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

I was conditioned to think catcalling was a compliment, that if someone held your waist a little too long at work it was just cause "ahh they're just a bit touchy", that it's easier to just "go with it" than to say no and risk their response. It took me years to identify that no matter the degree of your experiences it still is never ok. We often get told sexual violence is one way but it isn't, it comes in many forms and sometimes you can't identify it at first - and that's ok. I am only recently coming to terms with the varying degrees of experiences I've had. I didn't want to say anything because I was made to believe I'd "rock the boat". Well some boats are meant to sink. Let's rebuild the boat so everyone can stay afloat, included and safe.

I never thought I’d end up in a relationship where love turned into control. It started small checking where I was, who I talked to, and what I spent. Before long, I was isolated from my family, my finances were no longer my own, and I felt trapped in a version of life that revolved around keeping the peace. The control eventually became financial and emotional. I was pressured to leave my job, told what I could or couldn’t buy, and made to feel guilty for needing independence. Every dollar spent was questioned. My self-worth slowly disappeared until I didn’t recognize myself anymore. Then came the night everything changed. During an argument, he introduced a firearm not in defense, but as intimidation. In that moment, I realized how easily fear can silence someone. That silence almost became my prison. But deep down, something in me refused to die there. I decided to leave, even if it meant starting from nothing. Leaving was terrifying, but it was also the beginning of freedom. I had to rebuild from the ground up my confidence, my finances, and my sense of safety. There were nights I questioned if I made the right choice, but every morning I woke up without fear, I knew I did. Today, I’m learning that healing isn’t about forgetting—it’s about reclaiming power piece by piece. I still flinch at loud noises and double-check locks, but I also laugh again. I make choices for myself. I’m learning to trust that I’m safe now. To anyone who’s living in silence, afraid to leave: your story matters. Fear doesn’t define you, and control is not love. You deserve safety, freedom, and peace. You are not alone and you can survive this too.

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

I wrote this poem today after hearing of guilty verdict in current court case with taxi drive and two separate victims. Title: Me Too Taxi Driver I too have been where you two have been. I too went out with friends. I too had one too many. I too got in the taxi. I too expected safety. I too was raped. Followed in through my front door by a taxi driver who wanted more than the fare that I had paid him. I too reported my assault. I too made my statement. Then our stories diverge. My case went nowhere. My trauma went inwards. My anger turned septic. My shame imploded. My mother does not know. My case went absolutely nowhere. Insufficient evidence and no identifiable suspect minimised my experience. So I thank you for standing strong, for speaking up, for getting some of the justice that I have craved. My taxi driver will never hear the judgement of a jury, and probably never even felt guilt. But he raped me, and in the court of my mind, the jury is unanimous, he is guilty, guilty, guilty.

When I was 7, I started being sexually abused. This wasn’t by a family member, it was my grans second husband. It all stopped when I was 12, when we moved a few miles away and he didn’t visit as much. When I was 17, I was having therapy for other things, it eventually came out then. They helped me decide how I was going to tell my mum. They also said I should prepare for family members to not believe me. I thought, you don’t know my family. They all stick up for each other. Well so I thought. My mum never wanted to talk about it. I understand now that was due to guilt, she had her own mental illnesses to deal with. My sister, well she turned against me for a few years. Saying I was lying, I tried to ruin my grans marriage with my lies, threatening to beat me up. My sister even tried to prove I was lying buy having him watch her new born baby whilst she went and done his food shop. When this man died, it got worse. My sister and aunt said they can’t grieve over him cause of the lies I said about him. Saying I’m evil and not wanting me near her child incase I do stuff to her. I had cousins asking “what exactly is it he did to you? My gran saying “he’s not a pedophile”. All this almost destroyed me. It was worse than the sexual abuse I had went through as a child. I decided I wanted away from my family. So I enrolled in college at 23, at 27 I was qualified and got straight into a job, I had been saving through college, so managed to move onto my own place pretty quickly. Now 33 years old and looking back I often think, did all that really happen. I’ve since moved further away from my family, Doing this has helped me stay away from their drama and only visit on occasions. They’re a lot better now, but I’d still rather keep my distance. I’m in a good place mentally. I’ve got great friends and built a good life for myself. My advice to anyone going thought it. Prepare yourself for family not to believe you. Only talk about it to people you trust and only when you want to talk about it. Don’t feel you need to explain yourself to anyone. The best thing my therapist said, no matter what you did or didn’t do, it wasn’t your fault. You were only a child.

I am a survivor of almost 6 months of continued (almost daily) traumatic sexual violation when just 12 years old, in 1969. My mother had left our family of 4 boys, ages 1 year through 12 years old (I was 9-10), and my father did the best he could, to keep us siblings together. The Catholic school I attended directed my dad to a man that was supposed to help with my "care". He lived very near the school, in a relatively nice house, with his wife, and two daughters. With a job at his bakery, and a much more "stable" environment than what was occuring at our house, this seemed a good opportunity for me But it came with a huge, hidden cost. This perpetrator was a classic, serial pederast, very devious and skilled in his predation(s). I was a manipulated, dominated, and controlled conquest for a very sick being. When I, finally, could endure no more, I sabotaged the situation, to bring it to an end. I was unable to say anything about this horror ( "Who would believe me?", "Why'd you let that happen ?", "Were you asking for it ?") for about another 15 years (1984, or so). Even with that, nothing really changed, or was done about this dangerous pederast/pedophile ... My young soul, spirit, and physical being had been crushed, and I was left to pick up the pieces, as best I could, all by myself. It is a "real wonder" that I survived this time, to be sure. And all of the years that have followed. This monster went on to violate many more adolescent boys, and teens, after me. I think that I was his second "victim" (I hate that word), and he continued for 33 years, right up until his death (I found out later). I have not been able to fully resolve this (I've really tried, a lot), and it haunts me to this day. And probably will 'til I leave the earth. I have given it to God, but it keeps coming back. I'll end this here; I hurt too much recounting it all. God Bless All who've survived this egregious trauma, and Rest the Souls who could not endure, and/or cope, with the evil that beset and overwhelmed them ...

° Hard Candy° Does it get better ?. She asked me , little golden eyes filled with tears hands pressed so hard against her reddened cheeks I could hardly hear the words pouring out of that little 8 year Olds mouth. I took a long pause before I decided my next approach.. You see She this child resembled a frightened mouse, Cautiously pressed back into what must of been the safety of her room blended underneath a blanket,. Her body was so small you could barley see the tiny frame. Frozen in place. Instinctively I wanted to give this child space but as a adult. I needed to comfort this child. Or was it I who needed comfort after seeing how badly damaged she was emotionally and mentally?. I haven't decided. It took a while Don't get me wrong not only does seeing a child in any form of distress unsettle the soul,. But regaining their trust is a challenge in itself. There was no door in this child's room so I wanted to be respectful,. Taking my time with this one,. Each step polite and over apologetic,. I stepped over the forgotten toys that had collected dust from previous visitation,. I can still smell The hard candy melted to the oak dress from the summers heat,. Slowly I unraveled this child and moved her hair out of her face. Millions of little freckles covered almost every inch. Hazel eyes stared at me, strawberry blonde hair and a pale complexity, but there was so much more to it. curiosity and fear looked back. Where was the love for this child?. I touched her face slowly. And whispered. Yes sweetheart. It sure does. We are grown now. We are safe now. We will always be safe. Because I will always protect you The inner child in myself smiled and hugged me tight. Thankyou she whispered. You're welcome sweetheart . ♡ Initials

When I was 7 or 8 my cousin knew I wanted a phone so he allowed me to use his if I said yes to him to touch my private parts but I never understand what he was doing so I said yes but sometimes I would say no to him but he never listened. I only realized what he did to me when I was older and now I want to know if it is sexual assault and is ut my fault

I haven’t been able to talk about my story because I feel invalid, because it wasn’t of an older person, because we were both children, because we were the same age, because “it was just a crush”. A boy in my primary school used to like me for a few years (Year 2-Year 5) and I didn’t feel the same way. I’ll admit, in year two, I liked the attention, I liked having the nice compliments “Your hair looks really pretty today”, “Your eyes are so green I really like them!”. But from me, it wasn’t a crush, I didn’t have interest in him. One day in year 3, I was sat next to him in my class. We were placed at the back and our tables were in split for two people and were in rows, so nobody could really see us at the back or at least they didn’t focus on us. I was writing when I felt a hand gliding up my thigh and lifting my skirt. I stopped writing and turned to the boy, who was grinning at me and I had never felt more disgusted in my life. I whispered for him to stop but his hand kept inching closer up my skirt to my knickers, of which he started to push his hand underneath. It wasn’t until I finally squirmed away that he stopped and glared at me. I didn’t say anything because he was scary to me, he was bigger than me, and so were all of his friends. He used to kiss me on my cheeks, on my head, on my neck, and I would tell him to stop but he said it was okay because everyone did it. I was 6. I feel invalid because of that. I feel that there’s no need for me to speak up because I was so young, and he was 7 so he was young too. Nothing would happen. I was scared, he would tell me not to tell anybody or he would hurt me. One day, I was walking back inside and I felt him run up behind me and start grabbing me from behind and (massaging) my bum. I kicked and squirmed until he let go of me and I ran inside to tell a teacher because I was so scared that he would chase me. I told her everything, I trusted her. She told me (and I quote) “You know sweetheart, he probably has a crush on you. It’s just what boys do. He might be going through something, you know what he’s like.” I left home early because I couldn’t stop crying. I told my dad and he called my school, they hadn’t even put any of it on record. Meaning, there was no word of that kid touching me anywhere. My dad threatened the teacher I spoke to with police if she didn’t put it on file. I still don’t know if she did, but I would assume she did. I hate myself for telling somebody, because after that, until I left primary school, I was bullied constantly. I remember being cornered on the school field by 5 of his friends, they all lifted up my skirt and made fun of me because I was wearing pink panda knickers. I had never felt so dehumanised over one, small incident. I told teachers, and they did nothing. I was at my lowest, wanting to harm myself. From the age of 7. I was self harming by I was 8. That boy has made me repulsed by physical affection, and I push away a lot of good boys because I’m scared of something similar happening back from when I was 6. I’m sorry this post was so long. But it means the world to even just talk about it. I hope anyone who has gone through a similar situation heals and realises that, it’s not “just a crush” and it’s not “because they’re like that”. It’s wong, and you were taken advantage of, no matter how young, or old you were. You are loved and appreciated.

OMG, where do I begin? I have been raped multiple times. I later facilitated the Me Too Monologues. I have written my own stories and am writing a memoir about my experiences.

All of my closest friends have been sexually assaulted in some kind of way, including myself. It breaks my heart, all I want to do is hug them and tell them it’s gonna be okay and it won’t happen again but I can’t guarantee that and it’s so scary.

I was sexually assaulted between the ages of 18 and 19 by my then-boyfriend. I remember when it first started, I didn't even think of it as sexual assault, only that I knew I didn't want to and always felt upset after it happened. There was one specific event that made me realise what I was experiencing was not normal. I remember repeating "no" to the point of almost yelling and trying to push him off me with all my strength. He had a grip of my jumper which ripped when I eventually broke free. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. I went to dinner with his family that evening and cried in the bathroom. To this day, I still haven't told anyone and I wonder if he even understands the gravity of what he had done.

After over a decade, I'm just now coming out of a fog and realizing I've been abused since before we even married. I feel so lost right now. I'm trying to forgive myself, love myself, and gain strength, all while still having to be married to my abuser. I want to leave but don't have the resources to. And I cannot stomach the thought of my children having to suffer even weekend visits with him without me there as a shield. I'm so exhausted. I'm so hurt and angry and sad. He's abused me physically, emotionally, mentally, and financially. I feel so trapped and don't really see a way out for me and my kids. When I watched It Ends With Us, I related so much because I knew exactly how it felt to look back and finally realize what had actually happened. I am just now processing so much that I didn't feel safe enough to even consider was abuse before. It's hard and sometimes I want to hide from it all, but I know the only way to heal and somehow leave is to face what I've been through head on and make a plan to escape.

At age 15, my doctor asked me if I was sexually active. I cried and said “sort of”. When she asked me why I was crying, I told her it was because I thought it was embarrassing. I’m now realizing that I was not crying because I was embarrassed but because I was ashamed. I felt ashamed for having sex at 15 years old (which I felt was too young for me), and even more ashamed at how it happened. I had consented to fooling around with my boyfriend at the time but did not consent to penetration. I was not expecting to look up to hear him say “it’s in”, when I had clearly told him that I did not want penetration. I pushed him off and started crying. However, I brushed it off as being part of a normal healthy relationship, not knowing any better as this was my first relationship. For the next year and a half, I stayed with that partner while dealing with many ridiculous commands and events that I did not realize was unhealthy until much later: being told I wasn’t allowed to wear leggings because then other people would see my butt; being told not to drink coffee (still did); not seeing my friends other than at school; being told I couldn’t wear makeup because if I wore makeup, it would obviously mean that I was trying to attract other guys to cheat on my partner (meanwhile he cheated 3 times); being stopped on the street by a stranger asking if I needed help who then called the police about a domestic violence dispute (i wish I knew who that woman was so I could thank her today); being slut shamed; if we argued, being told I couldn’t leave him because no one else would love me since I was worthless and unlovable; finally, being controlled and manipulated. I’ve heard somewhere (not fact checked) that it takes women on average 7 attempts to leave their abuser before an attempt to leave finally sticks. I remember it taking me 3 tries but it’s possible that I’m forgetting some. Oct 2nd was the day I finally left. We’d broken up numerous times before but he always reeled me back in. He’d reel me back in by forcing himself to cry or to throw up, or by threatening to tell everyone that I was a worthless whore. That year and a half long period of my life still affects me. While I can’t blame all my problems on one person or one situation, I strongly believe that that relationship is the root to my insecurities and anxieties. Fortunately, the past two and a half years, while tough and emotional, have been periods of self love and self discovery.

10 years ago, my body did something amazing. It separated me from myself so I would not experience directly (follow me) the trauma of what was happening to my body. They call this disassociation. It's not been until 10 years later, years of reliving, remembering and traumatic re-trauma that I have begun to appreciate, be grateful for and understand this mechanism the nervous system provides us in our most darkest of moments. It's a soul-protection mechanism, it often keeps us alive (for those of us that make it), and whilst it can take years to realise this or even entertain the idea that it was for our own survival, rather than a forced escape, it has been the most beautiful part of my healing. Let me share what happened. Ten years ago, (I am not 'allowed' to discuss my age publicly, my former employer or his name), but I can speak the truth on everything else; ten years ago, I worked for a tech company. It was male dominated, competitive and scarcly unhostile. I had anxiety every single day I went to work, starting in my first week when my then boss, demanded I not consider having children for the next 2 years at least, if I was serious about my career.....That first week should have been my swan song, and I take my exit. Instead, and somewhat predictably (based on my personality, nature and vulnerability), he preyed on the discomfort he sensed from my response and I eagerly went to work 'proving myself'. It was exactly what he wanted me to do.... I had worked with this person before, for many years but never directly. My perception of him was coloured only by what I had seen previously and I had not been warned that he was dangerous. By anyone. In fact, me joining the company was facilitated by friends who also shared the perception that this person was successful, caring and a 'family man'. They, like me were sorely mistaken. For the next almost 15 months, I was groomed, manipulated, put down, abused verbally, physically touched (in the office), visually raped, auditorily raped (yes turns out this is a thing), orally, digitally and finally penetrably raped by my former employer. He isolated me from my partner, my friends, worked me harder then I have ever worked before all whilst putting me down or building me up just enough that I became confused, lacked the ability to judge A from B, and did anything he asked me to do. He did this through multiple mechanisms, but the primary one was of malignant narccissm and power imbalance. He would remind me of how stupid I was until I started to believe it, stare at me (like prey) during meetings, with such gall that he almost didn't care if anyone noticed. He'd adjust himself (on purpose) under board room tables non-verbally provoking me to see if I would respond, or crack or speak up. I never did. I resigned 3 times before he finally 'let me go'. By this time, he was 'interviewing' prospective partners on my behalf, making plans to send me overseas where he could 'see me whenever he wanted' and taking control of my finances 'through monetary bonuses' or incentives to perform at work. He had carefully and methodically taken over every aspect of my life, including my own free will. But I have myself, and some angels to thank for my escape. Which, by that time, I was so broken down I became paranoid, suicidal and could barely function. All the while, he behaved like I was nothing, noone and at the same time said things like "you're more of a man than I am..." obviously representative of the bravery I had in getting away but also the determination to do what is necessary to survive. I've since validated my story in multiple ways, 1) I went to the human rights commission. The process, whilst broken and not survivor focussed, was a way to validate my experience first. It took ten years, and getting very very physically ill (and becoming disabled) to get the courage to do this. Through this process I had to face him, virtually (thanks to COVID - another angel), and I couldn't do it. I felt sick to my stomach, my nervous system could not tell my body that 10 years had passed, it only had muscle, nerves and neurons of memory and it was retraumatising. I took it as far as it could go and they granted me the opportunity to escalate it. 2) I went to a lawyer, multiple actually, but they were not that helpful in the end. They got what they needed out of it and I was able to connect with a softly spoken legal aid who helped me tell my story in detail. They defended me as best they could but in the end a non-empathetic barrister derailed me taking it all the way to court. It became clear during this process that it was not a civil matter either, this was criminal, so I wasn't on the right path to begin with. I knew from the past, and before the #METOO movement even happened that it was going to be really tough proving what happened to me. That it was going to be my word against his. This is where most stories end...BUT it is not where mine will end. The reason, I believe, that most women in particular, do not tell or share their stories, or hold their perpetrator accountable, is fear. In many ways it's because we blame ourselves, we look at our own deficiencies as to why these things happened to us. What did we do wrong in that scenario. Nothing. We did absolutely nothing wrong. Our only issue or fault lies in existing at all. And guess what, that is not our fault. I am going to say this again: We. Did. Nothing. Wrong. You. Did. Nothing. Wrong. What happened does not belong to you. It belongs to the person that did it. Who often are so closed minded to their own dysfunction they don't even realise what they are doing is not OK. So they do it, mindlessly, focussed only on self gratification. It's like an animal only. Not a human. That is how broken, soulless and miserable another human must be to inflict such horror on another. And it happens to 1 in 3 of us women at work. Worse if you're a woman of colour, worse if you are a woman of hispanic or indigenous background in Australia. I've decided, the time ends for me to separate my soul from my body to survive. In fact, as my nervous system has deteriorated after childbirth, and I've become palliative, I have now faced death so many times. Actual physical death. NDE's or near death experiences have taught me that survival, living is a choice. We can choose to be defined by our experiences, as the sole ones we focus on for the rest of our lives, haunted by ghosts of the past. OR we can speak our truth, so loudly that it drowns out all the other voices. We can work together, we can create something together, we can make things different than our past path set out for us. Noone gets to own us, no matter how much they infect you and your mind. In many ways, I have been lucky. Lucky to have had the opportunity to live, through so much trauma and still be standing (with my favourite walking stick of course) to spend whatever time I can with my family. Or in meditation, or stillness. He doesn't get to touch that, or me, ever again. And, my decision, is to not tell what I can about my story, to whoever will listen, as often as I need to, until my story is drowned out by voices of 'no, stop or I am calling the police'. And our girls, and boys are so highly tuned to avoid these people, that it just doesn't happen to them. Our stories may have rendered us powerless, as they happened. But the true miracle is that we have inbuilt survival tools, there for us to protect ourselves, even in those moments by dissociating our souls from our bodies, and floating (in my case as the chair sat in the corner of the room) or out a window or the ceiling. I didn't have to really be there to 'feel' what was happening to me. I was lucky. I now have the amazing opportunity to find my way back into my body, as a whole soul and can slowly and carefully unravel and re-wire that trauma from my life. I think that makes us true survivors. And that is a gift. Thank you for letting me share. Please, share your story too, the more you tell it, the easier the unburdening on your body and mind. xo name (aka sharky) or Mamma Sharky.

i never wanted to believe that my boyfriend of all people, would do this to me. i wished so hard that it didnt happen and that it wasnt true-that i had forgot about it. my brain completely blanked it when i needed it too. except, now-as its been about two years since and just under a year and half since ive been free of him-i feel its too late. too late to report, too late to speak, too late to admit. my life has completely changed since covid began. since my relationship ended and the memories started piecing themselves together. the story is beginning to fit and my chest is about to explode with the desperate need to speak my story. you see, i was maybe 18 and with someone who i thought loved me. i was so desperate to be loved, to be seen, that i stayed for three years. now looking back, i feel disgust and ashamed and embarrassed that i allowed him to treat me like that. the day i remembered, i went completely a-wall. i was a mess. all i could think about was the white sheets my face were stuffed in, the corner of his room, how he went emotionless and stopped talking. he changed so quickly in that moment, a fear so deep within me was provoked. i tried to fight back, i trued to push him off, to tell him no. i told him he was hurting me. i remember looking back, seeing how blank his face was as if an alter ego took over, he wasnt there at that moment. something snapped in him that ive never really seen in that way before. i remember how when i pushed up to fight him off, he grabbed my hips and the back of my neck. he shoved me face down, pinning me on top of my arms. he held me like that the entire time, pinning me down by the back of my neck. i never feared for my life more than within that moment. i tried saying no, i tried fighting back and his out of reality state of mind ignored me and pinned me down to his bed. i remember giving up, freezing and going silent other than the whimpers of pain. i remember crying, praying that he wasnt going to kill me. he finished, walking away without a look back at me. “clean yourself up.” he said, leaving me alone in his downstairs room, to go talk to his parents who had called for him upstairs. i remember i stumbled to his bathroom, my pants still around my ankles. i remember i couldnt stop crying, i kept thinking “this didnt just happen, what just happened?” i remember sobbing as i cleaned myself up. my body felt different, gross, repulsed, invaded. i felt violated in every way but i was so convinced it didnt happen that i wasnt sure why. by the time i left the bathroom, he was there, asking why i was crying. i didnt know what to say, so i shrugged. later that night, we had a conversation. i told him how i felt used, how different it felt that time, how i felt like a sex toy. he proceeded to beg me and plead about how he “doesnt want to feel like i raped you”. i remember crying. i remember thinking, “he’s my boyfriend he couldnt possibly.” but he was my boyfriend, and he most definitely did.

my brother SA'd me multiple times. he never raped me, though. he once forced me to kiss him on the mouth as a "game" of some sorts. he would also smack my ass, call me a slut, and shame me for everything. before he got on medication, he would beat me up. he's on medication now, but he's still terrible. he got mad at me and said he would gangrape me. he never did, but it was still scary. i hate him, and he says i'm a bad person for hating him. he also denied ever SAing me. sometimes i feel like i'm delusional or something. i don't know, i'm just tired of living with him. i can't wait for him to move out.

I’ve been in a harmful relationship for almost two years, my abusive ex would shame me no matter what I did or do. He would imply that I’m someone I’m not. He would make fun of my body, even though I’m underweight, no matter what I said he thought of it as a joke and that I don’t “listen to him” all I’ve done was try to love someone who was toxic. I admit I wasn’t perfect, but he would act like he’s innocent and tried to rip me away from my family. I’ve lost friends, lost myself. I feel as if I’m not the person who I was before. I’ve sacrificed my life just to be loved by him but it wasnt worth it all. All I can do is grieve and go to therapy, he made fun of me for going to therapy, and thought it was a joke. He’s ruined my life and I grieve for the sweet girl I was before. He’s put things in my head that we’re never there before, and I’ve cried my eyes out multiple times with him not caring at all, my family worries about me a lot, the people that loved me has seen me break down multiple times. He wanted to break me down into his doll. He claimed that I never loved him but I’ve spent so much time on him, I’ve given more than I received, more than I needed to. He used power dynamics on me, every time I would stand up for myself, he always found a way to bring me down. No matter what.