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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.

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

In my story, IT STARTED WITH MY BROTHER, I briefly mentioned 3 instances of avoiding being raped by letting men just have me when it seemed like they were going to do me whether or not I consented. I do think I avoided emotional and physical trauma at the time, but the anger, self resentment, and feelings of being wronged and about it did snowball after. I never shared or released those stories. Please read my original story for context. In this instance the sex was already happening when I awoke, and my reflex was to take the non-confrontational path. The easy way, not the right way. I had gotten home from work as a server at my bar and grill restaurant and my female roommate had her father staying with us for the weekend. I had already met him since they drove straight from the airport to the sports bar I worked at. That’s were he told me, “Just call me, ‘Dad’”. They sat in my section, ate, and left. No issues. Then, back at our 2 bedroom apartment there was a small party for his benefit with a couple of our friends. I had a couple hard ciders and chatted about college and my roommate and heard stores of when she was a kid from. I flirted and humored “Dad”’s sexual innuendos directed at me, and ignored his eyes all up and down me. I was used to it. I played the good hostess and waited until it was all dying down probably around 2 or 3 am, before I showered and went to bed. It had been a long day with both class and work. I was stirred out of my sleep a few hours later with "Dad" already inside of me, thrusting in and out between my legs! By the light streaming in through my dark blinds I could tell it was day. But WTF was happening?! My panties were off but my T-shirt was on. Underneath it the dark figure who I quickly was able to identify as "Dad" was caressing my breasts with one hand while holding me down with the other. Still dazed and confused, I guess I put my arms around him and responded like a willing partner. He soon finished and then it got awkward.  He told me "That really hit the spot". He started to make conversation! The longer I had to think, the more I realized what happened. That he had just helped himself as I lay sleeping. I was 19 and dating a hot university baseball player at the time and would not have gone for this fifty or so year old guy on purpose. He was sure drinking that night but I had only had a few ciders. So there I was, realizing I had been kind of raped but held hostage by a sense of politeness! Not to mention as I was 5'3'' 110 pounds, so there was the physical intimidation from a much taller man with a dad bod.  I always pee right after sex but felt captive by "Dad"'s ramblings as he propped himself up on one elbow hovering over me while he ran his fingers over me and stroked my hair sporadically.  I shared his cold can of beer with him that he must have opened right before he came in to rape me because I remember drinking deeply the cold liquid soothing my dry throat. I suffered through some dad jokes and stories I did not care about, as well as answering some personal questions about myself and my sexuality. I was looking for momentary pause to get up and away from “Dad” when he said, "I'm ready to go again, baby." NO! He moved on top of me! Instead of fighting him off me or even saying "no", I spread my legs to accommodate him! WTF! The second time did not have the desperate eagerness of the first, unfortunately. As he even said, he wanted to teach me a lesson this time. I guess about how good he was is bed. A definite case of ‘whiskey dick’. So I let this man I had never wanted or considered sex with jostle me into several positions. He was large man and so much stronger than me it was a joke. After the missionary he picked me up to prove some point and did me against the wall right next to my window. I remember seeing through cracks in the blinds and knowing it was early because the parking lot was full and nothing was moving. Then SLAM onto the bed. We did 69 with me lying on him where I sucked him with all my might wanting to END IT while he was licking me. I failed! He had me being on top riding him at one point. I was on my hands and knees with him ramming behind me when I collapsed under his weight to flat on my face. He enjoyed never letting up on the thrusts as I was completely pinned down by him. I let him give me two or more orgasms in hopes he would just finish. I was so loud I was embarrassed my roommate would come rushing in my room any second. She was passed out drunk. He finally left as soon as he finished. I am sure his ego was massively inflated and the terrible man still thinks of me today! I lie there in my bed catching my breath and getting more anxious. I got up, pulled on some sweats, and B-lined straight out the door to my gym. I wanted to get away so bad. I drank water like I had just walked out of a desert. I showered for so long at the empty Saturday morning gym without any products but hand soap. Then I started to work out like crazy, on three hours sleep and exhaustion. I was trying to sweat him out of my system, to scream and thrash through my exercise. I showered again then went out and fell asleep in my car in the back of the lot. The rest of the weekend I only went to my apartment for minutes at a time to pick up things I needed. I sure as Hell did not sleep there! When he was gone I answered my roommates questions that I had been blowing off with lies and short answers. I told her the truth. She shrugged and looked at me skeptically, like it was just one of those things. I was promiscuous in college and she knew it. We sort of made a joke out of it and moved on. The easy way, not the right way. I still have big time guilt at how I was back then. At the time my things was not that "I wish I had fought him." What I wished was that I had been too drunk to remember!!! So that was that. Something I kept inside, festering. Other things added to it and it got swept under the rug of my damaged psyche. Not one of the worst skeletons in my closet but what I was willing to share for now. I am working up to the others. My first story I shared helped a lot. I hope it helped somebody else too. I thank all of you and I empathize. I will read your stories and support you in my thoughts and prayers.

It was a cold snowy winter night just before the COVID shutdown spread across the country. I was attending the second-year graduate school class reception with a group of friends from the second-year graduate class. My "date" as my invitation to attend that class's event was really someone everyone knew was in a committed long-distance relationship and just using the extra ticket as a fun excuse to invite me as friend. It was a fun time to explore a historic mansion while having food and wine. An hour later, as it was about to conclude, one of the second-year's partners turns to me and tells me she would really like to meet me at a bar, and a group of people from that class are planning to go there. I turn to my "date" and we both agree to go. We drove to the vintage bar, one I never had been to before. I walk in through the snow and ice in my black high heels in a cocktail dress covered by my winter jacket, trying my best not to trip. A cocktail and a few conversations among classmates of my "date" later, I find myself in the corner chatting with the person who invited me to the bar from the reception. Something seemed off from the start of the conversation -- and it only got worse. The 30-something-appearing cis woman was a faculty member, yet seemed to serial date younger, new students at the same professional school -- a fact a classmate mentioned in passing with an eye-roll earlier. The one-to-one conversation with me appeared to go in circles, with her repeating the same stories over and over again without realizing that she was doing so. Awkward conversation, but it would just be a temporarily annoyance, my thought was. Yet it took an even more bizarre turn. She kept getting closer to closer to me as she was talking. At one point, she touched my shoulder, ostensibly to make a comment about how she liked my dress. She was mentioning her professional expertise and connections in the field I was, and still am, most interested in entering. She then started asking me awkward questions about how I was visibly trans, and then mentioned as a complete non-sequitur how she was the dominant "masculine" partner in her relationship. And then, to my horror, I noticed her abruptly lifting the bottom of my dress up and reaching underneath my dress to attempt to grope either my inner thigh...or worse. This wasn't just a slight motion; her hand was fully underneath my dress and moving fast upwards, from what I could clearly see from the brief glimpse I took. I immediately stepped backwards with a wide-eyed look on my face, in total disbelief of what just happened...and what did not happen that was mere seconds away from fully happening. She turned away in a hurry and walked back to her partner at the bar -- who was oblivious to what just happened -- grabbed him by the arm, and made an excuse to request to leave. This was not the first time I had experience attempted or completed sexual assault. Just like when I experienced rape the year of my college graduation, during a different cold winter night years earlier, I remember feeling puzzled, confused, and very much *not* wanting to put a label on what just happened to me. The events of each night leading up to the sexual assault always seem so random and not predictable as they are happening, but in retrospect, it is so easy to attempt to scrutinize every detail as a possible warning sign of what was to come. Yet I do not even want to think about the likely reality that the attempted sexual assault I experienced that night seemed to happen due to being visibly trans. When people think of post-traumatic stress disorder from an evolutionary perspective, it is typically thought of as an adaptive way to avoid situations of future danger. But when you're scared of social events and comments about personal identity, just think of how unpredictable the healing journey is.

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.

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

The first time I ever laid eyes on T was in algebra class. He was a senior, and I was a junior. He was this cool, popular boy covered in tattoos, flirting with our algebra teacher, and she was totally eating it up. I didn’t talk to him. I thought he was hot, but his obnoxious popularity contest, center of attention behavior annoyed me. So I kept my nose down and intentionally gave him no attention not even a glance in his direction. One day he stopped coming to school. He dropped out to work at this tattoo shop, and I didn’t see him again until that summer. I went to a concert with my cousin that summer after junior year. We were outside getting some air because it was so packed and humid in there. It was an underground rap artist concert, so it was small. I heard someone call my name: “Hey C, hey girl!!!” I turned to see him. I must have had a confused look on my face because he said, “It’s me, T from math.” After a few moments, I was like, “Yeah, I know who you are, what’s up.” We spent the rest of the concert together. He told me how I was the only person who never paid attention to him, how he thought about me a lot. I guess it made me stand out from all the girls who were all over him all the time. He even said it made him Mr. Popular scared to talk to me. He made me feel so special. He said all the right things, like I was already the center of his universe, and he’d been hoping and wishing he would get the chance to see me again. And that if he did, he wouldn’t miss his chance. Looking back, he had started his manipulation from that very first day. The love bomb dropped, and I was hit hard. I was in love. Over the summer, we were together every day. He did everything a boy in love should do he treated me like a princess, opened doors, met my mom, and shook my dad’s hand. He was already doing drugs then, but he was still able to hide it. Other than the weed he was a huge pothead, but hey, this is California, everyone smokes pot, we don’t see it as a drug. I didn’t care about that. But there was more happening in secret. I just didn’t know it yet. After this fairy tale summer, I went back to school. It was my senior year, class of 2009, and I was so excited. But it was short lived. I had this white binder with a clear cover back then it was the thing to do, to put drawings there, pictures of you and your friends, pictures of you and your boyfriend, and carry it around for everyone to see. So of course, I had mine covered in pictures from the summer of me and T. In second period, a girl I kinda knew looked at my binder and said, “Hey, is that T?” I was proud yeah, he’s my boyfriend, we’ve been dating for months. But she said it not in a bitchy “girl that’s trying to make you jealous” tone, but in a concerned, soft tone. She said, “Oh, I saw him at a party last weekend. He wasn’t acting like someone with a girlfriend. Did you know he does drugs?” I said, “Yeah, weed, I know.” She replied, “No, not weed worse.” My heart broke. I didn’t know exactly what that meant what was he doing at the party and who with, and if not weed then what? My mind came up with every hurtful thing, and I didn’t want to know more, so I didn’t ask. And she didn’t say. Later, when I asked him about it, he told me they were just jealous and they were just trying to get between us. And I believed him. I never mentioned the drugs something told me I shouldn’t. After that, it was constant. I always heard he was cheating or lying, and I didn’t believe anyone. Until one day. I was in computer class, and I got a text from a number I didn’t know, with a picture of a tattoo. I asked who it was. She told me, and I knew her. She told me she went to get a tattoo from T she didn’t pay money, she had sex with him in the tattoo shop bathroom and got it for free. I knew she wasn’t lying. I felt sick to my stomach, tears in my eyes. I wanted to run out but I couldn’t. I was stuck there hurting. I don’t remember what he told me, exactly. I remember the intensity of it. How he seemed to mean it when he’d say he can’t live if I am not with him. I am the only one for him and if he can’t have me he’d kill himself. He makes mistakes an no one could ever love me like he does. Like no one could ever love him like I do. I was not just wanted, I was needed. That’s how I felt. Being abandoned by my bio dad, I probably had some trauma.. have some trauma. I wanted to be wanted. And he seemed to know that some how. And use it. So I stayed with him. I always stayed. I remember the first time he hit me. I’d been surrounded by substance abuse most of my life, and somehow I still didn’t see it in him. I was still in high school, a teenager, dating this boy who I thought was so cool. He worked at a tattoo shop, covered in tattoos, this amazing artist, everyone knew him, all the girls wanted to be with him, but he wasn’t with them, he was with me. I was supposed to be spending the night at W’s house… but I was at his. He was trying to play this song on the guitar, struggling on a few notes for over an hour, and I was getting bored sitting there. I told him I was going to go sit on the couch and watch a movie with his younger nephew so he could keep practicing. He told me no, which I didn’t see as a demand… not yet at least. So I laughed it off and was like, I’ve been listening for an hour. He was so obsessed, doing the same thing over and over and over like he was in some kind of trance. Looking back, he was high. At the time, I just thought… well, I don’t know what I thought, but not that. I turned to walk away, and the next thing I knew, he was behind me, grabbed me, spun me around, and slapped me so hard on the side of my face and ear that my face was burning and my ear was ringing. I faintly heard him say something along the lines of, don’t ever walk away from me again. I looked around, his nephew had seen the whole thing, I could tell by the look on his face, but he didn’t say a word. Looking back, that was the beginning, the makings of the idea that would be drilled into my head for years after: “no one cares, it’s your fault, and did this even happen or am I crazy?”. At that point I was madly in love with who i thought he actually was. I thought the person that hurts me isn’t really him. I just need to help him, he loves me. He’ll die without me. It’ll get better…. It never did. This was just the beginning. He just dropped off one day didn’t answer my calls, blocked me. For days, I was in a state of desperation. I called and I called and I called. Until finally, not him but a friend answered the call. He told me T was with a girl in City, he didn’t want me anymore, and to stop calling. I asked why, I asked what I did, I told him I thought we were fine, I don’t understand. He just laughed and hung up on me. And yet again T always found a way of making me feel like I was the center of his universe, no matter what he did. He would die without me, I make him a better person, he’s so sorry he hurt me. He’s just doing it because he’s never loved anyone like this and it scares him, and he self-destructs before I get the chance to hurt him because he couldn’t stand it if I ever did. I don’t know why this worked on me but it did. I always believed it. After City didn’t work out, he came back and did just that, and I fell for it. And I took him back. It just became normal after that. He would block me, I would freak out, search for him, call him and drive around hysterical, and then he would unblock me. Call me, tell me how it was because of something I did that it was because I don’t have the same freedom he did, because I lived with my parents still and I had rules or whatever else he came up with, and that I needed to not do anymore because it hurts him more than it does me to do this because he’s never loved anyone like he loves me. And I fell for it every time. Now I know what he was doing all those times: hard drugs and cheating or both. The next time he hit me, was at my house, and that’s when the drug use became impossible to ignore. He showed up incoherently speaking, not making sense I hadn’t seen him in a couple days, he had just unblocked me again. He passed out on my bed. I woke him up, told him he couldn’t sleep here, my dad would be pissed, I wasn’t allowed to have boys asleep in my room. He got up, flinging his arms around wildly, and punched me. I started crying, asked where he had been, demanded his login for his MySpace account. Who are all these girls on your page, why are they all talking to you like that? He gave it to me, I logged in, and it was an uncountable amount of messages girls he was flirting with, girls he was cheating on me with. I had to stop looking, it made me sick. I asked him about them, I asked why he was doing this. He then picked up his phone and threw it at my face and left. At this point he must have realized he could get away with hurting me and I wouldn’t leave. So he stopped trying so hard to make me forgive him. He didn’t have to. To him I was never going anywhere. But I did, I broke up with him and I meant it this time, for the first time. I drove to his shop and saw him with another girl. Seeing it with my own eyes, it was impossible to ignore. I told him I was done, I screamed I cried “why do you keep doing this to me, why do you keep hurting me if you don’t love me let me fucking go”. I started driving away he ran after my truck, jumped on the side, and started punching me through the window until he fell off. I guess he was embarrassed in front of her. I broke it off, I blocked him this time. And I started to move on. I was done with T for real this time, or so I thought. I’d broken it off, blocked him, and started moving on. That’s when I started seeing B oh, B. It wasn’t official yet but I wanted it to be. We went to high school together, and I’d had this crush on him for years, watching him ride around on his street bike, all confidence and smiles. He was just… normal. Still in school, kind, with these loving parents who actually showed up and cared. On our first date, he took me for a ride on his bike, and when I drove up to his house later, his dad teased me, calling me “lead foot” for how I pulled in playful, not mean at all, just warm and welcoming like they were pulling me right into their family. It made me laugh, feel included. He was sweet, handsome, the type who saw you without any bullshit games. For the first time, I felt this spark of something easy, like maybe I could have a real shot at a boyfriend and happiness without the chaos. But T always thought he owned me, like I was his no matter what, even if he didn’t want me right then. He heard about B and couldn’t handle it. Called me from some other number, whispering all that sugar, begging me to come see him that night. Said he couldn’t eat or sleep thinking of me with someone else. He pleaded, and I gave in, like an idiot. That’s the night I got pregnant. I went over to “talk.” He was all kind and sweet at first, heartbroken, asking me to stay. I said no, but he begged just cuddle, nothing else, he promised. I was still seeing B, didn’t want to mess that up by sleeping with T. I needed time to think. He acted like he got it, respected it. The night felt okay, like maybe we’d figured shit out. But once everyone was asleep, his eyes went black. He forced me to have sex with him. I cried. I said no. I said it again and again.He was 6 foot and I’m 5’4 he was bigger than me in every way. I couldn’t even budge him. Nothing I did made any difference. He held me down, covered my mouth so no one could hear me, and didn’t care. “I am going to get you pregnant whether you like it or not,” he said, “and then no one else will want you.” And he did. It hit me hardest with B. I ghosted him after that, I was too ashamed to even tell him how do I explain I was forced and how do I explain being pregnant with your ex’s kid? What teenager wants that? I never gave him the chance to know what happened. I thought…It’s understandable no boy that age wants a pregnant girlfriend, especially when it’s not even his I wasn’t going to bring this into his life. But for me? Devastating. Years crushing on him, finally getting this chance at normal kindness, stability, his cute family that welcomed me and T ruined it all in one night. Snatched my chance away. I’d never get it now, everything felt so ruined…. I felt ruined and my body felt used up. Who’d want me like this? I just stayed with T, accepted it like that was my life, this was my fate. By the time I got pregnant, it was the end of my senior year, and I was about to turn 18, right after graduation. I never told my parents. He said once I turned 18, he would have a place for us and we would move out. And that’s exactly what happened on my 18th birthday. I thought this could fix everything, I thought we would get better. I was so wrong under his full control now. It got so much darker. Ripped jeans with holes in the knees were popular. I was just 17 when I found out I was pregnant, a secret I buried deep because I didn’t want to tell my parents, even though they would’ve supported me without question. By the time everything unraveled, I was 18, hopelessly in love or what felt like love and carrying this new life inside me, all while feeling more isolated than ever. The house we ended up in belonged to someone who’d passed away, an old woman whose grandson had been living there and stuck around after she was gone. He was a lot older than us at 18 his 30s seemed really old. This guy was friends with T’s older sister, that's how T knew him. T, spun it like a great opportunity: “We can move in there,” he said, and just like that, we did. T did tattoos for a living, or tried to, he’d gotten kicked out of the shop he worked at, probably because of the drugs creeping in, though I never got the full story. So he started doing them on the side, he was getting paid mostly in drugs when he was doing these tattoos. He mainly did them at a trap house around the corner, where all they did was do drugs and sell drugs. People were in and out all the time. Sometimes he did them at our house. As soon as we moved there, I really saw the extent of his drug problem. He wasn’t paying rent and the roomate didn’t hold him to it. He just treated me like shit because of it, like I did something wrong or somehow it was my fault T didn’t have money. No one around him ever held him accountable for anything ever. No one. Me? I’d just graduated high school, pregnant and clueless about the real world. I'd never held a job in my life and never planned to jump into one, especially not like this. I was confused, did they expect ME to have money? Get a job? I was a kid I was pregnant I didn’t understand. But from the second we moved in, everyone made me feel like an intruder, nitpicking every move…. I did the dishes wrong, used too much soap, didn’t clean enough, accidentally ate someone else’s food. I was just navigating adulthood for the first time, and no one cut me any slack. One night he did a tattoo at our house, but it went on for so long. Finally at 4am I asked him if he was coming to bed. This is not normal behavior. He yelled at me “ don’t ever question me in front of people, don’t ever ask me questions at all, it’s not your place”. He never slept that night. I cried myself to sleep. Something I would do every night. After that everyone around the house wouldn’t talk to me anymore, they would talk AT me or about me like I wasn’t in the room. “She’s crazy “ “he doesn’t even love her he’s stuck with her” and T would laugh and agree. He treated me like I was property. I didn’t get an opinion, I didn't get to speak or make decisions. I was his regardless of whether he wanted me or not no one else would ever have me but him. I’ve never felt so lonely in my entire life like I was on a planet all by myself. Like I was screaming but nothing was coming out. It was a living nightmare I could never wake up from. I was invisible. T was 19, already deep in the clutches of meth, his addiction fueling rages that turned him into someone unrecognizable abusive in ways that left marks on more than just my skin. And then there was her, the neighbor in her 40s she was awful to me. I could see her front door and kitchen window, a kids room from my side door. The driveways connected there with no barrier in between, no privacy wall. It was almost like one giant driveway but they were just separated by a space between down the middle. She tried to play some weird motherly role to T. I couldn’t tell if she was in love with him or was playing “mom” to her little baby that was not even her son because they did drugs together. Either way. It wasn't real care, it was the kind where she’d do drugs right alongside her “kid,” excusing every violent outburst, every cruel twist, even when it played out right in front of her. In her eyes, he was this flawless little angel, pure and blameless. Me? I was the liar, the crazy creature hell bent on destroying him. Her voice was always heavy with hate when she talked to me, like every word was laced in venom, a poison brewed just for me, dripping with false accusations that it was all my fault. One day in the driveway, things just got bad. I was sober unlike everyone around me, super hungry. My stomach hurt 18 and pregnant, with T having snatched the food stamps card again running off with it for hours, sometimes days, leaving me without the basics. I was trying to stop him from bolting down the street to chase more drugs, my hands clutching at his arm begging him. But he shoved me without a second thought, throwing me hard to the ground like I was worthless. The rough pavement tore into my bare knees through those damn jean holes, pebbles and dirt grinding deep into the skin, blood welling up in a gritty, stinging mess mixed with the grime.I was looking around for anything or anyone to help get me out of this. That’s when I saw them right there in plain view: her two little boys, fat faced with freckles, their red hair dirty and unbrushed. They had seen everything through their windows and were running out. They weren’t rushing to help or even looking shocked; they were laughing, those sharp, cruel giggles that hurt worse than the fall. Little red headed sadistic freaks. That’s what I thought then. I was too young to realize they were just kids and they were a product of their mom. She wasn’t there in that exact moment, but I could feel her there anyway the enabler who’d whisper blame in my ear, who’d defend him no matter what. The boys didn’t hang around they burst out their front door, still laughing and yelling to anyone who could hear: “She hit him! She hit him!” Twisting the truth into a flat out lie before I could even stand up. When I got up, the embarrassment hit me hard. I felt like I’d done something terribly wrong. I was embarrassed that everyone could hear those kids screaming their lies, knowing that they’d believe them and hate me even more than they already did. Thinking why had I even tried to stop him? I should have just let him go, stayed hungry, and hoped he’d come back soon before I starved. It wasn’t anger I felt right then, but this deep embarrassment, like the whole world was judging me for being in this mess. I picked myself up, blood trickling down my shins, hungry, scared, and so alone. “No, look,” I tried to say, pointing to my jeans where the ripped hole had closed when I stood, trying to open it to show everyone. “He pushed me.” But no one would look. They didn’t care, they didn’t want to see the truth. Soon after, T’s sister moved in with two of her kids, and the drugs got worse. The 30 year old we rented the room from was using, she was using, T was using. All their friends and everyone around in the neighborhood was using. I was the only one that wasn’t. Every time he hit me, they said it was my fault. I’d been knocked on the ground, and then they would just walk over me like I wasn’t there. He invited people over, and it’s like they came over just to be cruel to me. No one was kind there. They said that I lied about him hitting me and I was crazy. If they saw him do it, they would say “well you shouldn’t have tried to stop him from working” and I tried to explain that he wasn’t going to work, he was doing tattoos for drugs. He took my card, I had no food, I had no money, I was always hungry. It didn’t matter to them they didn’t hear me, they didn’t see me. I thought I was losing my mind. I was starting to think I had made it all up. I had friends that loved me, I had parents that loved me. I didn’t turn to them, I don’t know why. But I do know it wouldn’t have mattered then, I probably would have never left until I was pushed out. My friend came over and she was worried about me, she needed to see me. I told her everything. I told her earlier that day I begged him to stop doing drugs, to stop leaving me alone, and he grabbed my hair and pulled me across the house on my stomach and everyone saw, no one stopped him. And I was pregnant, they all knew this, they didn’t care. She told me I needed to leave. I didn’t listen at that moment. Since I met those girls J and W, I’ve loved them, they always tried to protect me, they never abandoned me, to this day. That day it was W that came over, she could not force me to leave and she knew it. But she would be there no matter what, and when I was ready, she was. They both we’re The next day, he started off to the drug house again. I followed him, begging him please don’t leave me alone, please stop doing drugs. And he ignored me until we were two houses down. I guess he didn’t want to bring the drama there. He grabbed me, threw me on the ground, and kicked me in the face. There just happened to be a guy working on his roof the first time in this entire time someone tried to help. He yelled at T to stop, he called the cops. The police showed up… and I refused to press charges. This officer knew me, he had been there before. One time when we were arguing in a room, T wanted me to leave him alone so he grabbed a metal bed frame, threw it at me, and started screaming that I threw it at him and to call the cops, so someone in the house did. They showed up and he forced his foot under it and said that I threw it at him, to arrest me. The officer took me aside and I told him what happened. He asked if I had anywhere to go. I told him I could go to my mom and dad’s. He said he believed me but they couldn’t prove it and I would not press charges. He told me to go home and never come back. He said that if I came back I might not make it out alive and he said to stay away from T “he is no good”. I went home that night but I came back. This is the same cop that showed up that day. Again I won’t press charges. I can see the concern in the officer’s face. He’s scared for me. He finds an illegal knife on T and takes him to jail. He tells me to go home again and not come back. T was on the way to jail. I walk back to the house, everyone already knows what happened. They started ganging up on me saying if I wasn’t pregnant they would beat my ass for bringing the cops around. Because they were all doing illegal activities. And for T getting arrested in the first place. At this point I am scared. I know I need to get out and get out fast, so I called W, I called my mom, and they made it there in record time, packed up all my shit and took me home. I never went back to that house. But that wasn’t the end of T and I. It had been a couple months since that day. I finally told my parents I was pregnant. And they were every bit as supportive as anyone could imagine. They loved me no matter what. I can’t say why I was so scared to tell them. They were always loving parents. They had their flaws, they weren’t perfect but they were good parents. W was over every single day. J always checked in on me. They were my rock, I didn’t feel alone anymore. I don’t think I’ve ever told them just how much they helped me, how much I love them for that. How I can spend a lifetime trying to repay what they did for me and I would never come close. But I think they know. I never told them EVERYTHING until years later and I probably still haven’t said everything. I didn’t need to, they could see I was broken. We could talk when I was ready. Finally I am happy, I am getting better, I am healing. And I am a couple months away from having my baby. Then T comes back into the picture and I let him. He happens to move into the neighborhood behind my parents house. I don’t remember how he got ahold of me. But he did. He always found me. He wasn’t allowed at my parents house at all. I hadn’t told them much of anything that happened but they knew something happened. He kept calling me, kept begging me to see him. Over and over and I gave in. One night I met him on a street in between his house and mine. He was high, I’m not sure what his intentions were that night other than evil. He jumps in my truck and starts screaming at me, hitting me, punching my truck, breaking the plastic on my dashboard. Saying that he owns me, that he’s forever attached to me, I can never get rid of him and that I am never allowed to move on in life without him. Then all the sudden my passenger door opens and he gets ripped out of the truck.The man he was living with must have seen him leave and I don’t know what made him do it but he followed him. Saw what was going on and saved me that night. He told me to never go back. He told me “he’s going to kill you don’t you get it!!” It was harsh but I think he was trying to help. Of course I didn’t listen, not yet. I started meeting him in private, taking him to my doctors appointments in secret. He held it together for a while, there were a few parking lot arguments, nothing too crazy for a while but it didn’t last. I was going to do one of those 3D ultrasounds and he wanted to come. When I went to pick him up, I knew he was high. But I took him anyway. In the parking lot I asked him to wait in the car I wasn’t going to take him in there incoherent, it was embarrassing. He lost his mind and started punching me in the face in the parking lot and didn’t care who saw. So many people saw that they called the cops. I tried to lie but I was told there were witnesses and they are taking him to jail. They wanted me to press charges but I would not do it. He got out shortly after. I only saw him two more times after that day. But he was outside of my house every night stalking me. Watching me come and go, watching who came over. Waiting for me to be alone but I never was. If my parents were not there, W or J were. The night I went into labor, he saw. He was there watching. He showed up to the hospital high and drunk with a bunch of drug addict friends. He was disrespectful to my family and friends at the hospital. I was so terrified. I had the nurses kick him out but he and his sister kept calling my room so I had to be moved to a private room. You walked in the first door and were met with another door. The second door led to my room. That way no one could look into a window and see me. You had to have a specific password to be let in, and if anyone called they gave them no information on whether I was even there or not. I have more kids and I love them all the same but that morning at 3am it was only her. I had my baby, and the second I looked into her eyes, it hit me like nothing ever had before. No one else existed but her. In that instant, I finally knew what real love was this overwhelming, fierce thing that changed everything. From that day on, nothing has been more important than her. She’s the love of my life, period, all that matters to me. She saved my life that day, pulling me out of the darkness and giving me a reason to fight for something good. She was the first to open my eyes and gave me the strength to break free. I knew right then I’d protect her by any means necessary. I knew I’d never go back to him. She deserves love and peace and protection, and I’d make sure she got it. I never ever went back to T after that. Though he was awful, he was still her father so we tried visitation once. He only wanted to speak to me. He showed up high and talked about his wants to be a family and his obsessive possessiveness of me was so clear to me then, when I turned him down, told him I would never be with him again he started to insult me. Calling me a bad mom I made him leave. He held her for 5 seconds that day. That’s the last time he ever saw her that close. I told him if he wanted to be in her life he needed to get help and he needed to get clean, he never has. He stalked me for many years, would track me down, send videos and pictures and songs threatening me, threatening whoever I dated. Until he moved out of state and so did I. His stalking became less and less until after many years it stopped. As far as I know. But the trauma of what I went through still hurts. I can still feel it on my body. I still have to work every day to reprogram my brain. I know I wasn’t crazy, I know I was abused. I know it wasn’t my fault. And maybe one day I will actually accept it. To this day I don’t know why I stayed. I don’t remember everything that happened to me. I don’t know why I remember what I do, maybe they left the biggest scars. Or maybe it was so much that my brain has forgotten some to save itself. I don’t think he was purely evil. I think his popularity and attention seeking was because of something he didn’t get as a child. He shared bits about his parents abandoning him, but always acted unfazed, like it was nothing. Surrounded by people the tattoo shop crew handing out pills and a place to sleep but no real home, no bedroom, just drifting. He held up this cool guy act like he owned the world, never admitting the voids, but I saw through it. I wanted to be the stability he lacked, love him for real, not the facade. He used that against me, twisting my empathy into a way to control me. I don’t know where he ended and the walls he put up to protect himself began. I refuse to make excuses for him. His dad abandoned him and his mom a few years later. His older sister tried to raise him, but she was a drug addict herself. He never had a real home. He never had a good role model in life. He seemed to be constantly surrounded by awful people with bad intentions from before he was even an adult. Maybe he never had a chance at life. Maybe one day I can accept that. I’ll never forgive, but maybe I can move on. I was so hurt for a long time, but now I am just left with intense anger. I want to find all these people and force them to face what they did to me, what they allowed to happen. But that is not possible, so I will continue to work through it, and maybe one day I can let go. Fully. Writing out is my last ditch effort. It’s been 16 years and maybe finally having my story in a physical form I can hold it, read it, share it and know it was real. It was wrong, I’m not crazy this did happen to me. Maybe this will help

He would break up with me and then win me back. This went on for over a year. We were staying at a local hotel for the weekend to celebrate his birthday. We got into an argument in public so I went back to the hotel room by myself. I didn’t let him back in the hotel room when he first got back and instead, packed up all of his belongings. Once I let him in, he threw some of his things. I asked him to leave. He got on his phone. I asked him to leave again and he pushed me down onto my back. He proceeded to punch me over and over again in my eye and head. After the first punch, I said “I’m sorry, please stop”. His response was, “so NOW you’re sorry”. When he finally stopped, I immediately ran to the wall and got crouched down, as blood gushed out of my nose. I again pleaded for him to leave as he cussed at me. He did leave after that. He broke my orbital floor in my eye and my finger. I filed a protective order and was granted it for a year.

I'm 37 year old male survivor in my country. I don't know what to share yet. I am a survivor of multiple assaults in childhood and early adulthood, mostly with female assailants. I think I'm ready to talk with some female survivors (though not in most details). To be honest this scares me though. My experience with advocacy and support groups (apart from a website specifically for male survivors) in the past has been very negative. I have always wondered what a *true* coalition of survivors of all genders would look like.

The dark parts don’t trigger me anymore. I know I’m safe now—in myself, my mind, body, soul, home, relationships, and life. It wasn’t always that way. I can talk about it if I choose to. Not everyone gets to hear my sacred story, and that’s how it should be. I’m no less worthy, and neither are you. Naturally, it took time to recover. The past could be unsettling during the healing process, often in unexpected ways. One day, I opened a social media account, and an acquaintance from my soccer community posted a team picture of his latest league victory. There, kneeling in the front row, was the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I once lived through. Seeing him smiling while standing dangerously close to others I knew was unnerving and reminded me how effortless it was for Hyde to convince people he was something he wasn’t. I left that relationship. More accurately, I secured my safety and Hyde’s departure, changed the locks, and blocked any way of contacting me. I thought I had to do it that way, on my own, but that wasn’t true. I painted the walls, but it would always be a trauma environment. Despite my efforts to see past the wreckage, open up, and have conversations, I often felt criticized and painfully alone. If you are unaware of the long list of reasons why it’s difficult for women to speak up, inform yourself. It wasn’t until much later that I experienced solidarity's power in such matters. We scrutinize and scowl at these stories from afar, my former self included, with an air of separateness and superiority until we experience them ourselves. For, of course, this could never be our story. But then it is, and now it is. Other women sharing their sacred stories were the most significant to me in the healing years - confidants who embraced me with the most profound empathy and stood and breathed in front of me with their scars that were once wounds. And my mentor of many years who held hope when I couldn’t and taught me how to give that to myself. Over the years, I have often asked myself if I would ever be free - truly free - from the psychological, emotional, physical, and spiritual damage that had occurred. Would my wounds heal? Would I always have some adaptation in my body from holding my emotions in a protective posture? Or could I get it out and be released? Would my stress response and anxiety always be easily heightened? Would my PTSD symptoms ever go away? Would I ever trust myself again? Trust another again? Would I always be startled by loud noises and glass shattering? Would “normal” ever be normal again after being exposed to such severe abnormalities? Would I ever forgive myself for how small I became during that time? Would the anger, confusion, disorientation, sadness, and grief abate? Would the dark nights ever end? Would I ever be held again, be myself again, or was I changed forever? The thing about liberation is that it can seek justice that doesn’t arrive. I was in a relationship with Dr. Jekyll, who hid the evil Edward Hyde, his intimidation tactics, wildly premeditated orchestration of lies, manipulation, and gaslighting. A part of me wanted clarity until the truth was true, and my mind could unfuck the mindfuck and rest again. Don’t wait for clarity that is never coming. Some of us must live big lessons to break patterns and cycles of this magnitude, even to believe again that it’s possible. But let me be clear—no woman, no person, wants to live these types of lessons. If you understand nothing else from this essay, understand that. If you are one of the lucky, privileged ones to sit on your throne of judgment when hearing these stories, you don’t understand. You don’t understand that what you’re misunderstanding is not the woman or victim in the story, but it is yourself. That’s the harshest, blindest truth. Another truth about this all-too-common story is that the parts of the victim stuck in that situation do not belong to the public to dissect. That’s her burden to bear. And it will be. In actuality, each individual walking through abuse is trying to stand up and say, “This happened. It is real. I am alive. Please breathe with me. Please stand there near enough so I can see what it looks like to stand in a reality I am rebuilding, in a self I am reconstructing, in a world I am reimagining. Because if I hear you breathing, I might breathe too. And if I see you standing, I might pull myself up, too. And, eventually, I’ll be in my body again—I’ll be able to feel again. Not surviving, but piercing through my life again.” For the victims, I’m going to be honest with you: the meandering process of recovery is ultimately up to you. It’s your responsibility. Therapists, books, podcasts, and support groups can help but can’t heal you. You have to heal yourself. You have to accept the victim's role to let it go. You have to feel—to struggle through the feelings. It’s daunting and scary. You’ll want to give up. If you have people in your life who are stuck in their shallowness while you’re trying to go to your depths, let them go and let them be. Pivot and seek the sources and people to show you how to stand and breathe. You have to start thinking for yourself now, caring for yourself now, and loving yourself now. But trust me, you’ll need people, and you’ll need to find them. You don’t have to be strong; you can be gentle with yourself. Often, the intelligent, empathetic, and enlightened part of a person gives Henry Jekyll a second chance to work on himself and make things right. I must acknowledge a narrow and perilous line between the resolvable, troubled soul and the soul that spills over into malice, rigidity, maladaptiveness, and steadfast personality. Most people never encounter evil and retain their naivety, while victims lose this innocent vantage point of the world. It’s not the victim’s job to rehabilitate or reintegrate anyone but herself. Our stories are pervasive, and we come from all walks of life. On March 9th, 2021, The World Health Organization published data collected from 158 countries reporting almost one in three women globally have suffered intimate partner violence or sexual violence. That’s nearly 736 million women around the world. We need more voices of survivors—more voices of the human conditions we let hide in the shadows for fear of discovering it in ourselves. I lost parts of myself during that time with Hyde. The destructive consequences of this style of person are astounding, and the impact on my connection to myself and others was among the most challenging aspects to overcome. The rage that boiled in Hyde resulted in outrageous displays of public humiliation, screaming, and, on one drunken occasion, physical violence. If Hyde had called me a stupid bitch before grabbing my neck, throwing my head against a stone wall, and my body across a room to smash into a bedpost and break my ribs while we were in the United States, I would have been able to call the authorities. And I would have. But because we were in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country, vindication occurred through the fog of shocking circumstances I didn’t deserve. After years, Hyde popped up in a picture on social media. He plays soccer on the same fields I used to play on with joy in the absence of hypervigilance. It’s that disparity in fairness that can grip us in bewilderment. I’m on another path now—one where my trust and love are respected. I remain open and available for peaceful, constructive ways of being, relating, participating, and having a voice. I hope you’ll embrace my sacred story with sensitivity and compassion as I offer it to those in need so we may come together and let her stand up and live.

This happened back in 2023. I had met this guy through my sister because she had told me that he had seen my picture and had asked about me and wanted to talk to me. At the time I was living out of state, so we were talking and we got together a couple days later. During the time that I was living out of state I had to be on the phone with him 24/7 if he was home and I wasn't at work which should've been the first red flag, but the second red flag should've been when he didn't let me go out drinking with my parents on my 21st birthday and told me I had to be on video chat with him during my birthday party. A couple weeks after my birthday I moved back to my home state to be with him and things were going fine at first. But then things started progressively getting worse, the first job I got when I got back he also got a job there because he didn't trust me being alone. I couldn't go to my therapy appointments alone, I couldn't go to the store alone, I wasn't allowed to have friends but yet he was allowed to talk to other girls, I wasn't allowed to go to work alone when I got a new job even though it was an hour away from where we were living. It eventually got to the point where he had introduced me to a few of his friends over video chat and one night he had gotten drunk and accused me of cheating on him with one of his friends when I was in the other room making a Tik Tok video, we got in a fight and when I was trying to leave he grabbed ahold of my bag and shoved me into the bathtub. As I was trying to leave after that he took my phone and wouldn't give it back to me, he tried breaking it and was doing everything in his power to keep me from leaving the house. When I finally was able to leave and just go for a drive he was blowing my phone up trying to call me and when I went back to the house and decided to sleep on the couch until his mom got back from work he knew I was talking to a friend and he told me to choose between him and the friend. When I went into the bedroom to sleep for the night because I had given up with the fighting he took my phone while I was asleep and blocked that friend which I didn't realize until I left him 2 days later but the following day acted like nothing was wrong except wouldn't offer to buy me anything at the mall even though I was the one that drove us there and paid for gas to get there. When I finally got the courage to leave him it was because I had to go to work one day and as always he forced his way along. When we got to my work I was told that I wasn't needed that day which meant I was able to go home, the only issue with that was that I didn't have enough gas in my car to get home and not enough money to put gas in the car. So I called my mom and stepdad who live in another state and asked for help but told them what was happening and decided that day that I was done with everything. My mom told me that she would only help me if I left him which with the help of her I was able to. After I dropped him off I made my way to a safe location in town and locked my car waiting to be able to go get my stuff, while I was waiting he walked from his house to where I was parked and tried to get me to talk to him. After I finally left for good he was blowing my phone up calling and texting asking if I was seriously leaving.

Recovery Cake Ingredients: ½ cup journal writing 2 whole, barely ripe boyfriends 3 cups stiffly beaten sister 2 tablespoons peer counseling (can be sour) ¼ cup spicy lawsuit 2 cups therapy 2 teaspoons college 6 heaping tablespoons organic employment small pinch lukewarm volunteer work 1 whole unbleached husband 2 ½ cups sweetened children 4 cups wholegrain therapy 5 tablespoons sifted friends 1 grated, sharp book Directions: 1. Preheat oven to 575 F. 2. In a large bowl, beat together journal writing, boyfriends and sister until poised. Slowly mix in peer counseling, lawsuit and therapy, beating well after each addition. Set aside. 3. Stir together college, employment and volunteer work in a large saucepan. Set over low heat and let stimulate. 4. Wash and dry husband and children thoroughly then add ½ husband and 2 children to saucepan until all scintillating. 5. Pour the contents of the saucepan into large mixing bowl and mix until barely unified. Refrigerate for 5 years. 6. In a separate bowl, whisk together remaining ½ husband and wholegrain therapy. Continue whisking until sappy. Add to large mixing bowl and stir for 6 months. 7. Pour batter into a lubricated 10-foot round cake pan. Bake for 32 hours and 13 minutes, or until a cake tester inserted in the center comes out uncontaminated. 8. Cool in pan for 3 minutes. Turn out onto a cake rack and cool completely. 9. When cool, sprinkle with remaining ½ child, friends and book This is an impelling, complex tasting cake for very special occasions; delicious any time of year. Its beauty lies in how different the texture every time it is made. Try swapping out some ingredients. For example, more college, less boyfriend, or you may want to leave out the sister and measure equal portions of additional friends. Be creative and give it your own flair. Serves 10 tons of childhood abuse

It ended with me. I remember the day my mother slammed my head into the floor until I bled, I was 9. I remember her nails digging so deep into my arm that I hid the cuts and bruises they left, I was 12. I remember my dad protecting me as soon as he understood, I was 14. I remember it because I live it every day, even though it hasn’t happened in 6 years. A survivor is a survivor for the rest of their life, no one gets to take their strength away from them anymore. They know how much it’s worth.

it started when i was 6 i had a cousin and he had a game we would play he said it was a fun game and well unfortunately i didn't know this back then by i know now that i was sexually abused back then he would touch me inappropriately and i wasn't ok but after awhile he wasn't coming back i used to think that was a dream and 3 months ago he reached out to me and we were hanging out all the time until he brought up the aka dream and my heart dropped when he told me i felt the same way i felt when i was a kid i felt my anxiety go up, i ignored the fact about that conversation we hung out again and that day he touched me again and i didnt know what to do and i let him and it happened many times after that my body would just freeze like i was just empty and i have been feeling lately like it is my fault and that i deserved it i feel like i'm dying inside and i feel sad everyday since then and i just want to feel normal again.

I was six years old and I was friends with this girl who was also six. She was over at my house and we were sitting on the bed. I remember her asking me to play family and that I was the dad and she was the mom. She told me that I had to take all my clothes off because i was the 'dad' and she undressed from below the waist. After I did she just pushed me onto the bed and climbed on top of me. I just remember that she was sort of rubbing against me and I was so uncomfortable and I just wanted her to stop, but I was scared that we wouldn't be friends anymore if I did, so I just laid there and waited for it to be over. That is probably my oldest memory.

I was 17 back then and I met this guy at my college. He was a flirty rich bad boy type and I guess that attracted me at that teenage phase of my life. I expressed my interest in him and we soon started dating. On a particular day he send me a nude picture and I understood that we wanted to sext. Millions things were running in my mind. I was reluctant at first considering as I was always this introverted shy girl who gave preference to my culture where sex is a taboo. Upon my denial he manipulated me into sending nudes saying this is what girls do when they really love a guy. My naive and foolish self gave in. Later he wanted to have sex, I on the other hand wanted to lose my virginity only to a true love. With the same manipulation, I gave in once again. I was tired of seeing him flirt with other girls, trying to control my moves and messages only related to sex. I wanted to break up and his reaction was rather unexpected. He started shouting, verbally abusing and threatened to leak my nude pictures if I don't sleep with him again. I was afraid and ashamed to reveal this to my friends or family. My life turned upside down. I wet my pillow with tears as I realized this guy whom I loved is now ready to destroy my happy life. For many months he kept on sending these threats and I was trying to put on a happy face and hiding all the anxiety and fear I was facing from my people. A couple of his friends started sending me lewd messages and claimed they saw my nude pictures. I was devastated and wanted to burn my body. But I did the opposite. I dropped out my college, threw my phone from a cliff, cut everyone from my life and started preparing for law school entrances. Today, I study in one of the premier law schools and I am fearless since I know the legal know-how to tackle abusive exes and their revenge porn crimes. Still, the idea of being in a relationship and trusting men is scary because I have been scarred for life while I see that he leading quite a joyful life and dating a pretty girl. I felt like sharing this story to show women that you need to come out and say what's bothering you immediately and seek legal help and do not crumble like I did. Life is going to much better after whatever you faced. You need hope.

When I was 13 years old, I was molested in a vacant home 1 block from my childhood home. I was crying for help & no one listened. This was a (relationship)of mine who is currently incarcerated. He was 14 years old at the time. My mother contacted police when I came back home. When police arrived, I released some information as much to my ability from my knowledgeable standpoint. I was taken to the hospital for treatment. Children at this age aren't in the correct state of mind that these encounters are illegal whether the assailant is an adult or a minor. The next day, when I caught my school bus for school, my mother reported the incident to my school bus driver in front of all of my school bus riding mates. Then, as soon as I arrived at school, one of my classmates was asking me questions about the incident but, I refused to answer. I went to my teacher & social worker grieving. Quite some days later, my father was on the phone asking me questions about the incident but, I refused to answer. Then my grandmother confronted me about an allegation that I mentioned to someone which was not true. A week later, I reported to the school social worker of this. Later on that evening, the school social worker contacted my grandmother & confirmed that the rumor is not true. Being molested is the worst encounter that no one deserves to even live with. This is what changed me as an individual person. I will never in my days of my life victimize another person because, I was a victim myself. The only fear that you have to live with is, once someone speaks of it around the wrong people, it's out there & there's no taking it back.

I don't know if this was classified as something, but when I was about 10 years old, my sister asked me, begged me to please have sex with her. I wasn't sure, but in the end I did it. Does this count as something?