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I wanted to break a rule that my parents had set me: no boyfriend whatsoever. They aren't strict but they have rules: you don't choose your clothes (so no crop tops ever, no skirts without leggings underneath, etc), no candy, no choosing of my future studies myself, always get good grades (8/10 would not be considered enough), no drinking sodas, no socials so no Snap chat, no Tik Tok etc. The list goes on. I understand that they care about me, and that they want the best for me but sometimes I find it too much. But I should enjoy it while it lasts because this might be the closest thing to freedom I will ever get. Here's why. At the age of 15, I met this sweet guy that was really my type. He, as a first impression, seemed to be the type of guy my parents would like: same age only half a year older than me, hardworking, caring, didn't seem to be driven by lust, and really sweet to me. I told myself this might be the same love as my parents have, who used to be high school sweethearts. After a couple months, a few kisses and cuddles, without my parents knowing, came the day that started this mess (or so I think, maybe I was too blind to realise it happened progressively before). I remember ringing the doorbell of his house and when he opened the door I saw he was tired. More than usual. I don't know if I could say he was acting strange (now I know, or his excuse was, that he was drugged by his older brother of 23 at the time). We go up to his room, he asks me if I need something to drink and of course, like always, I ask for water. Only this time I should have thought before drinking from the glass that had a spoon in it. It was stupid of me, because the next thing I knew, I was laying on my back, naked, my wrists cuffed behind me to the bed, him on top of me with this face I will never forget (it still haunts me) and the pain in my lower belly too. There was blood of course, he'd just taken my virginity. I was scarred of him after that, but he threatened me, told me he'd hurt my loved ones if I told anyone. Do note I didn't know how to say no to people back then, and I'd been taught and raised to obey. So I did. I kept my mouth shut. He made me sneak out during the night. At first it was just him to please, then also his friends. My throat grew sore, the more they made me do orals. I got cuts and bruises (never in visible places though, like my face, so that they could keep on using me without other people noticing). I grew more quite at school, but honestly no one would really notice, as I was already pretty quite. Grades started slipping, parents got mad at me for that, called me useless and told me I'd achieve nothing in life. It didn't help. It hurt a lot because I had tried to maintain good grades, and it was all just going downhill. I also noticed that his older brother was busy with a girl too (judging from the noises coming from his room). I would see that girl from time to time, she was older maybe 19, not sure anymore. She was sweet, she even gave me the pill so not to get pregnant and some pregnancy tests. But she was in a way worse state than me: scars and all, and her fingertips weren't just burned like mine, she had bandages on all of them as they bled. I was scared of the older brother. Scared being an understatement. And then after a month, she was gone. I had no idea where, just silence in his big brother's room. That's when his big brother approached me. All I can say is: he wasn't gentle. At all. That's also around the time when I realised that his big brother beat him up, because I came out of that room, limping as he'd pushed my hip too far (now I have a partially dislocating hip that is permanent), and his younger brother yelled at him for 'f*cking his toy'. He was left in a ball on his bedroom floor with a broken rib while his older brother walked off. I felt bad, because even if he had said I was his property/his toy, he had still tried to protect me, so I decide to go get him an ice pack from the freezer and take care of him. He eventually told me more about his older brother, and I got to know he sold drugs and all, and made him (and me) take them. I asked where the hell his parents were in all this, but it was only his mom now (and she seemed to have no control over her sons) as his father had left for another women (or multiple, not sure). I decided maybe I should tell someone about this and ask them what to do, but then came the thought that: who would believe me? We lived in a pretty safe country, or at least one that people thought was safe. I didn't want to bother others and worry people, neither did I want them getting hurt if they tried to help, so I kept my mouth shut. Now the following is even harder to talk about. It has changed me. It will change my future too. By now I was 16. One night, he made me dress up in this overly sexualised bunny outfit and brought me to an apartment id never been. There were multiple guys waiting. They were all around his age I think (I'm bad at guessing people's age, plus I don't think they were bothered telling me the truth), they didn't seem to be friends really they looked like they knew each other just because they did business together, and I new from the moment I had walked into this room that I was noting but a f*cktoy to them. Its weird that feeling, when you enter somewhere and just know who has the power. I definitely had zero power here, they wanted me to feel that way too. I know it. I felt it. After the pain, the kneeling in front of them, and the pictures I begged them not to take, came the first time I'd seen someone hand money to the older brother. I realised with pain in my heart (and literally everywhere else where they'd touched me) that I had just been sold. Like some piece of bread at the market. Sold. My brain physically couldn't process what had happened. Some days I still can't. I didn't sleep for some time after that and eating was something I had to force myself to do and it was a challenge not to throw up. It went on. Money turned into contracts, pictures into videos, and my body falling apart before my eyes, but not enough that it was so obvious that everyone would see. I did my best to cover it, so no one would get hurt. Concealer became my best friend. Except a teacher at school did notice and I ended up telling her everything. Well, almost everything. I told her I'd been rapped just once maybe twice and that I didn't remember very well for most things that had happened. In a way it wasn't a lie but I was too scarred those boys would find out I had told someone and then they'd hurt all the people I care about. It is also true that some things I just couldn't remember, like a gap in my memory when I try to remember what has happened after I'd been brought somewhere by his older brother. It felt strange, like I was missing something but it just wouldn't come back to mind. The teacher called the police and I was interrogated. I had to do it multiple times with recorded sessions and all. No one prepared me for how tiering it would be to repeat what had happened to me over the past year because of those boys. It hurt so so much. They asked question after question as the memories of those nights came haunting me all over again. I wanted to forget, because I realised there is no real solution, and on top of that, I wasn't allowed to start therapy without first trying to remember every single detail that had happened for the police investigation. Those boys, some that new me and I had no idea who they were, hurt me and the threats pilled up. It was too much for me. I couldn't do this. So I lied. I lied and said it never happened. That I hadn't been rapped. I had prepared some fake conversations that were very obviously fake for them to find on my phone, planned them out so that it looked fake. And I told them to stop the investigation. And that was that. My parents were of course mad at me, they took my phone away and all. I can't say I'm addicted to phones but, more than six months without one is just, a lot, for me at least. I'm honestly not sure what to do now. My memory is really bad, still worsening, I'm not doing so good in classes, I feel sick to the bone but its no big thing like cancer or diabetes or something that a doctor can diagnose. I just feel sick, but that means nothing apparently. I just remember the last thing that the big brother told me, that when I'm 19 and out of the house he will take me away as his f*cktoy. That's why I said at the beginning that I should enjoy my life now while it lasts because this might be the closest thing to freedom I will ever get. And to stay positive I just tell myself , as my father would say: it could always be worse, appreciate what you have. I know I can't go back, but it's so painful. Everyday, it never leaves my mind. To be honest, the only reason why I don't kill myself is because it would be horrible for others to loose a daughter, a sister, a friend and so on. I can't do that, I don't want to be selfish. All I want is to find a reason to live, and that it isn't just living for others.

I was six when I first saw pornography, in my own house. There are a lot of forgotten memories from 6-18. By ten I was in chat rooms. By eleven a man was grooming me, and for years I performed on live video for adult men who told me I was mature, special, chosen. I believed them. I thought my popularity was proof I was grown. I was a lonely kid in an empty house being trained, and there is a difference. At fourteen I was with a man in his twenties and called it willing, because nobody had ever taught me that a child can't be. I'm an adult now, a mother, and I spent years searching the internet for any sign that what happened to me was real and witnessed. What I found were investigations, statistics, and other survivors. So I'm leaving this here for the girl who is searching tonight the way I did: you were not willing, you were groomed. You were not mature for your age, you were unprotected. And it was not your fault, not even the parts you went back for. Especially those parts.

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.

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.