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Hi, when I was 8 my older brother, who was 5 years older than me, asked me to take my pants off and show him my private parts, I was confused, we were super close, people even used to call us twins, although we weren’t. For some reason, despite how strange it was and how confused I was, it didn’t occur to me that I could say no, so I didn’t. He thanked me and asked me if I wanted to see his parts, I did not, and I said no thank you. After that, he left, and I thought, I did what he asked, he thanked me, so I did a good thing and it’s over? Both of those assumptions were wrong. The next day, he came into the bathroom while I was showering. There was no soap in the shower, and I needed some. For whatever reason, my mom thought it was a good idea to send my older brother in to give it to me. And he gave it to me, but then he opened the curtain and looked at my bare body, called me pretty, and touched me. Thanked me, then left. I don’t remember feeling flattered or happy, just numb, I’m not sure what I felt, I just went back to showering and never gave it thought. The third and final time something like this happened with my brother was when he pulled down my pants and touched and bit my butt, I don’t know if I laughed or just stayed silent, either way, I didn’t stop him. Honestly, I didn’t even know what to do. After that instance, he stopped, never mentioned it, never acknowledged it, and neither did I, it just ended. And then began a similar situation with my sister. Still, I think I was 8 or 9, regardless my older sister is two years older, so older but still young, still a kid. And when we were kids we played this game together, we’d make up characters and stories and act as each of the characters, one day, a character she made and was acting as in this game liked a character I made and was acting as, I didn’t expect it, to this day it’s wild but the only thing I can think to make sense of it is that she must’ve been influenced by movies she shouldn’t have seen or our older siblings, I’m not sure but she got on top of me and began straddling my body, that’s the best way I can think to describe it, she rocked back in forth on top of me and acted out a whole scene. I was still the first time it happened, I mean I was stunned, not necessarily scared, I don’t think it had quite hit me yet, but that was the beginning and unfortunately things escalated and went on long before the end was near. She did all sorts of things, all of which I never liked, wanted, or agreed to, not that I could at that age. She made me kiss her, touch her, she made me do oral things, and it got to a point where I dreaded night time because I knew I’d “have” to do those things for her, and sometimes I’d rush to the bathroom afterwards to spit and clean my mouth with water for 30 mins straight till I felt “clean” again, I’d just shut down afterwards, once I got mad at her and lashed out, saying I didn’t wanna play the “game” the particular night, that I was tried, but then she cried and asked what she did wrong, and why I hated her, something of the sort, because according to her I’d act strange afterwards, and I just lied and told her that it was cause our parents were fighting, that I was sorry. I think I just didn’t want to upset her, I really don’t think I ever stopped to think no was an option. This went on for a long time, and one day, it stopped, not without words though. The night it ended, we were playing the “game” and she stopped and just told me she didn’t think we should be doing what “we” were doing, that our siblings played their games but we didn’t have to , I don’t remember it all, but regardless of what she said, she called it quits and that was that. I was relieved, but also angry? Not cause I wanted to continue, but because it felt like she had randomly turned me into a toy for her pleasure, and then once she was done, once she realized it was wrong she just put me down and gave me a moral lesson, that’s how it felt, and I definitely couldn’t express it like that at age 8 but it did something to me. In both cases, I felt like a toy, picked up, put down, moved on from. Much like my brother, never acknowledged. Years later, in my teens, at age 14, it hit me. Like a wave, up in the middle of the night, sitting on my bed in the dark, across from my sister, I went back to those memories that while I had never forgotten about, I never acknowledged either. And I cried, probably the whole night? Just shaking, holding my hand over my mouth in horror. I know it may seem dramatic, but I wanted to puke, I think I almost did, I felt so so sick. And it dawned on me, that what happened was probably sexual assault. In the present, I can say with certainty it was COCSA, but I only concluded after research and a whole lot of confusion and pain. It still affects me to this day, I cannot share drinks, because when I have someone’s spit in my mouth, it reminds me of being forced to kiss my sister or do oral and I have a meltdown and cry and puke, and shove my fingers down my throat to gag and spit till my throat hurts and I feel like my mouth is clean. I hope this isn’t too crude or graphic, but I’m traumatized. When I think about it, I feel sick, and I have never told anyone in my family, worse part is I don’t think my sister or brother remember or care, and while part of me resents them, not only do I still love them dearly, but I also cannot hate or blame them, even if I don’t know if I should. Because they were kids too, I don’t know who to blame and sometimes I blame myself. I feel disgusting, I feel guilty, ashamed, and confused to this day. I don’t really know what to do with myself. If I tell someone, and they believe me, I’m worried I’ll ruin my whole family, and if I tell, and no one believes me, then I look like a gross creep. I was taught sexual assault was a child and an adult, or two adults, a girl and a boy, so imagine how I felt when what was done to me was done by two children, I was related to, loved, and trusted, one of which was a girl same as me. COCSA is talked about enough if at all, I didn’t even know it existed for so long, and so I wasn’t sure if what happened to me “counted” as anything. I hope sharing this can maybe make a difference or even just help me cope. Because the truth is part of me doesn’t know or trust what it was that happened to me, I feel like I don’t get to say I’m a victim, that I endured sexual abuse. I once read that being forced to do sexual oral acts counts as rape, I’m not sure, but that’s what makes COCSA so hard, because it’s complex, and you can’t classify things the same way you do with other actions of the sort. But this is my story, thank you for listening.

Is this abuse, or is it actually my fault? I don’t know what to do anymore. Please help. :( My relationship started a year ago long-distance. I loved him so much and didn't want to lose him, so when he said he couldn't do long-distance, I uprooted my life and moved in. It has been a hellish disaster ever since, and I am completely consumed by the feeling that I am the one causing all of it. It started with him belittling me and calling me names, which made me feel like I couldn't do anything right. One morning, he screamed and slammed things because I threw away a plastic spatula. He called me insane and demanded to know who would do such a thing. Just days before, he had complained about hating that it was plastic, so I thought I was doing the right thing by throwing it away, but his reaction made me feel like I was completely crazy and at fault. Since then, things have escalated, and he has told me so many times that I cause his violence that I am really starting to believe him. When he took my debit card without permission, I just let it go because I didn't want to spark another fight. When we argued and he slammed me against the wall and tried to throw me to the floor, he blamed me, and I believed him. When he did it a second time, he blamed me again. He constantly demands to use my car, keeps my keys in his pocket, and leaves garbage all over it. When I finally tried to stand up for myself and take my keys back, telling him he couldn't use my car, he swatted my arms away, grabbed me, and slammed me against the wall a third time. He blamed me for provoking him, and it made me feel like I shouldn't have tried to get my keys back in the first place. Another time, I tried to lock myself in the bedroom just to get away from the fighting, and he kicked holes in the door. He constantly raises his hand at me like he's going to punch or slap me. Most recently, he punched my arm and left a bruise. On top of everything, he refuses to pay his half of the bills. He has drilled it into my head that every single violent incident is my fault. I am trapped in a constant loop of self-doubt. I am seriously starting to believe him. I am deeply convinced that every single time he gets mad, explodes, or hurts me, it is entirely my fault.

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.

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.

I was first abused by my stepfather in my early 20s, he took the opportunity while my Mom, sister and niece were away in theme park and molested me. I was taken aback, and had no idea what to do or how to process it. I was scared to tell my Mom and anybody else for fear I wouldn't be believed. I eventually admitted it to my Mom, and went to stay with friends, as I didn't want to be around him at all, and did not feel safe. I was afraid it would go further and that he would rape me. I was very clear with my Mom, I told her that I would not return to the house if he was there, she let him back, so I moved to stay with another relative and subsequently moved out altogether, I had very little contact and refused to return home while he was still there. My Mom found me a counsellor to help me talk about what had happened. I went to her for a number of years. I had issues with family members and friends believing me when I disclosed what happened to me, they insinuated that as it was only assault, it was not that serious. I found this very difficult to take, and it probably made me more reticent about talking about what had happened. About period of time later, the divorce referendum was successfully enacted and my Mom and stepfather were going to marry. My counsellor told me that if I didn't attend that day, I would never forgive myself. I attended, but felt uncomfortable and upset all day long. A number of years later I returned home as I needed somewhere to be as I changed jobs etc. I wasn't fully comfortable with this decision, however I thought I would be okay as my Mom was there too along with my stepfather and my sisters. My Mom got sick shortly after that, she was sick for period of time, and passed away in year. After that, I was living in the house with my stepfather alone. Over a period of time, he deliberately isolated me from my sisters and other family members. So much so, that I had very little support available to me. And then the molesting/assaults started up again, I really didn't know what to do or how to react. It got gradually worse, and for a period of period of time or longer, I was being assaulted/raped on a weekly and sometimes more regular basis. Towards the end of this period he was even talking about marrying me, which was very creepy and inappropriate. This was an excruciating and very difficult time, as I had zero support, and nobody to reach out to or help. Due to health reasons, my stepfather had to move and live with relations in another part of the country, and this finally ended this period of physical and emotional abuse. However I had suppressed and blocked it for so long, that I found it difficult to face or come to terms with. Now period of time later, I am finally seeking help to give me healing and help me come to terms with all that has happened to me. I am grateful that I am at last able to admit how bad things were, and also that I can try and rebuild my own life after years of sidelining myself to look after others. I hope my story will help others in similar situations reach out and seek help and support in the future, even though I cannot take legal action against my abuser, I still want to be able to heal and try and come to terms with all I endured.

I was inappropriately touched and groped by an older uncle. I have only disclosed this with 2 people. The uncle is my moms brother and our family (particularly his immediate family) have suffered horrible losses and deaths over the years and I just don’t want to add fuel to the fire. I feel like I don’t want to tell anyone and make it public so I am so so happy to have found this space. I know my mom would be fully supportive, my whole family would but I just can’t bring myself to say it. I’m 30 now and although the abuse never got far, it still happened. There are 2 occasions. This uncle in question also has been charged I am healing myself every day through mindful breathing, exercise and yoga but it is tough some days.

🇬🇧 English I have hidden what happened in my childhood for years, and I don't know how to deal with it anymore I am writing this because I have been carrying an experience from my childhood that I have hidden from almost everyone for many years. About eight years have passed since what happened, and I still don't know how to deal with it or how I should see myself because of it. When I was a child, I was very innocent, quiet, obedient, and trusting. Some things happened between me and other children at that time, and I did not understand their meaning or seriousness the way I understand them today. The main person involved in my story was also a minor, but he was approximately three years older than me. At one point, things were presented to me in a way that made me believe it was something ordinary between children. I did not understand what was actually happening. Later, another person told me that he had photos or videos involving me and what had happened. He threatened that they could be shared or that he could tell someone in my family. I was a child and I was extremely frightened. I did not know whether he was lying or telling the truth. I asked to see the video, but he said it was with someone else and that he could not show it to me. This made me believe that there might actually be something, or at least made me terrified that there was. Later, another person made a similar claim and said that he knew what had happened and had a video. He never gave me real proof. I never saw any video. But at that age, I did not know how to distinguish truth from lies, or manipulation from reality. Eventually, I reacted and went along with something while I was frightened, confused, and under pressure. I don't want to describe the sexual details here. What I want people to understand is that I was a child, and I was not dealing with the situation with the understanding or judgment of an adult. There is one thing that has confused me for years. When I was with the second person, I told him not to film me “again.” That single word has stayed in my mind because I keep thinking: if I doubted what he was saying, why did I use the word “again”? Does that mean I was admitting that something had really happened before? Or was I simply frightened and acting as though what they were telling me might actually be true? About eight years have passed. During all this time, I have hidden the situation from almost everyone. I act as though nothing happened and try to live normally. I see myself as a confident, strong person with my own values, character, and morals. What makes this harder is that I still live in roughly the same area, and sometimes I see the person who harmed me from a distance. My friends who live in the same area do not know the real story, although some of them have heard rumors or other things said about me over the years. Those rumors have made me question everything: Was there actually a video? Were they lying? Did some people know something? Did someone give information about me to someone else? I don't have real evidence for these things, so I don't know where the truth ends and where rumors or manipulation begin. The hardest part is that I constantly blame myself for how I reacted as a child. I analyze every word I said and every decision I made, trying to find evidence that I knew what was happening or that I was responsible for it. At the same time, I know that I was a frightened and confused child and that I did not have an adult's understanding of the situation. I am not posting this because I want people to feel sorry for me. I don't want people to see me only as a victim. I am afraid that if people know my story, they will see me differently. Some people may become overly sympathetic in a way that makes me feel like my identity has become connected to what happened. Others might use the information against me or try to provoke me. I am a different person today from the child I was then. I have my own personality, confidence, values, and life. I don't want this experience to become the definition of who I am. So I would really like to hear from people who have been through something similar: How do I deal with something that happened during childhood and that I have hidden for so many years? How do I stop judging my childhood self for the way I reacted when I was frightened and confused? How do I deal with the possibility that there are rumors about me in my community, especially when I still live near people connected to the story? And how can I talk about the past without becoming “the victim” in other people's eyes? I am not looking for pity or judgment. I am looking for honest opinions and advice from people who understand these experiences, especially people who have managed to move forward and live their lives after something similar.

I survived. I got out. You can too. Insidious and devious are the words I think of when I've wondered how I got trapped. My ex-spouse was so charming, everybody thought he was a great person and I did too. So much so that I decided to ignore the fact he raped me and chalked it up to us drinking. Then gradually as we dated and then married he tried to spin a web of control around me by being angry and violent when I would spend time with friends or go to the gym or go to the library to study. Telling me I was not allowed to go to the gym because there were men there. Being told I couldn't go to work events. Calling my work when I was working late and accusing me of having affairs, then being verbally and physically abusive. He was so successful at manipulating others even my dad, initially, didn't believe me when I told him about the monster and the horrible things I had endured. I finally told my dad what had been going on when he threatened to kill me and chased me with a baseball bat. I was able to get in my car and get away and called my dad crying and screaming. He thought I had lost my mind. Some of my friends also thought I had lost it, and told me oh he is so nice and scoffed when I said I was filing for divorce and a protective order. After the first two calls to the sheriff they believed me and were so kind, frequently driving by my house and making sure I was safe. There is power in being believed. There is strength in knowing that others have made it out both alive and eventually became whole. I still experience occasional flashbacks and certain situations will trigger my anxiety, but I am able to trust people again and no longer fear "being in trouble" if I spend time with friends. Even more, I have allowed myself to become emotionally vulnerable with other people again after all these years. That was a huge leap for me. And I genuinely feel like a good person again.

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One day I decided to go to the shopping centre to finish my essay for college. As I was typing away minding my own business, a man came up to me and grabbed my face and tried to kiss me. I was in shock, I didn't know what to do. I froze. In a busy shopping centre no one batted an eye. No one was helping me. Eventually he was pulled off me. But when I told my parents they just laughed at me as if it was nothing. For years I was convinced that it was nothing, that I was just being dramatic but I wasn't. I know now that what happened was a form of sexual assault. I think because sexual assault or rape is usually perceived through the media as one thing and not another. I always thought nothing happened to me but I was attacked in a public place that I felt safe in. Even before this through the years I have been slapped on the ass for no reason, cat called when I am out walking, sexual remarks made towards me, sexual comments passed my way. Again, to me this was minor but I know now as an adult that this is not just minor. I didn't ask for any of these things to happen to me. These things are not OK and I shouldn't nor should anyone else be normalising them just because its not what is precieved to be sexual assault. It is sexual assault and this needs to be said and reminded to people.

As a young adult I was exposed to internet pornography. Curiosity drew me in more and more and eventually I became addicted to it. I spent the next 17 years struggling with it off and on, wanting to stop but not knowing how. When I started to learn how porn perpetuates sex trafficking, I became more motivated to find recovery. I also felt deeply convicted when I began to learn that a significant amount of internet pornography contained non-consensual content. I didn’t realize how consuming it created more and more demand. I’ve finally gotten free from that habit and have been for almost 6 years now. Now I’m at a place where I’ve found opportunities to help other men get free and raise awareness on the harm of porn and the abuse it perpetuates. I have so much passion and hope now. I KNOW consumers/abusers can change through self-disgust, remorse, and empathy. Hearing survivor stories encourages me so much and I look forward to efforts that elevate their voices. I hope my journey continues to bring healing, hope, and healthy dialogue to others and their journeys.

Three beautiful kids later, three houses later, and 10 years later, I finally had the courage to leave.

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 ❤️

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.

I have suffered psychological abuse from my mother since I was little. Because of this, I have a habit of always thinking about what my mother thinks, and I feel like I have lost myself in trying to please her. I work at restaurants , but I am exhausted from trying not to make the atmosphere at work bad or being disliked, and even working is painful. I registered on Dating app because I wanted to escape from my mother, but I am only used and rejected, and I can't see any hope for the future.