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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.

I have recently decided to write a book on surviving abuse I spent four years in a various sexual physical and mental abusive relationship i've already wrote in that memoir on my experience itself and I'm willing to let anyone read it I would like to write a book that should help everybody I would be putting in my own experience and would appreciate if there's anybody here that would like to help me share their experience with me to add to my book to reach those people that don't understand what they're going through yet I promise your name will never be used Just your experience

Dear Strangers, I’m writing this letter because I’ve carried a lifetime of pain in silence for too long, and I’m ready to speak it plainly—not to dwell in the darkness, but to show that even the deepest shadows can give way to light. If my words reach even one person who feels buried under their own story, then they’ve done what I hope they can do: remind you that survival is not the end of the road. It’s the beginning of something stronger. I was three when my mother left me with my father. She walked away from the responsibility. He was a small-town jock, still angry from losing his own mother young, and he poured that anger into parties, fights, and me. I was supposed to be his little football player, but I never quite fit the mold. A few years later I was molested by someone connected to his family. They covered it up. The person never faced consequences. Then another family member—the one everyone adored—tricked me into sexual acts that went on for years. I developed a twisted loyalty to him, what I now know was Stockholm syndrome. I broke free later, but those years stole my childhood before I even knew what childhood was supposed to feel like. My father beat me with a belt until my skin welted. I hid seashells in my pants to soften the blows—my trauma made me fidget, made me “bad,” made the belt come faster. When he discovered the shells, the punishment doubled. My stepmother would eventually call him off, but the marks were already deep. School offered no safety. The principal screamed in my face and locked me in a closet. It turned out my dad had dated her daughter years earlier. Small towns remember everything except mercy. I fell in with troubled kids and got into trouble with the law. My dad blamed me for his failing marriage and threatened to send me away. I loved my half-brother—my stepmother’s son—despite being taught to hate him. At the end of elementary school I moved to my mom’s. I couldn’t brush my teeth properly, couldn’t make a bed, could barely read. My mom worked hard to teach me habits, and she succeeded, but her new husband—a cop—was cruel. He wiped pepper spray on my face as a joke, watched porn in the living room, cheated on my pregnant mother. The neighborhood was mostly Black; as a lonely white kid I was an easy target for violence. I came home with black eyes. My mom still denies it happened. Loneliness became chronic—not just depression, but the kind that makes you question whether existing is worth it. My dad kidnapped me back once, embarrassed by his own choices. More beatings, more isolation in new towns, more bullying. When he planned another move, I chose my mom’s again. That town felt closest to home. I made real friends there, but I remained the outsider most days. A close friend died in a car crash; his family treated me like a replacement, saying I looked just like him. It was strange and painful. I had a girlfriend. We were both survivors of molestation. We messed around lightly—nothing more than touching—and I felt a real connection for the first time. One night her mother invited us over. My girlfriend wasn’t there. Her mom looked at my mother and said, “Did you know your son raped my daughter?” My body froze in a way my father’s belt never achieved. I couldn’t speak. My head shook no. I looked at my mom—the only protector I’d ever trusted—and her face said she believed it. My heart shattered. They threatened charges but refused medical proof. Her parents later tried to lure my mom into an alley to beat her. My mom’s boyfriend turned out to be a meth addict and stole everything. My girlfriend spread changing stories around school. That humiliation broke something deep inside me. I became sharper, more self-aware than ever, but all I carried was anger and pain. High school was a mask: friendly, easy-going, pretending to be stupid so no one expected too much. Athletic but never fully accepted by teammates. Popular with girls, never the right ones. I wrestled—found something I truly loved in combat sports. I went to prom as a freshman with a senior, dated another senior until my dad moved us again. She broke up with me, hinted at cheating to hurt me. She took my virginity. In the new state I fought my dad for real—stood up, fought back, felt years of rage flood through me. I wanted to end him. My stepmom’s touch on my shoulder stopped me. I thought of my little brother in the next room and walked away. My dad shoved me over chairs afterward. I left planning to walk halfway across the country. I blacked out in the night. He picked me up later and talked trash for weeks. I didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. Back at my mom’s, she focused on herself and treated me like a burden. My stepdad kicked me out for smoking weed. I was homeless for a month during brutal blizzards, living in a friend’s sister’s garage. I moved back to my dad’s as an adult. I worked 70-hour weeks at a factory—became the youngest assistant manager. I could talk to ex-convicts without losing respect. I lived without heat. COVID hit. Panic attacks began. Isolation became addiction. I slept with the wrong women, stole a friend’s girlfriend (she came on to me; I fell). Guilt crushed me. I moved back to my dad’s, broke and barely eating. Trauma peaked. I opened up to my dad about needing help; he yelled that my issues didn’t matter. I worked in healthcare during COVID’s height—COVID ICU, 5–6 deaths a day. I did CPR, post-mortem care when nurses couldn’t. Nurses hit on me; I stayed cold, self-isolating. No friends, no family, no home—just work. A doctor offered to pay for my schooling because of my compassion. Then I took LSD and saw myself in the mirror for the first time—with empathy and sadness. Right before I broke completely, I met my wife pushing a corpse to the morgue. We fell in love. I quit, moved into her house. I drowned in agony, leaching off her income. Grocery shopping felt impossible. Eyes everywhere. Panic attacks stopped my breathing. I froze. It was PTSD. Close calls with guns, hostile intent—I should be dead multiple times. But it wasn’t the guns that almost killed me. It was existing. When I married my wife, I gave my dad one last chance. He no-showed the wedding. I promised her I’d be better than the day before. I haven’t broken that promise. I found God truly then. After years of fighting, I’m finally standing on my own feet—going to school, mastering trauma, getting back in shape, being a pillar for my family. I’m not the boy who hid seashells anymore. I’m not the teenager who shattered under false accusations. I’m not the man who almost snapped his father’s neck or drowned in guilt and substances. I’m the one who stayed standing when others fell in that church room. I was just a child, nervous and curious, standing in front of a chair while grown men placed their hands on me and prayed. Everyone around me collapsed under the weight of whatever power moved through that space. I felt it too—a rush, a presence—but my legs held. I didn’t fall. The men looked at me with wide eyes and said I had a very strong spirit. I didn’t understand it then, but I carried those words like a promise I didn’t yet know I’d need. That moment wasn’t magic or coincidence. It was the first quiet proof that something in me refused to break, even when everything else did. That same spirit is what kept me alive through every beating, every betrayal, every night I thought I wouldn’t wake up. It’s what let me choose restraint when rage begged me to destroy. It’s what lets me stand today. I carried brutality in my mind for decades, but my soul kept concluding the same thing: keep choosing light. Keep rebuilding. Never give up. The pain is still there, but it no longer owns me. It forged me. And now I’m using what it taught me—to defend the scared, to rebuild from ruins, to show others that even in a harsh world, the soul can still choose hope. If you’re reading this and you feel buried under your own story—know this: You are still here. You are still choosing. And that choice, every single day, is proof that you are stronger than the darkness ever believed you could be. There is light on the other side. I’m walking toward it. You can too. With hope that refuses to quit, A survivor finding his way

I'm a sexual assault survivor. About four years ago during my sophomore year of high school | went to a halloween party and met a guy. At this party we talked and talked and he seemed kind so l continued to hangout with him after the party. One day we were at his house in his room and things escalated. I was comfortable with kissing and cuddling but shortly after that started, he wanted more-he asked me to have sex and I said no. He continued to ask me and I kept saying no and I wasn't sure until | finally gave up and just gave in and said sure. I was so confused at the time because I knew I said yes at one point so I thought that meant it was okay. Shortly after I learned about coercion and I realized that's what happened to me. Even though it's been four years, I haven't been able to fully heal, but l am healing.

This happened when I was in grade 3, a boy and I had known each other since kindergarten. We went on the same bus, had the same teachers and classes and even the same stop. So obviously me and him were close. One day he brought his iPad on the bus, me and him had been playing around and I had said "If you win, I'll kiss you." It was a joke. I had been laughing and smiling nothing flirtatious just innocence. He won, grabbed me by my neck, caged me against the seat, and kissed me. Tongue and everything. He did this till the school year ended. Anytime I fought he'd bite me or tighten his grip on my neck. When I told teachers they didn't believe me. They believed his version, that it had never happened. When teachers started to wonder he'd say that I had consented. I didn't know what to call it for years later, until I saw a post on COCSA. I still struggle to call it that, because I worry if he was right and I had consented.

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

I was used by my brother who has grown up a lot but I still carry scars. My brother is four years older than me and when I was going from elementary school to Junior high, that summer, he made me think that girls in junior high need to know how to give oral to boys. First he did oral to me to show me it was not a big deal. I thought it was a huge deal. But I did it and he got me trained and had me keep it a secret, except from by best friend. He had his friend over when I had a sleepover one night and had her do it to his friend. Then they would have us do contests where they wear blindfolds. At least I was not alone then. It changed me even though seventh grade itself had nothing to do with anything like that. It was a lie to get pleasure from me. My brother still had me doing it at home. And sometimes he would do it to me and I did climax. So I had this weird secret sex life and felt really messed up about it. Then in eight grade I had my first real boyfriend. My parents are so strict, even though they both worked and left me alone with my brother. To go to the movies with my boyfriend they made sure it was with a group and took me there and waited outside the theater. Well one time when we went to see Snow White and the Huntsman my same BFF and me went through with our plan to go down on our guys in the last row of the theater and we did it. It was only a month later I started having sex with him which never would have happened if not for what my brother had done. We snuck out from her place during a sleepover and met the boys outside and went to the nearby park and did it in the grass. That was my virginity. The really bad event, where my life got knocked off the tracks, is when we tried it from my house, sneaking out the window and going just out farther into my big back yard that opened into nothing but the side of a big hill and my dad caught us. It was awful. The world ended. I was treated like a huge betrayer and almost all my privileges were revoked and essentially I was grounded without any end date. And still by brother would make me do the oral. I was broken hearted because I was not allowed to have my boyfriend to the point my parents made me go to the school and talk to the principal and vice principal and they made sure I would not have any chance to ever see him alone. And my brother kept creeping in at night sometimes or when we were left alone expecting me to do what he had trained me to be used to. The next really bad part was two months into my new restricted life. My brother started doing his oral on me one afternoon after school and decided to take it farther and got up and started kissing me and had sex with me. I was in the moment and did not do anything to stop him and even participated. No condom. It was an afternoon when my parents were away and so we did not have to keep quiet or worry and he did it so much longer than my few times with my boyfriend, because he was older and knew more from being with other girls that I got sore for my first time and got a urine infection. I did not eat my dinner that night and pretended to be sick and cried myself to sleep. My brother really wanted to do it again, telling me it was the best sex he ever had, but I refused and one thing I could say for him back then was at least he was not a rapist. Even though he pressured me he never tried to force himself inside me. Four months after I had lost my incest virginity the school year ended and he graduated. I went to high school and he moved out to live in college dorms 120 miles from our home town. Public school was over for me, as was planned as soon as my dad caught me on the hill. I went to an all girl’s Catholic high school. My dad had to drive me a half hour every morning and my mom picked me up from my whole first year. Then they got me a car so I could drive myself but the mileage and my times were closely monitored. I did not have an intercourse throughout high school but seven times total I did oral on my brother during summer and winter breaks when we were both at home. That was the end of incest in my life. I went to college in Atlanta but not the same one as my brother. I rebelled against my parents and even though they tried to keep control, as a legal adult I did not let them. Turmoil and sadness lasted months until they finally got it. I separated from them financial and worked and took out student loans. I was very promiscuous in college. I drank, partied and used drugs recreationally and had several guys I was seeing on and off for mostly sex. That was my life and I thought I enjoyed it at the time. I became stronger and more assertive and when my brother first hinted during a Thanksgiving meeting at our relative’s house that we go for a drive I told him I never wanted to touch him again in such a powerful way that he knew I was off limits and even seemed like the scared one in our relationship. I didn’t enroll in classes for two nonconsecutive semester just because my party life was so much more fun. I traveled on and off. Sometimes with friends, sometimes with men, usually older, who invited me to exotic places. The Maldives, Portugal, The Virgin Islands. I let my married boss use me for a weekend in Key West. I had an affair with my Spanish teacher, who only took me as far as Panama City, Florida. So many risky one night stands. My identity was that I was not looking for anything permanent, a child of the universe. While I was used as a plaything so many times and believed I liked the game. I would tell them things about wanting to make their dick happy and stuff that would inflate their ego. I’m sure there are so many text messages out there that they saved about the size of their D fitting in my little P, about being a little girl wanting them to teach me to be woman and other depraved fantasies I thought they wanted to hear. Obviously directly related to what my brother did to me. I am almost positive I avoided being raped more than once by going with the flow when I did not expect to or probably want to. It may be good that some of them I probably don’t remember. Once was at one of the few fraternity parties I ever went to. It was three guys, not my usual style. Once was with my roommate's father who was visiting her at our rented house and found his way to my bed in the early morning. One of the more extreme traumatic events was with a police officer who pulled me over for driving when I had been drinking but was under the legal limit on his breathalyzer. He followed me home, like a mile away, “for my safety” and even followed me inside. I was in an apartment then and I thought my roomate was home and told him so. But when she wasn’t there he said I lied to a police officer and he had to do a more thorough search if I wanted to avoid being arrested. He was not attractive or nice. He had a gun thought he never took it out. You can guess what happened. I finally shed that wild life during my second to last semester when I saw the end of college coming. My G.P.A was 3.3. and my major was philosophy and it dawned on me that the future was not bright in terms of what I would do or how I would pay back my loans. I buckled down and decided to change. I had an offer to strip and ‘make a lot of money’ but thankfully not only did never considered myself like that, but when I went with a friend for her interview and they tried to recruit me they were so sleazy we both ran out of there disgusted. I reevaluated my whole life. I considered ending it, but some survival mechanism did not allow it. I did not want to be the person I had been for a few years. I looked ahead and saw it was not sustainable as I aged and had no real love or stability. I quit serving when I got an offer to work in a legal office. I slept with the manager who hired me as a receptionist but it was a drop in the bucket of things to be shameful of. He was the last one like that. I got all A’s and graduated cum laude. I got promoted in the firm mostly by title but used it to spring away and take a lower paying job in a nonprofit law firm where I had not slept with anyone. There I did sleep with a lawyer but I am married to him still and my life is back together. I love him and he loves me. He does not know the extent of my sluttiness in college or about my brother and I doubt he ever will. That darkness is fading and it is not part of my life now. It is not who I am. As for my brother, he has a family now and we are on good terms. We did talk about it once while I was studying like crazy my senior year, although it was not a big deep talk. I did mention that he used me, he apologized, we hugged, and that was it. Not the cathartic confrontation some might expect. My catharsis is my husband, and my life now that I am grateful for. We adopted two toddler brothers and I am their mom. Maybe we’ll have one of our own. Maybe we’ll adopt again. I was used and introduced to sex too young and early and it strained my relationship with my parents for a long time and I’ll never get that back. It derailed my life. I was set adrift for a while but God or the universe or random luck finally put me in a good place. Everything that happened led me what I have now. I can’t say I never contemplated suicide in darker times. But like in the move Cast Away, if I may quote, “I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am.” Thousands of hours spent studying philosophy and I quote a movie that was not even based on a book. But it’s perfect.

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

A friend and I dated within the same friend group, and I used to hang out with the guys a lot--I considered them as my brothers. One night when we were altogether, I felt too drunk to take myself home and felt safe with my friends ex to get a cab and drop me off. He came in uninvited and kissed me, then all I remember are flashes of us being naked, him being inside of me, going down on me, etc., but I felt like I couldn't move. I woke up to shower, my bed was broken, and he was gone. I called him the next day to confront him about it, and that I don't even remember what happened. He said he thought "i enjoyed it" (I was unconscious half of the time), and only stopped because the bed broke. Although he apologized he had the audacity to tell me not to share this with anyone, and to this day only very few close friends know about this incident. It truly broke my trust even with platonic guy friendships.

The body remembers trauma. I didn’t know this until I experienced it myself. After a fun and rambunctious night with my husband (now ex) I woke up the next morning feeling particularly sore. As I sat on the toilet I realized that this soreness was something I had felt before. I then had a flashback from my sophomore year in college. When I woke up groggy after a night of partying with my soccer teammates. I headed to the bathroom. As I peed I felt that sore and ache-y feeling. I didn’t know what it was and wrote it off as cramps and hangover. I remember looking in the mirror and seeing that I wasn’t wearing my pajamas. Just a random top and shorts. When I got back to my dorm room my then boyfriend was just waking up. And that was the end of my flashback. I then realized my sexual history was a lie. I thought I had lost my virginity to my husband and he was my first and only partner. But this changed everything. I lost my virginity to my boyfriend who raped me and I had no idea. My sexual narrative and my identity changed in my late 30's because of this revelation. Who am I? What does this mean? Bits and pieces from the night returned. I know we drank a lot. I know he walked me home. Thats all I can remember because I blacked out. Is it better that I blacked out? That I cant remember the horrible thing done to me? I don't know. I just feel a bit lost and scared for the 19 year old me who was young and naive. She didn't know what to do. Now in my early 40's divorced and a single parent I'm healing the wounds that were invisible and hiding for so long. Im listening to my body now. And I'm going to nourish it.

Hi all. My story with abuse begins 2 years ago. My assaulters are my ex boyfriend and his cousin. When I first met my ex boyfriend I was a teenager and had never been in a relationship or done anything beyond just kissing someone. Very inexperienced. Conversations regarding relationships and intimacy were unheard of in my family, so I didn’t know anything about what was normal or not. A few months after I met my (now ex) boyfriend, he asked me to have a threesome with him and his “close friend.” This was maybe a week after the first time we had sex together. He told me that the friend was my age and was interested in me. I told him that made me very uncomfortable and I am not interested. He seemed to move on so I didn’t think any more about it. At this point he seemed like a very kind, understanding guy. Fast forward another month and it’s New Years Eve. Boyfriend came to my house (I lived on my own) and asked if he could bring some friends. No problem, sounds fun! He shows up with one friend (that I’ve never met) and says the rest cancelled last minute. I continued thinking it was innocent and the night would go well. We were all drinking and snacking and watching movies together, which was fun for me! It wasn’t long before I realized that they kept passing me shots and I was almost black out drunk. Completely incoherent which was not my intention. I don’t remember much between now and waking up, other than the worst part of the night. I vividly remember laying on my bed, pretty much unable to move or talk I was so out of it, and my boyfriend coming in and having sex with me. Then his friend walked in and did the same. I couldn’t move or speak or even fully comprehend what happened, but I know I never said okay to this. I would have never said yes to this no matter how much alcohol is involved. I woke up the next morning and had no clue what to do other than just continue on. I didn’t remember enough or have the guts to say anything. They left that morning like nothing happened. My (now ex) boyfriend turned out to be a narcissistic sociopath. I was I was exaggerating or joking. He made me believe I agreed to that and had fun. Not true. Almost a year later that friend reached out to me and clued me in on the situation (I think he felt guilty). He told me that my ex told him that I was his friends with benefits and was excited about this “threesome” idea. We were dating, or so I thought. I also found out that my ex set up the situation so this friend could lose his virginity. And the next fun bit of info, this “friend” is my ex’s COUSIN. I lapsed in sanity apparently and refused to believe this and continued dating “the love of my life.” The sexual, mental, emotional, and financial abuse continued with my ex for 2 whole years before I reached my breaking point. The trauma I’m having to work through now is something I wouldn’t wish on the worst soul on the planet. Please learn from my mistakes and DO NOT ignore red flags. They present themselves for very important reasons. Listen to them.

IF YOU DONT, THE CHILDREN WILL NEVER SEE ME AGAIN.... It was Mother's Day and that's what the father of our children said. If I didn't have sex with him, the kids would never see their Dad again. So I did. And it was the final straw. My depression really kicked in then. Looking back, I realise a few things. It's now called coercive rape, the children would have been better to have seen as little as possible of a manipulative, narcissistic father as possible and despite all that happened since, I and the children are together.

I know it was his fault Not my 12-year-old self’s fault  We know it but the guilt sticks to us anyway  I have done plenty of things to feel guilty about since.    But then it was not my fault, yet I could have done so much better.  The guilt is there.  Like burn scars.   I did not block out the memory because I participated consciously.    It was my first job.  $6 per hour.  When my uncle started giving me massages in his repair shop, I was already changing. I had urges. New urges and sensations. I had kissed boys at school.  The massages were creepy and felt creepy.  Right after I started working there.  I declined them, but in a token, way. I did not try to move away. Not very hard.  I was a roller blader with my cousins. I took long skates around town. I ached sometimes. That’s how it made a little sense I would need a massage.  I ignored the obvious—that he sent both the man employees away or home for our sessions, and we kept it secret. Even from my friends. I knew it was not on the level.  I knew he was being a perv. My boss. My uncle.  The dragon. I would lay on the massage table in the back and let him touch me.  He bought it a week after he started the touching. I was still awkward about it and the table make it seem legit   It felt good.  My back and shoulders to start, but he spent most of the time on my legs and butt. That’s where most of the muscle is, especially on a skinny in-line skater girl. It was probably the most athletic time of my life. I did not do sports again.  Not eating was my exercise plan eventually.  I was sort of tall then but I stopped growing at fourteen. I would squirm when he would rub my vulva through my clothes while doing my upper thighs and he would tell me to relax. The first time he brought oil I did not take anything off because I was wearing shorts.   He had a plan. He got two bottles of oil so I could take one home and put it on so the smell would not seem weird when I came home smelling like vanilla.   It suddenly became normal that I would sit down, take off my shirt, and shorts or pants, and lay down. He would take off my panties.  No bra then. I never really needed one.    This was my job!   I was getting paid to do what he said.  I still feel shame that I kept quiet as he escalated it. It was such a gradual damn process from the occasional brush through the clothes to my vulva being fully part of the massage on the way down. I breathed hard while he did it. I couldn’t help it.  That was the routine.    It felt so intense.  Of course.   I got used to his hands on my body. I thought about it all the time.  I did not know what my clitoris was. Even though it felt crazy I thought it was less bad when he touched it than when he touched my labia because it was just a low part of my belly, not my privates. I’m crying right now.  To think what I didn’t know and HE DID!  He was a selfish immoral prick. A predator. Probably still is.  He warned me before he used his mouth the first time.  I was on my stomach.  He put his face between my legs.  I couldn’t see him.   I immediately tried to get up and said “No, no, no, no, no, no.” rapid fire.   He apologized. I rolled over. We hugged.  He spent some time rubbing my face, temples, and ears. He knew I liked that.  Then he got real stern. The only time he ever scolded me. Told me not to behave like a baby.  I worked for HIM.  Not the other way around. He was doing this FOR ME.   Used his strength to hold my thighs and went at it with his mouth and tongue until I went still. I stared up at the ceiling tiles. He stopped when he thought I had liked it. I think it was my breathing. I learned to breathe hard and make sounds to make him happy.  Shame. Guilt. I went from dreading that part to looking forward to it.  I felt cooler than other girls at school.  Cooler than my cousin.    Dragon and I were cool with each other, like we had a fun inside secret.    We would kiss sometimes. Make out.  He stopped staying fully dressed. I did not realize what he was doing until he showed me.  The dragon was masturbating.  Seeing it was so insane that it was scary.  I got used to these kinds of freaky adrenaline rushes. Revolting and exciting.   I was just a girl.    Then I wasn’t.  Never again.  He would use fingers in me and I would have something like mini climaxes.    Then he would stand and jerk it right over me at the end and drip it on me.  I thought it was gross.  So gross. We had a roll of paper towels by the table to wipe me off.  While he drove me home it was ALWAYS like it never happened. I did not know at the time that men completely change and lose interest after they purge it.  If he would have tried to have sex with me it probably would have kept going. No more virgin after three months of foreplay. Ignorant bliss that would crash and burn me one day.  BUT he wanted a blowjob one day.  Maybe he thought it was an easier transition.  He was wrong! I was so revolted by it that I vomited, got a headache, and that night told my parents.  Shame on me for waiting so long!  Shame on me for taking pleasure in his predation!  Shame on him for being a HORRIBLE MAN!  Shame on my parents for letting him tell most of the story his way!    Because I was too young to articulate it right.    Shame on me for keeping quiet while he apologized to me in front of them in the kitchen. I was not even sure what he told them before they called me in. My parents both seemed relieved after he cleared it up.  Most of all, shame on me for letting it sit that way.    A cowardly silence and head nod that was my signature on a contract with the devil.    I lost my soul without a fight.  Hating him costs hating myself.  That is my first guilt.

The bitterest truth that I had to face was understanding the depth of trauma. Not just the type of trauma that forms after an injury but the ones that are under the surface, winding through veins, in the dark places of a soul...in the parts of the mind that we lock away. The kind that hides. Goes dormant. Waits until you aren't ready and makes you face the reality that you've lost something you'll never get back. Innocence. I grew up sheltered, protected, and a little misguided. Intelligence didn't skip me but street smarts certainly did. I didn't have a road map to navigate through the ins and outs of the bad things that could lurk around corners...and it left me open to grooming at fifteen. He changed me in a permanent way. The internet let him in and my yearning to feel important, needed, and wanted, kept him there to imprint on a psyche that wasn't emotionally or mentally mature enough to understand the repercussions of actions. Mistakes were made and spirals became trainwrecks. I carried the burden of a closeted life into my college years and it left me exposed to the unfathomable. A predator saw me from a mile away--cloaked in something that resembled friendship, disguised by a pretext that ripped away the last shreds of dignity. I had no reason to doubt them but I should have. The drink in my hand, the fuzziness floating through my head, and the spilled champagne gave me no warning. That's when the lights went out. That's when it went dark and every action that followed was no longer my own. He took my memories. My self-worth. My sense of security. My dignity. Bruised, broken, and confused...I spiraled. I tried to cover the marks on my face and scrambled to find what was left of my clothes, but he'd done his homework. He destroyed everything. He made it look like a blackout gone wrong and was already telling me the opposite of the truth. I already knew the truth. I felt it in my gut. I was raped. Another light within me flickered and went out with a smirk on his face. This man actually wanted to touch me after violating my body. I backed into a corner. I shrank. I sobbed. I kept repeating the word "why" like it was a singular mantra, without refrain. He had no answers. Just excuses and justifications for his actions. I heard every word that no one ever wants to hear. "No one will believe you", "I have her, why would I need to drug and force you?", "It's your word against mine.", "You know that this is all in your head, right?" I believed him. I did not seek justice out of fear. Out of humiliation. Out of a lack of faith in myself. It nearly killed me and, despite scars that haunted me for six years, part of me wondered if I deserved it. That was my rock bottom and it followed me for a very long time but the choice to rise from the ashes has stuck with me. I refused to let him take me down. I refused to let his ghost take away what remained of my spirit. Seventeen years have passed and I'm alive...but he isn't. He blamed me for a life shattered but a guilty conscience never fades. He chose not to live with the consequences that I bear the weight of every day of my life. There's a part of me that regrets the chance to report him but I know that I look at my life as a series of experiences (traumatic or not) that have permanently etched into the darkest parts of my heart. I lived. I can hold my head up high and know that I overcame more than anyone should. My rapist might've taken away something that I can never get back but I refuse to drown. I refuse to give up. I refuse to give in. I refuse to see my broken pieces as less than incredible; lined with gold.

When I was in 7th grade, I met this guy. He was older than me by at least a year and I had the biggest crush on him -- he totally knew it too. I was the most insecure child which I told him. I thought he was my friend so when he told me to send him a picture, fully clothed, I trusted him and did. He told me I was pretty but that he didn't fully know because he couldn't see all of me. After more convincing, he got me to send him more photos, each time with less clothes on. The next week or so, he 'confessed' that he got horny from the photos and started demanding more. I was hesitant at first but I wanted him to like me so bad. I was 12. Then, once he was done with me, he would only reach out every two or three weeks. He had made me so reliant on his words for my self confidence that when I was reading an online story and they talked about an anonymous website where you could meet strangers and chat, it was all I wanted. I met more and more men, older and older, who took advantage of me and groomed me further to meet their needs. Now, I'm 18. That little 12 year old is so sad and hurting but trying to heal.

Please understand that I am not good at English. There is a room deep inside now. In the past, when I thought of it, there was a door wrapped around a complex lock, but now it has become a room with very small lights. At that time, I was excited and tried to see the next gallery before my family. It was the most remote place in the exhibition hall and it was a little dark. Suddenly, something caught me from behind. My mouth was blocked and I couldn't say anything. What still doesn't come to mind is that I can't remember where my hands were without covering my mouth. I just felt like squeezing my penis when I first revived my memory at the counseling center. Without knowing how long it took, it disappeared into the darkness when my family began to come here. From then on, I got myself. I talked to me for the first time. "What happened to me?" "Did he cast a spell on me?" My curse began then. Everything felt different. My close school friends and teachers felt scary, and everything that followed me was scary. He suffered from an unidentified abdominal pain and vomited. Less than half of my academic performance came out, and whenever I had time, I cut the walls of my room with a cutter knife. It is no exaggeration to say that my life has lived to be liberated from this curse since that day. I have visited countless hospitals and consulted numerous counselors. Last year, about 12 years ago, I remembered being dissociated for the first time. I wanted to punish it so much. And that fact has not changed even now. And now I want to achieve my dream of ending this curse and achieving it without running away from it. Thank you for having a place to talk about this. I want to overcome it with everyone who came here.

I visited this site very recently. I am taken aback by the shared incidents, I never knew there exists a community that shares some very much relatable ,personal and difficult to even acknowledge incidents. I know what it takes for oneself to even accept the happening and lest sharing it with so many people. I'm proud of the survivors and wish them more power & strength, I would also like to thank the person and the team behind this initiative. The stories I read made me realise that I owe myself a favour and let myself out of the shame & suffering that I have been going for almost 10years now. So here I go. I have always been very fond of a brother sister duo, the care the love the fun the protection they have for each other is unmatchable. I being having no brother, always had a longing for it. I have a cousin who is 8 years older to me, we have had few family trips and he used to visit our house whenever he could, he is/was loved by everyone, in short our families are close enough. Some ten years ago when I was 14-15 years old , he was on a long vacation we used to meet very frequently and we developed a bonding that I always aspired for. I loved him as a sister and was very much caring. He was too. He started giving attention to me, whenever he would need any help he would ask nobody but only me and I was more than happy to provide 'anything he would ask for' being his little sister. We visited a relative's house for few days. We were all sleeping together and shared blankets. It was then that he touched me inappropriately, he pulled my top under the blanket and had his chilled hand over my bare stomach , though I felt uncomfortable but I thought it's really cold outside and it's nobody but my dear brother, so I didn't reacted and acted as if I'm asleep. New day new memories and everything about the previous night was gone. That night everyone slept in the same order, we were all slept and in the midst of sleep I felt a hand unbuttoning my shirt from the cleavage, he rested a portion of his hands on my bare chest, I did not know what to do so deliberately changed my sleeping posture turning my back towards him and pretending to be asleep as if nothing was noticed. I knew it then that it was not appropriate but I did not stop it. The next day I remember I prepared myself better ( wore an extra layer of sweater and buttoned it all the way up to the neck) so as to not let him make any advances while I was sleeping , that day I do not remember very clearly but probably he had made unsuccessful attempts and out of the desperation he had tried to insert his hands inside my clothing from elsewhere and I had resisted it becoming rigid in my posture and then he had tried to apply presurre to which I had given in and he might have been successful.I do not remember much of that night but it was not sober of him. He crossed his limits the other day when I was asleep with my head outside the blanket and I felt something going inside the blanket I saw him being inside the blanket with my top pulled up and him being very close towards my chest. I do not know whether I'm making up but I think I saw him checking out my bare body with his phone's screenlight. I became very afraid , since others were also sleeping in the same room just beside us. I hastly tried changing my posture and adjusting myself and my blanket as a result of which he got scared and turned his back towards me and showed as if he is asleep. I was up for that whole night. I was scared. I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. I wanted to cry. I couldn't make sense of anything. I couldn't make eye contact with him.I was not myself for the next 2-3 days , I felt as if he was ashamed too of his deed. Within a week everything was back to normal between us and we were back to our house sharing the same earlier sibling kind bond. As days passed he started asking me adorably to sleep beside him when none of the elders were around and though I knew what he meant by that but everytime I shamelessly followed his words and ended up having his both hands clasping my clothed unguarded breasts under the blanket while I pretended to sleep. He used to lick my face, my ears while I was actually sleeping. During cousin sleepovers, if at all I was sleeping at night distances away from him, he used to pull me closer or change his place beside me so as to have his hands over me. I stopped feeling guilty or ashamed in those days. I don't know why I let him do everything then. Why I didn't resisted instead gave way to get exploited by his hands. I used to love him even after everything he did to me, I longed for his visits. Then after 2 years his visits became rare and I was afraid now of his deeds in presence of others ,so once I resisted sternly and did not let him pull me closer to him, from that day his acts stopped, he never made any advances after that as far as I remember. But still I had no ill feelings for him. Then after a gap of 3 years or so, we all attended a family function where we spent time together . Though I was hesitant of him in the begining but in few days I got closer to him for another time. We shared same dinner platter, cared for each other, helped each other, became a team, joked ,laughed , clicked pictures and made memories , it was for me the perfect brother-sister bond. The next day when everyone of us was badly tired after the function we were resting in a room with him being inches away from me. This time it was me who searched for him and reached for him with his feet in my hand's reach. Though I instantly put my hands back to me but I remember him checking whose hands it was and finding me at the nearest. Neither of us said anything then as we were tired as hell. After that incident I was in a loop of flashbacks for months, my mental state was badly hit, I started analysing every act of him replaying in my head, I could feel his hands over my chest, his clasp over my breast, his wet kisses over my ears. I used to cry all day long, I started staying by myself all day long, I limited my interactions saved for the necessary ones, all along without being getting noticed by parents and sister. I used to pull a fake face for the world, rinsed my face all day long to not get caught of crying. I couldn't make any sense, I felt all alone. I felt something hollowing me from inside. Everything was going to fall if I didn't do anything for myself, may be standing for self. I decided confronting him through a text. I wasn't angry over him on the text, I wrote that -I wanted to tell him that few of his touches were not appropriate so being his sister it is to make him aware of the good and bad touches. To which he replied with a guilty emoji. I thought I was done, atleast he knows that he was not right. At that instance I wanted everything to end and we being the same old us with me still loving him. But as days passed there was turn of emotions I cannot count, from love to care to forgiveness, to anger to hatred, to what not. I texted him again with all the ill feelings for him, he apologized for his deeds and asked me to text him( couldn't have ever talked all this over phone) whenever I wanted. I thought okay, I can atleast share with him what I could not with anybody. With each passing day I started hating him even more,I tried to not let myself alone with those thoughts for long. I started avoiding him, I stopped calling him or texting. I met him in all these years at few instances and I make sure I'm never in his vicinity,I maintain my safe distance and do not stay in his presence for long alone. I might be talking to him over call in everyone's presence but I know I hate him. I won't ever forgive him nor I will ever forgive myself. Yes, I hate him but I hate myself more. It makes me think I was involved too. I was at fault too. I am guilty. I must have derived pleasure out of his acts and so I did not sternly opposed him at the very first encounter . Everything now is seeming very apparent, how could I not see and understand his intentions I was not a small kid. Why did I let him continue with his acts for so long? I have no clear answer to any of these questions. I'm fed up with all this. I am trying to have peace and live with these dull flashbacks which makes me remorse everytime the pages of the past are turned.

I’ve attempted to write this so many times, zoning in and out staring at the blank screen. Disassociating as my mind and thoughts spin at 1000 miles per hour, yet not one has landed in a constructive sentence. My entire outlook on myself, the world and life as I knew it changed in a way I never imagined possible. I lost myself. I lost my confidence, I genuinely didn’t recognize the person in the mirror looking back at me. I was a social butterfly who had turned to isolation and drugs for comfort. Being on social media the last couple of weeks has been tough and triggering. But I know I’m not alone. I was raped by a bouncer of popular City bars, a number years ago, in my own home, with everyone partying in the room down the hall. He was a friend. Someone I thought I could trust. I’m a lesbian and I now blame myself for letting myself get too comfortable around guys. Just because I was gay, I thought it gave me a safer card to be close and alone with men. I had a few friends back to my house after a night out, we were on a bit of a love buzz. Mixture of drunk and high. I was going to the bathroom. In my own home. A lot of it is blocked out still til this day, yet some of it feels like it just happened yesterday. He came in while I was using the toilet and I didn’t mind because he was my friend and I was gay, and not coherent enough to worry. We were talking, laughing, he was complimenting me as I pulled up my trousers. He pulled me in and kissed me, at first I kissed him back until I realized what was happening and pulled back. He then got very strong and restrictive of my movements and I started to panic. I told him stop. I told him no. I told him I’m gay and we’re too fucked up. He persisted to kiss me where he could, he ripped my trousers open. I had only done the button, I hadn’t a chance to zip it so they ripped open without much effort. I tried to pull away, I tried to stop. I even tried to scream but literally nothing was coming out of my mouth. I was moving so much that he (5 times my size and weight) pulled and pinned me to the ground and tore my trousers to my ankles as he couldn’t get them off over my boots. When he couldn’t get it in far enough in the front he dragged and twisted me around, forced my face into the radiator and raped me from behind. I can still HEAR him breathing in my face and my ear from in front and behind. I can feel his weight suffocating me. I had bruises for months afterwards. I finally managed to coerce him off and squirm out with the excuse to get a condom to make it easier. I ran for my life through the house. Kicking off my shoes, pants and underwear to get it off my skin. I went into the front room and collapsed crying. Got sweatpants and into the next room to the party goers. The moment they saw me they knew before I could even get out the sentence. They ran to the bathroom and he was wanking himself off. I lost a lot of myself that night. More than I can remember. More than I’m willing to. For a long time people accused me of lying because he’s “such a nice guy” “he’s a bouncer he wouldn’t do that” “he’s the nicest person iv ever met” “how much did you have to drink” “what were you wearing” “did you lead him on” “he apologized to me for sleeping with you” “he said you took your pants off” NO. MEANS. NO. NO MATTER HOW DRUNK. NO MEANS NO NO MATTER HOW HIGH. NO MEANS NO. NO MATTER IF YOU KISSED THEM BACK. NO MEANS NO. NO MATTER YOUR SEXUALITY. NO MEANS NO. NO MATTER HOW NICE HE IS PERCEIVED TO BE. NO MEANS NO. NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU PUSH THEM AWAY. NO MEANS NO. A piece of my inner heart, died that day. And I wish I could say it was the last time a male friend refused to take no for an answer. I suffer with C PTSD. I had to leave hospitality after almost 12 years. I don’t go out any more. I became too dependent on drugs and alcohol to numb out the noises, numb out the flash backs, numb out the feeling my body will never recover from. I’ve been trying for continuous sobriety but I haven’t got the hang of it yet. Although I’ve had more days sober than drunk/high but I’m tired of running. I’m tired of numbing. I have breakdowns in Tesco now. Yet I still see him around every now and again. He still has a job. He still has a life. He still has access to so many drunk women. Thank you to the staff at City hospital and City who took such good care of me under the circumstances both times. I will be back for part 2 but for now I’m pretty drained out. I don’t think I’ve ever sat down and typed about this this much before and I need to do more grounding exercises. You are not alone. We are not alone. We are stronger together. A pencil can break easily alone, but it’s much harder to break in a bunch. I don’t have the will power or strength to read this back before posting but thank you so much for creating a space where we can come together and feel safe despite having such heavy trauma’s on our backs. Name

Tears fall from my face when I have flashbacks. The amount of times I’ve ran to the washroom and cried remembering those nights. Frozen in fear, unable to move. Feeling his hands on my skin. And hearing his voice as he tries to make sure I’m not awake. The excuses I’ve heard and the disbelief I’ve been through, that I still go through. Most dont believe my story, they believe his because “how could he do that?” They act like he never added the second part of his side; he admitted to touching me without consent. People don’t realize that I check that the doors are locked before I go to bed. They dont realize that I always have an eye on him making sure he’s not about to pull another stunt. The excuses they use. They believe his excuses and act like nothing happened. Sexual assault has been normalized but they forgot about me who’s still drowning in grief. The little girl inside of me was forced to grow up that night. That part of me that I will never get back. The fear that I will never lose. And the memories that can’t be erased. Most blame it on the clothes I was wearing. Those nights I was wearing pajamas. Shorts and a tank top. Considering it was 40° outside I believe I had the right to be wearing those clothes. When I think about that night my heart gets heavy. It’s like my heart gets bigger and it’s pushing against my chest. Every time I have a flashback I relive the experience. I feel his hands on me and remember the pain I felt. Most survivors say that they were almost broken, but I dont think I qualify for almost broken. I am broken. And I surprise myself everyday that I don’t cry in front of him. People think I need words of encouragement but in reality I need a hug. That's all I want, a hug from the right person. A hug.