence why we felt so euphoric and mushy. he then said, “why do you think you guys couldn’t keep your hands off each other?” at that moment, i knew he hadn’t actually fallen asleep. he even went as far to confirm my suspicion, as i said something along the lines of “how did you know that? you were sleeping” and he said, still with that smile, “no, i wasn’t.” he pretended to be asleep, and watched us the entire time. now i know what you’re thinking and it is true, i stayed friends with him, even after his cruelty was shown, even after he drugged me and my partner, even after he touched me inappropriately and invaded my privacy. we remained friends. i wish i could say i removed him from my life, i know now i should’ve, perhaps it would’ve kept me safe, or safer. i hate to admit it, but truthfully, i worried about him, i feared for his mental health, and was afraid what leaving him in the dark would do. as time went on, i started to notice he started treating me differently, almost with more care and concern. for example; there was one day all three of us were on the beach and i had gotten my ankle stuck between rocks trapping me in place. my partner at the time disregarded my calls for help and instead it was his friend who came to help me. i remember thinking it was odd, and out of character for him. another example was when we three went to a heavy metal concert in the city, i remember running around in a circle pit when the person in front of me fell, and caused a domino affect where everyone that followed behind also fell. i remember getting stepped on, twisting my ankle, and laying on the floor struggling to get up. our friend, he saw me, ran in my direction, lifted me up off the floor, and carried me like a baby out of the crowd. these are two small examples of what caused me to notice a shift in his behavior, it seemed like he was going more and more out of his way to ensure i was protected. one thing my rapist and i had in common was we were both musicians, and shared a deep love for singing. my partner wasn’t much of a musician, and most of the times would just watch from the sidelines as we performed. my rapist was in a band, and little me was incredibly drawn to the idea of also being in a band. when i first sang for him, he instantly told me that he wanted me involved in his band as a vocalist, and that i would have to sing in front of the rest of his bandmates. i was extremely excited. later that day, i discussed this idea with my partner, who told me that he didn’t think it was a good idea. i told him that he could come with me and watch, but he refused, as he didn’t want to sit there and do nothing the entire time. i asked him if he would be comfortable if i went alone, and he said no. i grew upset, explaining that i just wanted to sing, i wanted to be apart of something musical that wasn’t limited to a silly little high school show, or a theatre program for teens. my partner then said something to me that i wish i payed more attention to, he said, “i trust you, i don’t trust him” at the time i just felt confused, i even said, “he’s your best friend, why don’t you trust him?“ i am deeply and painfully aware that there were plenty of reasons not to trust him, but this was the first time my partner had said the words, so i wanted a better understanding as to what was going on in his mind. he simply told me “i don’t know, i just have a gut feeling, you’re not going.” and then came the biggest regret of my entire existence, i went anyway. on a sunday, i told my partner i was going to my cousins house, but instead, i showed up at our friends’s, his, house. i showed up in a sweater and sweatpants. he answered the door without a shirt on. i hesitated, and asked if anyone else was here yet, he told me no, that they’d be here any minute now and that we can start setting up. when he brought me upstairs, into his room, he asked me if he wanted to work on some duet stuff in the meantime. i agreed. we began recording, he played guitar and we harmonized, sang maybe 3 or 4 songs when i realized that time had passed and still, no one else was there. i asked him, “when is your band coming?” and there it was, that smile. “yeah, uh, they’re not coming” i should’ve ran. instead i sat there, dumb founded, not understanding what he meant, was he joking? no, he smiled, he knows what he is doing. i sat there, hearing my boyfriends voice in my head telling me “i don’t trust him”. i then stood up and began packing my stuff, intending on leaving. he then stood with me, and shut the door. he threw me onto his bed and held my hands down. my breathing picked up, quick and heavy, but my voice escaped me. i couldn’t speak. i couldn’t think. i couldn’t run, or scream. i froze. never in my life had i ever froze the way i did just then. it felt like my brain was screaming at me to move, do something, but my body refused. before he forced himself inside me, he released my hands and began squeezing my breasts, and i yelped out in pain, ill never forget how hard he squeezed me, it hurt terribly. it brought me back to learning that my grandmother was assaulted in a similar way, and shortly after, was diagnosed with breast cancer. i buried my head into the pillow, and sobbed. the sounds of my pain did nothing but excite him, i know because it was then he began penetrating me. i closed my eyes, and cried into his pillow the entire time. when it was over, he threw himself off of me and finished himself into a sock and threw it on the floor. he walked out of the room and into the bathroom. i slowly sat up, my body aching, and dressed myself. he returned and did two things that stuck with me. first, he threw a bong in my lap and said “smoke that, you look like you need it” and then, he took a poster off of his wall, revealing a hole he had made. inside, there were knives, a bottle with a joint inside, and some paper. he told me then that when he turned 21, “or sooner” he said, he planned to end his life. he said he would use the weapons inside after smoking his last joint, and he would leave a note. i didn’t understand why he told me this at the time, but my therapist told me that it sounded like his way of a threat, ensuring that i would stay quiet. he knew my history with mental health, he knew that i would rather never speak again than be responsible for someone ending their life. i didn’t say anything, i don’t think i spoke a single syllable, i may have nodded, but nothing more of a response came from me. i was destroyed. all i could think was how much of an idiot i was, how blind and stupid and selfish i was to put myself in this situation, all for a chance to sing in a band. i barely remember leaving, i know i sat outside his house and i called my mom to come get me. i knew i could simply walk to the train, but i genuinely feared for myself, i didn’t trust myself in that moment not to throw myself in front of the train. so i sat and waited. when my mom came, i still didn’t speak. she asked if i was okay and i just sat in silence. my breasts throbbing in pain. the next morning, i had bruises on my breasts. i got ready for school, thinking about what was going to happen when i saw my boyfriend, and when i also saw his best friend, the boy who just raped me the night before. i successfully ignored everyone until lunch time came. i usually sat with my boyfriend and his group of friends, so i tried to mentally prepare myself. i didn’t have a plan, i didn’t know what i was going to say, if i was going to say anything at all. my anxiety crept up on me, the paranoia and fear, all swallowed me whole. i sat down, put my headphones in place, and put my head down. my boyfriend was dealing with his own issues, and wasn’t entirely present during this lunch period. he had his headphones in and his head also down, and he was, unfortunately, drunk. yes, drunk in school. i felt someone sit themselves next to me so i lifted my head up, and there it was, that fucking smile. i put my head back down. when my rapist sat next to me, he pulled out his phone, put one headphone in his ear, and the other in mine. i flinched at his hand moving towards me. when the headphone was in, music began to play. my heart sank as deep as it could go. it was me, my voice, his voice, it was us. i looked at him, looked down, and saw our faces on his screen. i had forgotten, before he raped me, we recorded our covers, and here he was, listening to them, on a loop, in front of me and my partner, who didn’t notice at all. at that moment, i got up, and walked away. my boyfriend only then noticed me and my exit and followed me into the staircase, he called after me numerous times, begging me to talk to him, tell him what was wrong. i couldn’t do it. i looked at him with tears pouring out of my eyes and i just said, “i can’t” i felt absolutely horrified, completely ashamed. i blamed no one but myself. it was my fault, wasn’t it? i saw the signs, the red flags, and i ignored them. i was warned against going, just to ignore that as well. i went, and i froze. i didn’t say no. i didn’t run. i didn’t scream. when i went home that day, i made a decision, one that i thought i deserved. i called my boyfriend, afraid to face him in person, and i told him that he shouldn’t be with me anymore, that i wasn’t worthy of being loved by someone like him. naturally, he was lost, confused. i felt i deserved to be punished, i didn’t deserve love, i didn’t deserve good, i fucked up, and i deserve to suffer. this is going to hurt like hell, i thought, but i deserve it. so, instead of telling him the truth, i told him i had cheated. this is what ended our relationship, this is what he told his friends, this is what everyone thought was the truth, i was a cheater. so of course, it followed me. this was when i realized what my bending of the truth had done, it had cost me everything, and i thought that’s what i wanted, i thought that’s what i deserved. to no avail, we broke up, and went about six months without speaking, but not before things got worse. first, we tried to make things work, i held true to my lie, and we tried. there are things that happened at this point that i do not wish to share but long story short, we tried and we failed. it was a year or two after i had been raped when my ex and i rekindled. we managed to come out on top in the end, we remained friends, still to this day, and when i was ready, i told them the truth. i don’t know what i was expecting, the worst perhaps, but instead, he believed me. he listened while i told him what really happened that day. and he held me, while i sobbed. with time, we too talked of the red flags and the signs that we missed, or noticed and ignored in hopes we were just thinking the worst. we’ve learned to heal together and i am forever grateful to have had something good come out of something so bad. my ex was the only person who knew the truth. after, came my best friend, and then, my wife. i never reported it. i didn’t even use the word rape until my therapist used it first. i know earlier i spoke about being scared of what my rapist would do if i told, but i was also deeply scared of not being believed, or supported. i feared i would be to blame, as i blamed myself. i knew nobody, no judge, no jury, would ever take my side. so i stayed silent. where did it lead me? after the rape, i was self harming, drinking, drugging. i attempted suicide, i was hospitalized twice, spent holidays in a mental institution. i lost myself. i couldn’t look in the mirror. i could barely even sing anymore. and as for my rapist? he went on to become an EMT. i’ll never forget the day i found out he was a paramedic, i cried for hours at the thought of me or a loved one needing help, calling an ambulance, and having him show up at our door. i am 28 now, and still, every fucking day, i struggle. i struggle at the sight or sounds of anything that reminds me of him. i hear the songs we sang and i can feel him on top of me. i can’t even listen to them anymore. i make love to my wife and there are nights i can see her face morphing into his and i cry and i scream and i scare. i walk around my hometown, fearing ill run into him. i dream about him. i feel haunted, still, after all this time. the university case has taken over my feed, all my social media has to offer is mentions of rape and assault and it has been very hard on my mind. i’ve been getting sucked back into those years, and it’s so hard to break free from sometimes, because i am reminded that still after all these years, he still haunts me, i still suffer, and he, still, is perfectly fine, smiling.

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

It started as sexual harassment. And I let it happen. Do not let it happen to you! I was a college intern working on my supply-chain management major. In business school you know you don’t just get a degree and POOF! A job is magically waiting for you. Unless you already have connections. I was a single woman on financial aid and had squat for family connections. I needed to make some connections while still in school that I could use to climb the ladder. It is a very competitive world. A time when we don’t care so much where we work as long as it has prospects of advancement and making money. I was interning at the corporate offices for a rental car company. I got my first choice for a class in which we had to intern at a real company. My group of four was in their logistics offices and we had no clear job at the time but my school had sent students for a while so we had a contact person and some loose idea of a project that my group of four had to put together and execute for our grade. Well that was kind of of dud and I went along with the bad idea of planning more efficient distribution routes for their cars entering the fleet. It was naive because the company had real pros who designed the system. But, because of my feminine wiles, I got invited to come in and help in my free time by a top manager. Just me. I jumped at the opportunity and on my available days I showed up early in the morning and tried to be like part of the team. It was a very masculine environment. I tried to hang in spite of the pretenses for my special treatment. “You’re not one of those feminist types who go crying to HR if a man gives you a compliment or a pat on the backside, are you?” The man who first invited me had asked. We’ll call him XX. I assured him I was not, anticipating his expected answer. “Work hard, play hard,” was something I said in my denial of values he was obviously opposed to. So the couple times XX introduced me as his mistress I went along with the joke. Another stupid mistake. As an example of my environment, after a male Y in the department first showed me how to use part of a program that calculates stock outages, he had me sit and try it and gave me a massage I did not ask for early in the morning. Well XX came up and made a joke about Y getting his hands of his girl. They had some bro moment where the male Y asked him if he was serious, saying something about XX’s wife, to which XX backed down and said something like “It’s just a joke. I’d love to in my fantasies, but she’s company property, brother.” Company property??! I was sitting right there! I tensed up but tried to pretend I was so absorbed in the computer training as XX left and male Y went back to massaging me, but this time more boldly. He got down my lower back and upper buttock then went down the arms to my thighs, stopping me from doing any work as he blatantly brushed his forearms and hands against my chest. I felt so weak and almost paralyzed by the time I forced myself to stand up to go use the restroom, stopping it. I could have just done that at the beginning but did not. Later hat same day, XX had me go to lunch with him and have a beer at a bar and grill with a pool table. I was 20 but they did not ask for my ID because I was with XX. I hardly ever played pool and while we waited for our food he “showed” me how to play. He made fun of the cliché on movies and television where a man has a woman bend over the pool table to shoot just so he can push his crotch against her backside in a suggestive manger and lean over her with his arms on each side of her to show her how to slide the stick. But while he joked about it he actually did those things to me! That was a good day for my two main molesters and an awful day for me. XX hugged me as we stood up giggling and apparently his hands now had a license to molest my body whenever he wanted. I got numb to it in some ways, but emotionally more on edge. My butt was grabbed or spanked playfully in the department, even by male Y. A few other men were very flirtatious. My shoulders were rubbed, hugs on even minor greetings with XX and finally I was supposed to get used to little pecks on the lips too. I felt like I was in a constant state of mental anguish and defensiveness. My body could be attacked anytime. But I did not defend myself! I would say clearly to XX and some others that I wanted to be respected and considered one of the guys and have a job there when I graduated and they affirmed it. Both main abusers encouraged me, but still sexually harassed me. With my moronic blessing! The semester ended and I kept going in daily during summer break. It was my only lifeline to a possible job after I graduated in a year. I was so groomed that it was not a big leap at all when XX pressured me to give him head in his office. I refused with a smile and head shake and he came back with some rationalization about how I owed him and he really needed it just then. He would not take no for an answer. The first time I lowered myself to kneeling before his desk and took him in my mouth my hands were shaking and I teared up and had to sniffle snot back up. I was the one who was embarrassed! It was like an out of body experience and my mouth dried up to where I had to ask him to drink some of his energy drink. Internally there was a huge change immediately. I was gutted of all pride and self-worth. I was like a zombie. Hardly eating. Lots of coffee. Showing up and doing the reports that had become my responsibility and mechanically giving XX his daily BJ in the afternoon in his small stale office with a small window. I started to have migraines during that summer. I drove home for 4th of July and got so inebriated I ended up sleeping with my much older sister’s ex-husband in the back of his truck. That was a terrible wake up call. I knew I couldn’t pretend much longer without a breakdown so I put my two week in at the rental car place where I was working for free. To secure my future I made sure to keep it all friendly and “you know I’ll be back working here next year”. The idea of all the time and humiliation I had put in being lost to nothing was a major fear. I put myself through two last weeks of it. I had quickie sex with XX twice on and over his desk. I gave into extreme pressure and gave male Y a BJ too when he explicitly made it about a letter of recommendation. He knew about me doing it for XX. He did not even have his own office and we had to use the stairwell. During my final year of school I became aware that I was too traumatized to ever go back there anyway. The extent to which I had been used and abused became obvious to me, where before it had not. As if I had been living in a denial haze. It was a painful time. I was a bit reckless. I got a C in the high level economics elective I took. I said yes to several dates to avoid being alone and either slept with them or freaked out in anger at them. Seeing that I needed the car rental faux-internship on my resume I did email both abusers for letters of recommendation and got a good one from Male Y, but a very impersonal, generic one from XX. I was so dejected and angry. Finally, I told my sister, the one who confronted me about her ex-husband. I TOLD HER EVERYTHING AND THAT WAS MY FIRST STEP TO RECOVERY. To letting out the pain, screaming at myself in the mirror, punching the heavy bag at a boxing gym I joined, and to seeing my first psychologist and psychiatrist. The therapy helped more than the Celexa and antipsych. The support group helped even more. I met two friends for life who have my back in times of sorrow. I have to repeat that it is not my fault that I was abused, even though it kind of was. Don’t let it happen to you! They will take as much as they can from you. Plan your boundaries now and be assertive! Report harassment immediately. Doing so you are being a hero and protecting other women and yourself. If you have already been abused, GET OUT of the situation and talk to someone about it ASAP. There is nothing to be gained by letting the abuse continue! Talking to someone makes it real and lets you start the process of hating less and starting on the path to learning to love yourself again. You deserve real love.

In my original shared story, IT STARTED WITH MY BROTHER, I talked about my abuse from a bird’s eye view. It was my abuse life as I was able to share it at the time. I have been working up to sharing 3 instances of rapes that I only avoided by allowing the men to take what they wanted instead of fighting. The most traumatic of the three incidents I mentioned involved a police officer. This is that account. I was pulled over on my way home from a study group as junior at the university on a week night. We had shared two drinks toward the end. I DO NOT condone driving and drinking but I was not drunk, as the breathalyzer later confirmed. I was pulled over and already had the nerves associated with that, amplified by the fact that I was under the legal drinking age for another three weeks. That is when I first met the cop I will just call SIK. He gave me a creepy vibe when I first saw him and that never stopped. Still, I flirted with him to an extent desperate to not get it huge trouble. He had me get out of the car, take of my hoodie, under which I only had a basic sports bra. It was only sixty degrees or so that night. I was cold and shivering from fear and the temperature. I saw him look at my body with no filter. Another cop car pulled up with two officers while I was doing the field sobriety tests. He had already searched me in an uncomfortable way. One of the officers who arrived was female and also searched me after he had said I had some problems with the sobriety tests. Walking backwards on an imaginary line heel to toe was the only thing I had trouble with. It is hard! The female cop brought out the breath test I had asked for. I blew 0.035. That is less than half the legal limit. At that point SIK said he was just going to follow me home, rather than arrest me, and the other car left. The whole stop took maybe an hour. Cars drove by on the side street I had pulled onto. Headlights and tail lights in the dark. After the other car left SIK talked to me more harshly and threatening than ever. He said a girl like me is probably used to getting away with everything. He asserted that he could still take me to jail anytime he decides as as he takes me home and makes sure I am safe everything I do is still a test. He could bust me for possession of alcohol and I would lose my license. I was scared. I told him my roommate was home. She was a student too and was supposed to be there. After following me inside my apartment I called out for my roommate. Then I checked her room. She was not there! SIK then accused me of lying to a police officer and locked the deadbolt from the inside. He made me stand with my hands on my own dining room wall with my legs spread. I wanted to call her so he could talk to her and confirm she was usually there, but he stopped me and made me just text her to see when she would be home. He gave instruction not to ask or say anything more and checked before I sent it. She was at her sisters and would not be back until late. At that point he took off his utility belt and put it on my kitchen counter. He told me after all he had done for me was no longer free, since I lied to him. His gun was right there next to us. He made sure I saw it and he even twisted it so it was pointed toward me. I was scared and pleading with him. I really was willing to do anything. I am not sure but I think I told him that. He radioed from his shoulder thing that he was taking a “lunch” break. What I definitely remember was when he said he was going to do a proper strip search this time, down to full nudity and asked if I agreed to that. At that point I no longer had a doubt what was happening. I made the mental adjustment but what he did was more than I had prepared for. He gave me vulgar compliments about my body as he blatantly molested me. He kneaded my breasts like dough. He fingered me as asked if you could use a special appendage he had that went farther in. I knew what he meant. I was repulsed but I agreed. After the initial eager sex with me still having my hands on the wall leaning forward he slowed down. I had been hoping it was almost over but he decided to prolong it. He commanded me to my bedroom. He took off all his clothes besides his socks. He complemented his own anatomy and made me agree. His member was well above average in size but I doubt, if he had not had a wedding band on, that he would ever get to use it. He was half bald, had a prominent eyebrow like a neanderthal, and a pale beer belly with lots of moles all over his body. He had a mustache and goatee that did not completely hide his poor complexion that looked like he had scars from severe acne. Almost all men all taller than me but he was short and only towered over me by a few inches. Never had I lied bigger than when I told him what he wanted to hear about being sexy and wanting him. The only truth was about his large penis. SIK spoke a lot, mostly degrading me and confirming that I agree with him. Cliche stuff, like me being a whore, slut, dirty, and liking what he made me do to him, but also asked about my sex life and abuse history. He wanted me to say that my dad and coaches abused me, but I would not lie about that. Instead I told him some of the truth about my brother abusing me. That was probably the worst part. Saying out loud to SIK what I never used to admit to anyone, for his great pleasure, harmed me. That was worse that the physical stuff. Worse than making me kiss him during parts of it. He was also cruel. He tried to gag me and push all the way down my throat while he made him do oral. He pushed my ankles behind my head while he pounded me with his abusing thrusts. I could see the cruel lust in his eyes. I could see his wicked smile. He slapped my face many times, just not very hard. He did spank me hard. He realized he had me captive and vulnerable to his whim and he was finally living his darkest fantasies. I was doing anything he wanted and encouraging it because I wanted it to stop. So many times he stopped himself right before he was going to climax! He did not want it to end. SIK tried to have anal sex with me and I was accommodating him but he was just too big to fit. I was crying during most of this out of pain but trying to act like an eager partner to make it end. I later thought that might have prolonged it. SIK was probably the time that would prefer I suffer more, like I was being raped instead of hiding my pain. It was not much longer than twenty minutes but it was so bad and I relived it so many times in my mind before I got smashed drunk and high the next night after work. So the memory lived much more prominently in my head than a simple 25 minute encounter. I do reach climax easily, but I never had one orgasm from him because of his preference for causing sexual pain. When he suddenly released inside me he got quiet and barely said another word as he dressed, gun belt and all, and left quietly. I have no idea what that meant. It scared me. I was afraid while driving for a while, and avoided sleeping at home as much as I could, which sometimes meant sleeping with men and even male friends just to not go home. It was the main reason I did not renew my lease and moved it to a smaller apartment by myself. This was the same roommate whose father had already slept with me without my initial blessing. I did tell my roommate a short version of it and she reacted like it was cool story. I did kind of tell it that way, as a way of dealing with it. The easy path of least resistance. To not admit it may have been the worse sexual thing to happen to me. The true worst things that happened to me in my college years were broken hearts from losing men I loved. But those are stories for a different forum. I don’t put my heart out there to be trampled anymore. This incident was one of the wake up calls that stood out as an omen for me to change my whole lifestyle and try to salvage myself. It was also one of the things that took me the longest to mention to my therapist even though I thought about it during sessions.

You think your age makes you less to blame, But I carry the weight, I bear the shame. You crossed the line — no excuse to hide, No softer words can wash this tide. I’m not the one who should feel small, You built this cage, you made me fall. No matter your years, no matter your face, You took from me my safe, my space. But here I stand, I claim my voice, I break the chains, I make the choice. I won’t be silent, I won’t back down, I wear my courage like a crown. So hear me now, and hear me clear, Your actions caused this pain and fear. Age won’t protect what you have done— I am the survivor, I have won.

I really want to tell anybody my story to be better than me my story start when I love my casein he really pretty and hot I love him for 5 years and it was the best 5 years I never tell him that I love him but he always makes me feel that he have the same feeling by doing moves but he really selfish and he proud at himself a lot I don't know why and he sometimes is really rude and star tells me that am ugly fat and you not pretty you like men but I wasn't ugly but when you love anybody you understand them and try to not make problems with them and one day he was really jealous of my guy best friend and start to tell me his not good don't talk with him and I try to know why he tells me that I want him to tell me that he is jealous so after one day he said that am used girl and I be really sad but now I try to forget him and love my self cause he let me hate my self so I need to tell you don't let anybody make you feel sad and uncomfortable with your self just be your self and people opinion it is just an opinion not true . I hope you get advantages from my story.

I'm a male survivor, primarily of female abuse. I'm a little nervous - wait - no I'm actually scared to share here since it's mixed-gendered. I found a wonderful website specifically for men, but I've never had a positive experience elsewhere. Hoping to be supported by both men and women. I've been waking up crying in the morning a lot lately and having dissociative episodes. And I can't keep wondering again if I'm even still a man. Did I have a right to say no? Anyway I don't know what else to write, but thanks for reading this.

As man who suffered abuse and watched as my mother and sister suffered it with me, here's my story. I have turned it into a book called Book Name that will be published in 2025, in the hopes my story will help others who have been silent to speak up and speak out. Growing up in 1960s City, my father’s explosive temper ruled our house like a storm that never stopped raging. His beatings were a ritual—unpredictable but inevitable. His belt was his weapon of choice, and I was the target. First came the verbal assault. “You’re worthless!” he’d scream, spitting his venomous words before unleashing the belt on me. The crack of leather against my skin was sharp, but what cut deeper was the fear that filled my every moment. His attacks were brutal and relentless, and I learned quickly that crying only made it worse. I developed a mantra to survive: “I’m not crazy; he is.” I scratched those words into the wall beneath my bed and held onto them like a lifeline, clinging to the idea that this madness wasn’t my fault. But no mantra could protect me from the pain or the scars that came with each beating. My body bruised and welted, and I carried those marks into adulthood, hidden beneath layers of clothing and false smiles. When I was six, a moment of curiosity nearly killed me. I had been playing outside, tossing sticks into a neighbor’s burning barrel, when a spark landed on my nylon jacket. Within seconds, I was engulfed in flames. As I screamed and ran, my back burning, a neighbor tackled me into the snow, saving my life. In the hospital, as doctors worked to heal my third-degree burns, my fear of my father overshadowed the pain. When I came home, still covered in bandages, my father’s violence continued. He slapped me across the face for not attending the party he had arranged for my homecoming. The message was clear: no amount of suffering would earn me compassion from him. His cruelty was unyielding, and I realized that nearly dying had changed nothing. As the physical scars from the fire healed, the emotional scars festered. I lived in constant fear, not knowing when the next beating would come. His footsteps sent shivers through me, each step a reminder that I was never safe. Even after his death in year his influence loomed over me. I was relieved he was gone, but unresolved grief and anger remained. I sought to reinvent myself in university, throwing myself into academics and work. I was determined to escape the trauma, but no matter how hard I ran, it followed me. The violence I experienced as a child soon became violence I inflicted on myself. In my twenties, bulimia became my way of coping. I would binge on food and purge, as if vomiting could expel the pain I had carried for so long. It was a twisted ritual of control, and yet I had no control at all. Afterward, I would collapse in a heap, my body drained but my mind still haunted by memories I couldn’t outrun. Each cycle promised relief, but it never lasted. Obsessive exercise became another outlet. I spent hours in the gym, pushing my body to its limits, believing that if I could perfect my exterior, I could somehow fix the brokenness inside. I built muscles to protect myself, but the mirror always reflected the truth—hollow eyes staring back at me, the emptiness never far behind. Even as I climbed the ranks in my career, becoming a corporate executive, the gnawing self-doubt persisted. I was successful, but success didn’t heal the wounds my father left. I also sought comfort in strangers. Fleeting encounters became a way to fill the void inside, offering temporary escape from the relentless pain. But after every encounter, the emptiness returned, more consuming than before. No amount of running, lifting, or sex could fill the gaping hole in my heart. I was numbing myself, not living. It wasn’t until I sought therapy that I began to confront the traumas I had buried so deeply. My first therapist suggested writing letters to my parents, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It took finding the right therapist—someone who pushed me to go beyond the surface—to finally begin the healing process. Slowly, I unraveled the layers of pain, facing not only the abuse from my father but also the self-inflicted harm I had continued to impose upon myself for years. My wife, name became my greatest support, helping me peel back the layers and confront the darkness I had hidden for so long. Together, we built a life of love and connection, but even in those happiest moments, the shadows of my past never left me. When my mother passed away indate, I found closure in our complicated relationship. Forgiveness—both for her and for myself—became an essential part of my healing. Today, I use my story to encourage others to speak up and break the silence around abuse. The pain I endured was not in vain. I believe that our past can fuel our purpose and that, ultimately, our pain can become our power.

I'm a 63-year-old woman who has endured abuse all of my life. The abuse started with my mother who was a narcissistic sociopath. She would beat me with a 2x4 shaped into a paddle so she could get a good grip on it. I would get beaten every single day. She would say the abuse was due to me wetting my underwear. I would have to take off my underwear every night and she would smell them. If they had even the slightest hint of urine that was enough of a reason to get beaten. It was like a catch 24, if I was out playing I wouldn't go home to go to the bathroom because I was afraid of getting beaten, but if I didn't go home to go to the bathroom I would get beaten. I spent my entire childhood in fear. She would steal my money, throw my things away, tell lies about me. She knew I was my father's favorite, so I wasn't allowed to speak to him. I was brainwashed to believe this was how every family lived. When I got married I married my mother. He also abused me. He would lie, cheat, and steal from me. I was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer. When I would go to my treatments I would take Fish crackers to help with the nausea. One day I went to the cupboard to get my crackers and they were all gone but one, just enough to make it look like they were still there and the container wouldn't have to be thrown away. I also was diagnosed with brittle bone disease. I was told I needed to drink alot of milk. We had a refrigerator in the garage where I would keep 5 gallons of milk, along with 1 gallon that was in the house refrigerator. One day I went out to the garage to get a gallon of milk and all 5 gallons were gone. He had drank all 5 gallons in just one week. Can you imagine doing that to your wife who has Stage IV breast cancer!!! He threw a hammer at my head as I was walking away from him. He burned our home to the ground and told the detectives I did it. He is also a narcissistic sociopath. While he was doing all this, he got my daughter to go along with him. She, as of today 10/11/25, is a liar, cheater, thief. She is abusive. She's only 25 and already has been married twice, has 2 children from each marriage and she hates them both. She uses her children as pawns to get her way. She has already used two childhood friends to try and get to me. I'm not stupid, I know what she's up to and I'm not falling for it. I've been divorced for 3 years now. I've changed my name, moved away, and started my life over, but she still finds me. I'm terrified of her. I know what she's capable of. I thought once I got divorced I would be free of the abuse, but I'm not. At this time, all I have is my faith that God will take care of me. God got me out of a horrific situation and I have faith the God will continue watching over me. I'm so happy I got out of my marriage, which lasted 35 years. The divorce took 3 years; the judge said it should've only taken 9 months. He wanted everything, so I gave him everything. The law needs to be trained to understand mental illness such as narcissistic sociopath to understand that they are prolific liars. My divorce attorney's husband even said, "he lies so well you almost have to believe him." That's the problem, the legal system believes them so the innocent get punished and the perpetrators get away with it.

Hi, I don't know if it counts as abuse or not; I just recently (about two months ago) remembered a bit about what happened. It happened when I was 8 years old. I used to have a "friend" who was 9 or 10; I don't know what he said to me that day that made me say "No, that's not from God," although at first I "gave in" and had said no. I'm not sure if that really happened or if it's just my imagination.

I was only 6 years old when I was sexually assaulted. The first time I talked about it with anyone and said it out loud was this year. I'm now 22... that means it's been 16 years later. But I am so thankful to have the support system I do have - the support system who has been strong enough to give me the courage to finally speak up for myself ❤️

It was 21 years ago and I have never told anyone. I lived with my first roommate, who I knew had some questionable friends. Nevertheless, I trusted her and our new, cute, little home. Until one night she had friends over. I didn't drink and wasn't into hard drugs. We had food, everyone else was drinking and having a good time. I don't remember anything after that, until I woke up in the middle of the night with a man, one of her 'friends', on top of me. He was inside of me as I laid on the middle of the floor. I could not move, I could not speak. It wasn't a flight, fight or freeze, I had been drugged and could not move a single part of my body. I couldn't even move my arms to push him away. And when my roommates MOTHER walked into our new home, into the dark room, in the middle of the night, she saw what was happening. All I could do was open my eyes wide with fear, but she turned around and walked out without a word and left him to finish what he started. He laughed when she walked away. By the time I had any control of my body, he was gone, I was alone and naked on the living room floor of my first place, where every person stepped over me as they filed out in the morning. It was the morning joke...what and who did she do. No one asked if I was ok that morning. No one ever did. It has been 21 years and I still don't know the name of the man who raped me that night, but I will always remember his face.

What if the path you walked wasn't shadowed by the trauma of child abuse? The road not taken is always a mystery, but your journey could have been remarkably different. Imagine a childhood cradled in safety and affection. This could have nurtured a deep well of self-belief, unshakeable confidence, and an openness to trust. Relationships, both close and professional, might develop with honest communication and mutual respect. Perhaps you would have chased your passions with fearless abandon, leading you down unexpected but fulfilling paths. While the past is unchangeable, this "what if" can be a source of strength. It shows the remarkable resilience you possess. You've overcome incredible challenges, and that strength can be a guiding light as you build the future you deserve. They may still carry the scars of the past, but those scars don't define them. This strength and resilience are powerful tools to build the future they deserve. With courage and self-compassion, they can rewrite their story, one filled with possibilities that were once dimmed but never extinguished. The "what if" lingers, a bittersweet reminder of what could have been. Yet, within it lies a profound truth: you are stronger than you know. The scars may be a part of you, but they are not all of you. Now, with the wisdom of your journey, you stand at a crossroads. Which path will you choose?

Iam a 33 year old with 3 children(2 boys and one girl) my first born son is from my previous relationship. I was a fresh graduate when i met this man that i currently have two kids with …i finished university expecting to get a job to support me and my then only son but each time i tried to look for jobs my husband discouraged me saying i would be exploited and given peanuts so to whom it was wise for me to sit home and be a wife i gave in and sat home but him satisfying my needs was always a fight i remember i asked for panties and bras for the last 6 years and nothing.everything he provides we must first have a fight and he knows so well i have no where to run to because he isolated me from my family. After moving in with him and my son he started treatung my son with so much anger he would beat,abuse and use vulgar words to him and he still does it he shows him that am not your father and only favors the kids i have with him. Mine i came with is not worthy of anything good. While i was pregnant for his son he was flirting with my sister and by this time i was not getting any financial help so i opted to go to my mothers rental and after sometime my sister disclosed to me the kind of husband i have when i confronted him about it he was too bitter and threatened to take my kids from me. When i was pregnant for my second child with him i got him with 15 girls flirting and sleeping around i was so devasted and almost lost my child due to stress i put my self together and let it go for my sake of my baby but i swore i was done with this man so i started not to pay too much attention on him and concentrated on raising my kids meanwhile i was caught up had no money of my own and had no relative in contact with i perservered and stayed to have a roof over our heads and to solicit food for my kids. I actually lost sexual appetite towards him for all the disgusting things he does behind my back but he would force me into sex and threaten not to provide if i ddt satisfy him a time came when he would rape me saying am his property and that i couldnt live without him since i dont have any money. It was all verbal violence until may this year 2024when i confronted him about cheating with my cousin and messages of him in a lodge with another girl that he grabbed me by the neck and strangled me and beat up that i started spitting blood..at this point i said to myself i should leave and start a new life i actually told him am leaving and he laughed at me saying u cant leave what are u gonna feed ur kids .i was packing whole day thinking to my self i cant fail to get where to stay but reality hit me and for sure i had no where to go so i unpacked my stuff and stayed its now months and months of sexual, financial,emotional and physical abuse but i dont know where to start with 3 children ive actually contemplated suicide so many times thinking it will ease the pain. Am in fear please advise me