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If there's one thing that I've come to understand about survivors, one thing many of us have in common, it's that we weren't equipped with the language to understand that what happened to us was a specific crime or immoral action. We knew it was wrong because of the visceral, bodily reactions we had, but we didn't have a reliable way to describe why our bodies did that. We questioned ourselves in the absence of safety to question the experiences. We stayed quiet many times because we doubted anyone would listen if we screamed. By the time I found out that what had happened to me was a crime, the statute of limitations had long since passed. I knew all too well that in a place like my home state, where I grew up in high-control religion, more people would worry about ruining a bright young man's future than about the nightmare I lived in. I thought about pursuing a criminal case, but it was such a brief thought and shut down so quickly by my own conviction and insistence that nobody would listen to me. It happened on the love seat in the living room of my parents' house, with my whole family downstairs, and I hadn't screamed out then because I knew, sick beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I would be painted as the reason it happened. I would be questioned about what I'd done to lead him on and make him think it was okay to do that to me. If I couldn't have cried out to my own family, what made me think I could cry out to the courts and be heard? I try to come on here when I think about how it messed me up. I try to come here and make a few encouraging posts, uplift other people who may not have anyone who sees them as they are. Recently I had this incredible moment out in public, at this craft supply thrift store in my hometown. A teenager came in with her battered guitar case and her dad, who hovered at the edges of the store to let her browse for patches and embellishments for the guitar case. I ended up chatting with them, and halfway through the conversation I saw her scars. Before I left, I told her that the real secret of learning an instrument is that it has to sound noisy and terrible before it can sound good. "Don't be mad at yourself when it sounds noisy and terrible," I told her, laughing as I said it. "It has to do that first before it can sound good!" I cried the whole way home thinking about how I'd been that teenager once. I had needed someone to say something kind to me, to see me and offer me something warm and genuine, and I didn't have anyone. I tell you all of this just to say: Keep going. If you can't do it for yourself, don't do it for me. Do it for the small reasons that make you smile and cry bittersweet tears all the way home. Do it so you can offer to someone else what you didn't get yourself. Do it because it would feel amazing to outlive the person who hurt you. Do it because they would hate to see you thriving, and it's not wrong to be petty and thrive just to drive them nuts. There is no stupid reason to keep going. I'm in this for the long haul because I like living, and I especially like living so that I can prove wrong everyone who thought I wouldn't make it this far, including myself. No stupid reasons to keep going here. So keep going.

March 15 — The Day I paid my rapist. I was 18 years old. I was a virgin. It was March 15, and I was so excited because I was going to get my first tattoo. I had chosen two phrases with deep biblical meanings: Tattoo Details I had no idea that I would leave that day feeling as though my dignity had been taken from me, having paid the very man who raped me. I didn't know what I was walking into. I didn't say the word “no,” but I did say, “I have to go. I have to go. I have to go.” I kept saying it, but he wouldn't let me leave. He pushed me against the counter and pulled down my sweatpants, my leggings, and then my underwear. He penetrated me with his penis while touching my vagina with his other hand. I didn't know what to do. I was frozen, terrified, and completely overwhelmed. It was just the two of us. There were no cameras, no one else around, and I felt like there was no one who could help me if I called for help. There was a baseball bat in the corner, and I was beyond scared. I have always had a fear of men because of things I experienced in the past. Imagine how terrifying it was to find myself in a situation where I felt so powerless. He didn't stop until I said, “I'll come back later.” In that moment, I thought those words were my only hope—my only way out. I wasn't thinking about what I wanted to say or what I should have done. I was trying to find a way to get out of that situation. He finally pulled my pants back up, but before he did, he slapped my butt and grabbed my vagina. And then I left. I had gone there excited to get my first tattoo, choosing words that meant so much to my faith. I never imagined that I would walk away carrying the weight of an experience I never wanted and never deserved. I had just paid my rapist. Needless to say, you broke me. You broke me in more ways than one. I don’t think I will ever fully recover from what you did to me. It has simply become a part of my story one I never asked for and never deserved. I lost myself. I haven’t been able to look at myself the same way since. I don’t know how to love myself anymore. Some days, I don’t even know who ******* is. I lost a piece of me that I feel like I will never get back. I blamed myself for something that was never my fault. I went to get a tattoo, but I left without my dignity. I paid for a tattoo, but in reality, I paid my rapist. This is my story. I am a survivor.

When I was a very young age, (around 4-6 years old) I became friends with another boy on my street about 3 houses down. He was the same age as me, and had an older brother, D, who was probably about 16-17 at the time. There was a time we were watching the movie Movie in the basement of their house with the older brother there, and I had told them about how I walked in on my parents naked and how I thought it was funny. D used it as an opportunity to explain to me what sex was. He had me and his little brother take our clothes off and touch each other and said it was just a fun game and that he was teaching us. I don’t recall anything beyond that. A lot of this day is blocked out of my mind and something tells me that more even happened beyond this as I still continued to hang around here. There was a specific incident where me and the boy my age got naked together and laid in bed and my dad came in and caught us. I felt so much shame. I felt like a creature. My nephew is 2 years younger than me, so we grew up together sort of like brothers. He would often spend the night at our house. When I was somewhere between 10-13, there were a couple of times that I would touch him inappropriately in his sleep. I don’t know what my thought process was, and I honestly didn’t even process that I did these things and what they meant until I was much older. I’ve felt like a disgusting monster for it. I love my family more than anything, and the kid that did that is no where near the man that I am today. But I did that. That was me. And I’ve found it hard to process and realize. My nephew has struggled with alcoholism and drug abuse for a long time, and even though our family has a long history of the men in the family having addiction issues, I can’t help but think that I did that to him. I changed the trajectory of his life because I was a sick abusive little kid. His mom, my sister, is officiating my wedding soon. My nephew got drunk and for the first time confronted me about what happened when we were kids and just texted me “I’m not coming to your wedding. you touched my dick when I was little and I remember. Fuck you. Bitch.” And I felt my life flash before my eyes and all of a sudden this shame and hate towards myself boiled completely up. My first thought was that my life was over. My second thought was what the fuck have I done. I’m not sure how to heal from this or how to keep going. Hopefully therapy will help.

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

This is another incident from my survivor story, IT STARTED WITH MY BROTHER. I am working up to the police incident. Please read my story for context. This one brought back pain in writing it. Sophomore year of my philosophy major in college. I had recently gone on a trip to Portugal with nice older man who basically invited me to Portugal with the understanding that I would be his lover for a free trip. He had been one of my customers at the restaurant and I took him up on his proposition for the fun of it and had a great time. That was my spring break. This was a few year period when I was very promiscuous after being abused by my brother for years at home and repressed in a Catholic high school as parental punishment for starting a sexual relationship with a boy my age. When a girl in my logic course who was pre-law invited me to a fraternity party I thought it would be nice to hang with people my own age. Fraternities and sororities were not my cup of tea and still are not. After doing a keg stand to impress strangers I was looking for the upstairs bathroom because the line for the downstairs one was long. That one had a few girls waiting and a guy who had held one of my legs for the keg stand started flirting with me and offered to take me to a secret bathroom. The bathroom was legit but then he beckoned me into a bedroom across from it where two other frat brothers were. I was apprehensive but with the other guys there I was a little more at ease that he wasn’t just trying to take me to bed. I was open to finding a hot guy, to be honest, but he was NOT it. Neither were the other two. I sat chatting with them and drinking tiny shots of cinnamon whiskey and getting more nervous when somebody tried to get in the door to the room but it was locked. My guy yelled at them to go away. Then I tried to get up and leave but was pulled back to my seat the bed. I am small so I am easily overpowered. “You can’t leave yet. We’re just getting to know you.” One rapist said. “No teases allowed here.” “What do I have to do to get back out to my friend?” I asked something like that but used her name. They looked at each other with nasty smirks and I regretted the question. What one of them came up was a blowjob contest in which I have twenty seconds to make each of them cum but I had to go in circle until one did and then he was eliminated and I had to do all three. So they stood on three sides of the bed with me in the middle and took out their penises. One had a stop watch and without hesitation I started sucking the one nearest me. I wanted to get out of there and was physically afraid of them. This was away to avoid any violence and not even give them the satisfaction of thinking they forced me to do anything. So I went round and round getting very tired. 20 seconds was too short and they had pulled off all my clothes. I stopped and asked the one who made up the game for 60 seconds. Suddenly I was pulled violently back by my legs from the one behind me he held my legs apart as he quickly started banging me. I did not even see his face until later. The one who I had been talking to got up on the bed and started doing it to my mouth. I don’t me he put it in my mouth. He grabbed my head with both hands and forced it in and was banging my face as hard as the guy behind me was doing it. I had to stay up on my elbows arched to prevent him from ripping my hair up to keep me at his level. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. It had always been one partner at a time. They were mean and I tried so hard to keep up. After that craziness was over and both of them satisfied themselves in me, the original guy pulled me up onto the bed and said something like, “Only one hole left for me.” I was not used to anal sex then. I offered to go wash up if he would please not do anal with me. He laughed and shook his head. So, laying on my back with my legs spread, he squirted some aloe vera gel from the bedside table down there and watched me face to face as he worked his penis in one thrust at a time. He saw the pain on my face that I could not hide. I had to kiss him while her hurt me. Even when he got going fast it took him a while. One of them was watching us, smiling from the side and the other was playing with his phone and I think taking pictures. Phones did not do videos yet. The smiling one once asked, “Dude, is it really in her ass?” After he was finished with me he thanked me and left. Said he had responsibilities. The one with the phone left too. I tried to leave. “Not so fast.” The other one said pushing me back down. I told him I had done everything they wanted and more and asked to please leave. He told me I was the hottest chick he had ever F-’d and he wanted round 2. I just wanted to get out of there. One more obstacle. I worked my mouth on him for a while to get him even half rubbery again and worked it inside. That failed and I had to do it again. Finally I used every trick I could including faking orgasms, having a real orgasm, and talking dirty to him to get him to release inside me. I was so shaky and exhausted after being their whore for so long it was hard to get my clothes on. I was in fear he would stop me, and he did. I told him I just wanted to got pee and clean up and asked him if I could sleep in his bed with him—just a trick. I worked. I thanked him, nonchalantly closed the door behind me and hurried down the stairs without drawing too much attention. I kept a smile on my face as I made it out the front door and off the porch. I kept of the act for a block before I just started running as far away as I could. I was actually terrified someone might be after me until I was out of the neighborhood far from campus and to a gas station. I called a taxi and went home. My roomate was sleeping in her room and I just sat in the shower. In my story I used this as an example of how I avoided being raped by just going with it when I was in a rape situation. But this felt like rape. I went back to partying and using alcohol and marijuana to dampen the impact and feel artificially warm and fuzzy. And casual sex with hot men. But this was rape. I was gang raped. Maybe better for me than if I had tried to fight them and lost but it still sucks and leaves me with hurt and guilt and fear.