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Home should be where you're safe right? As a child your home should be your protective little bubble, where your surrounded by people who love you. Even as an adult home should feel safe. You shouldn't be 21 and balling your eyes out as your friend explains to you all the reasons you can't move in with them and assures you despite the obstacles you will be able to leave one day. It's hard because I understand for many reasons I'm lucky, for many reasons I can sympathize and put logic to their actions. But that doesn't stop it hurting, it doesn't stop me wanting to go back and hug my smaller, scared and hopeless self. It's hard because even now as an adult who is stronger, smarter and more or less self sufficient part of me is still scared, on edge and waiting to defend myself. Let me make it clear I am not in a safe enviroment but I am in the safest enviroment that is available, I will not thrive here but I will survive and I will make it to the next chapter. Home should be where you're safe right? Not where you're physically and emotionally abused. It should not be the place you dread to return to because your family, who claim to love you, are the ones who leave you bruised.

Dear K, I met you when I was only 11, I was lonely, vulnerable, and so sad. At the time, everyone was calling me a slut and a prostitute for simply having breasts and curves. When you would talk to me, you never made me feel ugly or disgusting, you made me feel appreciated and loved. Our friendship was "beautiful" at first, you would always ask me how I was, what I was going to do after school, but I never realized that you wanted to control every living moment of mine. At age 12, when I said no to you asking me out, you would ask me out every single day, first, it was a hand on the shoulder, then a shove into the lockers, then yanking my hair and hitting me and slapping my butt. I couldn't escape you because you were always there, at class, at lunch, in front of my locker, outside school, on the train, in the grocery store, and even on my doorstep. At age 13 I couldn't be myself without you, I knew how terrible of a person you were, but you were the only one who would talk to me, spend time with me. I felt like I deserved how you treated me, so I would do anything to make you happy, so you wouldn't hit me. I would wear the clothes you liked, smile and laugh when you wanted me to, let you touch me inside out, but that was never enough for you. You pushed me to my limit, you drove me insane that my body couldn't stop you from stealing from me. I couldn't scream, I couldn't wriggle around, I couldn't say no, I was just paralyzed, numb, but my brain was on fire because I knew I should've been fighting back. When my friend realized what you had done to me, he never let you go near me again, but you still stole from me. I can't sleep without having nightmares of you, without hearing you whisper how you would steal more from me, without feeling your touch and wincing whenever someone hugs me. I am scared that if I open up again, I will only be robbed again. Whenever I see you, I shudder at the mere reminder of how you owned and brainwashed me. I am still healing, and always will be. My promise to you is that I will never let you hurt another girl again and that I will forever be an advocate so that we survivors can have a voice. So that I can have my voice again!

In the beginning, he was the perfect boyfriend. Since our first date, we would see each other every single day and we shared the deepest, darkest secrets of our lives within a few weeks of meeting each other. He took me to his favorite places and brought me flowers, met my dog and my family. He was sweet, hardworking, dedicated and placed me on a high pedestal. His family was the best, treated me with such respect and welcomed me like I was their own. I knew we were going to be together for a long time and I was happy – for about 3 months. From there, we slipped into a downward spiral of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. Over the course of 3 years, he tore down my entire sense of who I was, every ounce of self-confidence or worth of myself I had carefully crafted over the years. He made it impossible for me to say no to him, even for sex, even if I didn’t want to. I believe he enjoyed it more when I didn’t want to. It took me a long time to realize it was still rape, even though we were in a relationship, even though I eventually said yes. I was scared of him and what he’d do if I said no. So, I remember lying still while he entered me, tears flowing from my closed eyes, forcing myself to leave my own body. I remember every time he laid his hands on my body without my consent, every time he threw drinks on me, pulled me by my hair, every threat against my dog’s life, every moment I felt frightened for my own life. I remember it all… But the weight isn’t as heavy. It’s been almost two years since I left him for good. I know that if I never did, I would’ve been stuck in that cycle for years. And I would have eventually been seriously hurt by him. I don’t know if I believe good things can come out of bad situations, but I’m determined to make that the case here. I use it to be grateful for the things I have today, for who I have now. And no matter how bad I hurt in the past, I have control over my future and the things I do as well as who I do them with.

TW: sexual violence, child abuse This is something I’ve never spoken about like this, never sought help for and still think about all the time. When I was a 15 year old virgin, I was raped by a man I met 2 months prior and someone who knew I had no intention of having sex until I was married. MK approached me outside McDonalds and my friend gave my number to him. We started speaking and started meeting up. We never even kissed. I never allowed him to touch me sexually and I never touched him sexually. He was someone I really liked even though he was almost 20 years old, I was so naive and trusting as a young girl. He knew I was a virgin and once said to me ‘U think yuh pussys made of gold?!’ Until one day, he drugged me and then raped me. It wasn’t a case of we were doing things and I decided in the middle of it no actually I dont wanna do this. It was me sitting fully clothed on the edge on the bed, to waking up screaming from pain and passing out again. Then when I woke up again I was practically naked on the bed with him on top of me saying ‘I think u should get checked. The condom split.’ I couldn’t understand and didn’t understand for many, many years, that MK planned what he did. He planned on drugging me that day I so innocently went to meet him at his friends house, and he planned to rape me. As a 33 year old woman now, this is something that still really messes me up. I had a completely dysfunctional life after that. I self harmed for many years, got heavily involved in drugs and became very promiscuous. The only thing that broke me out of that was looking into the religion of Islam and finding God. It was the first time in 8 years I felt peace. I still have too much hate for M. I hate the fact he took what was mine, away from me. He took it because he wanted it and was adamant on having it. He knew I had a strict Pakistani family and they had no idea about me meeting up with a Grenadian man. He knew he could do whatever he wanted and get away with it. Why do people always want to destroy what’s innocent? I was so beautiful, so trusting, so sweet. And he fucked me, a child, while I was unconscious. It’s something that still makes me cry. I hid it for 3 years until my aunty forced me to tell her why I had huge slashes on my arms. I told her. And as my relationship with my family completely broke down as I fell furthur and furthur into depression and destruction, 6 years after I told her and had made her promise not to tell anyone, she told my whole family. She told them because she wanted them to understand why I’d become what I’d become, but I felt so ashamed knowing that my dad now knew his only daughter was raped as a young girl. I still see him on facebook and know where he lives. I’ve thought so many times about going to the police even though its been 18 years, but I don’t want to put my family through any more. I already put them through so much between the ages of 16 and 25. I wish he’d go to jail. I know I can’t be the only girl he raped. What he did was premeditated and he did it with such ease. I remember after he got off me, I was completely out of it I couldn’t wait straight or think straight. He dropped me to the tube station and I just remember my friend waiting to meet me and me telling her ‘I think we had sex.’ She took me to get the morning after pill but everything was such a blur. There’s a special place in Hell for MK and for all other groomers, rapists and abusers. I just wish I’d been able to lose my virginity to someone I loved and someone who loved me.

I never thought I'd be a survivor to my own mother. It was shocking to learn at 15 that everyone else's mum weren't pressuring them to show their bodies, specifically nude bodies to them. Also the butt grabs that I never liked weren't going to stop till I disowned her. Yet here I am now at 18 having the best time of my life without her as continues to believe she never did anything wrong, she never will but she's gone and that's all that matters.

TW: description of sexual assault Deep breath. The thing that I hate about my story is that while I hate that it happened to me, I hate how similar it is to so many other people’s stories. I don’t mean that I wish that there had been a unique or standout factor in my rape (wow, even typing that word makes breathing a chore), but that it kills me that so many others know exactly what I am talking about despite there only being some differences in our respective situations, and likewise, I know exactly what they’re talking about. I don’t know how other survivors felt when their sexual assaults happened because that is what is unique to everyone’s story across the board; everyone describes it, expresses it, and experiences it differently. While I cannot and do not wish to speak for all survivors, as I believe and know that each story from us is valuable, I can tell you my own. It is something that I have never written out or even thought out in full, only in fragments. Maybe this was my brain’s way of protecting me, even four years after I was raped and three after I was assaulted, but anyway, here’s my survivor story. I was a freshman in college, it was April, and I was two and a half weeks in to my nineteenth trip around the sun. I had been drinking some and was on my way home from a party when I realized I had told a friend that I would stop by a party that she was attending. I changed my course and headed for the campus house. Over the course of maybe twenty minutes, a guy had chatted me up and we were just talking. He seemed funny and nice at the time, but if alcohol does anything, it makes a lot of people seem fun and nice. We ended up leaving the party together and he offered to walk me back to my dorm, to which I consented. I was wearing flip flops, which made me stumble a bit, so he picked me up and did not put me down until we arrived at my dorm room. It was now that time where everything gets a little awkward because it’s the end of the night and you don’t know what to do with yourself, let alone how to handle the other person: I chose to be bold. I told him to wait outside while I changed into something a little sexier. I had a roommate who was in always in the room, so we couldn’t hook up in my room. After changing into a lacy bra and lacy black underwear, I put on an oversized button down and opened my door. I told him we could go to the laundry room since there was a slim chance that anyone would be doing their laundry at two in the morning on a Saturday. This is where my throat gets tight and my fingers grow more reluctant to pound out my survivorship. I unbuttoned my shirt and we began making out. I knew what I was doing and what was going on. He asked if I wanted to have sex and I said yes, so he propped me up on top of a washing machine and took off his pants. Between the height and the angle, the dynamics and physics just were not working out. He asked if I would give him a blow job. I said yes. When he finished, he asked for another one. I was still on my knees. This is the part where time stands still. I said no. I said it. The words left my lips. He responded by putting his hands on the back of my head and shoving my head toward his crotch until my face was smushed up against his penis. It was right there in my face. He took one hand from the back of my head and held his penis up to my lips and began trying to press it into my mouth, forcing me to take it. I had said no, and all that did was land me here. I felt my kneecaps dig into the linoleum floor. I felt the silence of the wee hours of the morning. What I felt the most was my inability to breathe or to speak: my own silence. When he finally eased up on the pressure on my head, I pulled away, stood up, and straightened myself out. He smiled at me and said good night. I walked back to my room, and that was that. However, that wasn’t that. I thought that this was normal, how things usually went. That night was always in the back of my mind until I decided to bring it up in therapy in the October of my sophomore year. I described the night and both of our actions and words to my therapist. I was expecting her to agree with me: it had just been another night at college. I was expecting her to tell me to not worry about it and to rid my mind of the night. Instead, I became the one statistic I never thought that I would ever become. That night went from being in the back of my mind to the very front of it, consuming me. “You were raped.” I was silent. I thought I had misheard her, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that I had not. The rest of that session is a blur, but how it affected me from that day forth is not. When the semester started, I would often party with my friends on the weekends. The person whose room in which we would most frequently party was roommates with my rapist. During parties before that therapy session, I always felt genuinely uncomfortable seeing him in the same room as me, so I would just drink the discomfort away. After that therapy session, I felt suffocating fear and overwhelming panic. I disappeared from partying with my friends and they noticed. When they asked what was up, I lied and said I had a lot of homework or that I had a big test coming up that I needed to study for. None of them knew the truth. I went to a small school with just under 2000 total students, so I saw my rapist a lot. The amount of anxiety I felt whenever I would see him, even if he was on the other side of the quad, was incredible. Even seeing him from afar would cause me to power walk or run in any direction but his. So that’s how I spent his remaining two years on campus: as an anxiety-ridden, fearful, guilty, embarrassed, relatively isolated, nightmare and panic attack-having girl. I thought he was in Spanish with me on the first day of second semester classes sophomore year, but it was actually another guy who bore some resemblance to him. My junior year, I went to Commencement to watch a good friend graduate. My rapist was also graduating. I put my hands over my ears and buried my head in my arms when they got close to calling his name. How, I thought, how the hell is he graduating and going out into the workforce or to graduate school? Why does his world keep spinning when mine just stopped? It’s not fair. My junior year was the same year that I finally told my father that I was raped. I called him sobbing. As soon as I finished telling him that I had been raped, his immediate response was to ask if I had been drinking. Then he asked if I had reported, which I hadn’t at that point because I was absolutely terrified. He concluded the conversation by saying how it on me and my fault that I had gotten raped. Furthermore, I was also selfish and irresponsible for not reporting. By senior year, I thought that everything would be fine. He was no longer on campus, so I should be okay, right? Wrong. I quickly learned that just because my rapist was gone did not mean that the damage he had done through that heinous act just magically vanished. The February of my senior year, I was getting ready for a party with my friends in one of their rooms. I had been so caught up in trying to wrap up my thesis that I had not been partying in the recent weeks, so this was my emergence into the social scene. One of my friends suddenly exclaimed how she had just gotten a text from my rapist saying that he was coming to campus. She was the one person in that room of four people who did not know that I had been raped and that it was by him. I froze and tried to keep taking deep breaths; it was sort of working. He’s probably just going to be visiting his buddies. He won’t be at this party. I was trying to rationalize. Fifteen minutes later, she got another text from him saying he would be at the party we were going to. I excused myself and went out to the deserted lounge where I broke down on the couch. I could not stop crying and hyperventilating, so, as much as I did not want to go, I ran to the wellness center, tears still streaming down my face. That Tuesday, I had my weekly meeting with my two thesis advisors. I had spent Friday night in the wellness center, but had returned to my room on Saturday where I spent the remainder of the weekend unable to sleep, eat, breathe, or move. On Monday, I barely made it through my morning class before I went back to the wellness center and spent the night there. Tuesday was the first day that I felt even remotely okay. I knew I hadn’t done a lot of work on my thesis, so I was not looking forward to my advisor meeting that afternoon. When it came time for the meeting, I just talked about the work that I had done and tried to control the conversation. While they both thought that what I had accomplished was good, one of my advisors asked me something to the extent of why hadn’t I done more. It was then that I felt my voice give out and I felt tears roll down my face. When I composed myself enough to muster words, I told them the background, the original incident, before telling them about what had occurred over the weekend. They were silent. I was drowning in shame. My history advisor spoke up first, apologizing for what I had been through, before saying that if I ever chose to report, she would be happy to accompany me. I thanked her and left. The next day I received an email from her asking me to come to her office when I could. I finished up my lunch and went over to the humanities building. In her office, she told me that she had an obligation to report my rape since she was a professor. I felt all the color drain from my face. This was not a part of the plan. Then she said that I could sit in her office to absorb what she had said and to talk through what I wanted to say. She said that it really pissed her off that someone had done this to me and how she couldn’t imagine how much energy I expended on avoiding him, and then she said something that began to change how I saw my situation: she told me that I need to let the people whose job it is to protect me do their job instead of assuming that role myself. About an hour and a half later, we began our walk to the administrative building where the Title IX coordinator worked. She put her arm around my shoulder and reassured me the whole walk over. Once we were in the coordinator’s office, I asked her to stay. I couldn’t do it alone. The coordinator asked me a few questions, including the name of my rapist, and then she gave me some options regarding potential next steps, including issuing a no trespass order. I told her I would think about it and thanked her for her time. My advisor and I made it to the top of the stairs before I began sobbing. She walked me into the bathroom and sat with me on the bench, calming me down and offering comforting words and wisdom. That’s my story. What I have learned about healing, especially from something such as rape and sexual assault is that you don’t get over it; you get through it. The pain from the trauma ebbs and flows. Some days your lungs will be so open and welcoming to air, and other times, you’ll be gasping for your life. Something else I have learned in healing is regarding the victim versus survivor label. While some write-off the victim label as someone who is too caught up in what happened to them and associate it with an unwillingness to move forward in life, I don’t see it that way. I think victim captures the true heinous and terrible nature of the act, and I think it both reminds others and the person who was assaulted that a crime was committed. That it wasn’t some little sex game of another night at college, but an actual crime. I am simultaneously in support of the survivor label because I think it captures the heart, bravery, and strength one has to have in order to endure the crime and come out on the other side, even if you’re barely breathing. You can call yourself whatever you want, even if it doesn’t fit within the victim/survivor dichotomy, but know that there is no shame in calling yourself a victim and it is never too self-centered to call yourself a survivor, because no matter what, you’re here today, and that’s what’s important.

he broke up with me three months ago. At first I was heartbroken, cause we stayed together for nearly three years but recently I started to understand that wasn't love. That love is supposed to hurt you so bad, that one thing is strictly connected to the idea of love and that is: respect. Now that I'm started to see other guys I finally realize how sick was my relationship. I don't even know how to start or how to describe it, I can't remember certain things however I can relive how they made me feel. Some days were amazing, full of love, cuddles and sweet names. Others weren't. I remember that almost every time we were together he wanted me to suck his d**k even if I told no. He insisted, every time, and if I refuse he would go mad. So at the end he would have what he wanted. But I know that deeply inside him he knew that he was forcing me even if he never admit it. Somedays during sex he slapped me in the face even if we hadn't talked before or agreed to have a safe word. He, more than once, convinced me to do something I didn't like even if at the end I cried in front of him. And I could go on.. but I can't for now. I know that this isn't love but I feel guilty too. Because I've agreed to be treated that way.

The first time I was raped, I did not know it. Blaring music and spilled drinks, you were there Persistent, like a dog. Nagging, Nagging, Nagging. Hands running down my thighs, the phrase “babe it’ll make me feel better.” Your words clanging in my head, pounding like hammers against my ears One phrase slips out of my mouth, “fine just stop asking.” Waking up on the bathroom floor, aching from head to toe Before you take me home, you buy plan b. You had taken the condom off. I cry. My virginity stolen from me, that was my definition of love. The second, oh god the second time. My life plummets. Alcohol burning down my throat, stumbling, falling to the floor, You offer me your bed. Drifting off in a drunken haze, the hands are back But they belong to a friend. Suddenly his hands are choking, digging into my skin, bruising The word “STOP” falls on deaf ears. The tears start spilling down my face when I realize I cannot fight anymore and I go limp. Blood between my legs, oh god it hurt. Oh God, Oh God, why me? Why him? The third time, yes there was a third time. Another friend. Another familiar face. More lights, more pain, too drunk to move, I leave quietly the next morning. I always leave quietly. A thought that will not leave, “I am the common denominator” “I am the problem” Rumors spread like wildfire, each one a knife to the heart, a burning in my stomach. My name in everyone's mouths, I am drowning, my voice gone, stolen. No, ripped from my throat, brutally. My story is not my own. My body is not my own. It is filled with the bile and rot and filth of these men, these men who violated my body like I was not a being with a soul, with emotion and a heart beating like their own, but an object. Women are not made to be abused, to be a scratching post for horny, lonely men who cannot control their hands or their dicks. Survivors have to carry the burden. I carry the burden of my rape. The trauma, the shame, the grief, the horror, the anger, the guilt. But to the men who raped me, I give it to you. It is not my shame, it is yours, it is not my guilt, it is yours, it is not my fault, it is yours. And I am free.

I was only 16 years old. I was dating someone for 4 months, when all of a sudden he woke up one day, and had different feelings towards me. Little did I know, he video taped us having sex, without me knowing. I found out weeks after, that he sent it to his whole sports team, and parents. The cops took my phone and erased everything off mine but not the video off his. I am now 18 years old, and I just got out of a very emotional abusive relationship. Trauma affected me so much from my past, and I have never been worse than these last couple months. I did choose to leave the abusive relationship, but everyday is so hard. Living with that trauma, and not knowing what to do or how to live with it. Feeling likes it’s affecting my future relationships. With my anxiety it just keeps getting worse and worse each day.

The bitterest truth that I had to face was understanding the depth of trauma. Not just the type of trauma that forms after an injury but the ones that are under the surface, winding through veins, in the dark places of a soul...in the parts of the mind that we lock away. The kind that hides. Goes dormant. Waits until you aren't ready and makes you face the reality that you've lost something you'll never get back. Innocence. I grew up sheltered, protected, and a little misguided. Intelligence didn't skip me but street smarts certainly did. I didn't have a road map to navigate through the ins and outs of the bad things that could lurk around corners...and it left me open to grooming at fifteen. He changed me in a permanent way. The internet let him in and my yearning to feel important, needed, and wanted, kept him there to imprint on a psyche that wasn't emotionally or mentally mature enough to understand the repercussions of actions. Mistakes were made and spirals became trainwrecks. I carried the burden of a closeted life into my college years and it left me exposed to the unfathomable. A predator saw me from a mile away--cloaked in something that resembled friendship, disguised by a pretext that ripped away the last shreds of dignity. I had no reason to doubt them but I should have. The drink in my hand, the fuzziness floating through my head, and the spilled champagne gave me no warning. That's when the lights went out. That's when it went dark and every action that followed was no longer my own. He took my memories. My self-worth. My sense of security. My dignity. Bruised, broken, and confused...I spiraled. I tried to cover the marks on my face and scrambled to find what was left of my clothes, but he'd done his homework. He destroyed everything. He made it look like a blackout gone wrong and was already telling me the opposite of the truth. I already knew the truth. I felt it in my gut. I was raped. Another light within me flickered and went out with a smirk on his face. This man actually wanted to touch me after violating my body. I backed into a corner. I shrank. I sobbed. I kept repeating the word "why" like it was a singular mantra, without refrain. He had no answers. Just excuses and justifications for his actions. I heard every word that no one ever wants to hear. "No one will believe you", "I have her, why would I need to drug and force you?", "It's your word against mine.", "You know that this is all in your head, right?" I believed him. I did not seek justice out of fear. Out of humiliation. Out of a lack of faith in myself. It nearly killed me and, despite scars that haunted me for six years, part of me wondered if I deserved it. That was my rock bottom and it followed me for a very long time but the choice to rise from the ashes has stuck with me. I refused to let him take me down. I refused to let his ghost take away what remained of my spirit. Seventeen years have passed and I'm alive...but he isn't. He blamed me for a life shattered but a guilty conscience never fades. He chose not to live with the consequences that I bear the weight of every day of my life. There's a part of me that regrets the chance to report him but I know that I look at my life as a series of experiences (traumatic or not) that have permanently etched into the darkest parts of my heart. I lived. I can hold my head up high and know that I overcame more than anyone should. My rapist might've taken away something that I can never get back but I refuse to drown. I refuse to give up. I refuse to give in. I refuse to see my broken pieces as less than incredible; lined with gold.

TW: Incest I have had the extreme pleasure to be a part of a weekly writers group for over twenty years. Through these years I’ve come to write about my experience of surviving incest both through non-fiction and fiction pieces. Sometimes the fiction can be just as empowering for my voice as the memories. Recently our wonderful leader gave us our starting prompt: “Think of a photograph and enter it.” Here’s what I came up with: A photograph slipped out of my memory and onto the movie screen that resides on the inside of my forehead. It’s where so much played the two years I did EMDR trying so hard to reconcile the shunning of my family when I came out about the incest. The photo is black and white, 3”x3” with the date printed in the bottom margin, 1959. I’m seated on our front stoop comprised of two cement steps and a 4’x4’ platform in front of the door leading into the duplex – we were living on the bottom floor. I’m twelve years old in this photo. The sexual abuse had ended though I didn’t know that at the time. I was still keeping vigil through the night – sleeping lightly so as to steal myself if the door to my bedroom should open. In the photo, a step behind me stands my three-year-old brother, D. His right forearm leans on one of the posts holding up the roof over our stoop. His left hand rests on my right shoulder. He’s wearing a pullover shirt with wide black and white horizontal stripes and a white collar with three buttons going down the front, they’re all open. In his freshly combed hair you can see the neat part on the left that will disappear once he’s off the stoop making a run for it down the front walk. But he never beat me – I always caught up with him before he got to the curb. We both have short hair. I had just gotten a new and special haircut called a ducktail – though try as I might with the sticky gel the beauty shop lady gave me – my tail would fade and fall within an hour. I let my imagination take me into this fifty nine year old photograph. First, I stand silently on the walkway – letting the two of us get a good look at the adult me, get a little used to me being there. I don’t want to scare us anymore than we already are cause dad’s still drinking and that’s enough scaring for a couple of kids. Geeze, writing that phrase – ‘a couple of kids’ –stops me in my tracks. Usually, whenever I let myself glance back at any of those days I think of name as the kid. I’m the big sister. But I started being a big sister at the age of nine. That’s two years after the incest started in action. By “in action” I mean my dad probably had predatory thoughts earlier on, before the rapes started. Anyway, back to the photo. I take a long time approaching us. name immediately gives the adult me one of those sparkly smiles of his. But the twelve year old me is not so quick to respond to strangers. In fact my first instinct is to slide across the stoop and scoop name into my lap and wrap my arms around him, which causes him to put his favorite thumb in his mouth and stare up at my chin. I wait some more. Then in a very soft voice I ask little girl me, “Mind if I sit down here on your stoop?” Little me shrugs her shoulders in an ‘I don’t care’ sort of way. I take care not to touch them, to move slow and smooth, to keep my face at rest – no large grins of friendliness or measured scowls of concern. Eventually I say, “Hi my name is name.” Little me looks up, “Me too.” Her response makes me want to place my palm on her cheek – she doesn’t know what prophecy she’s just uttered – but I don’t. I keep my hands to myself. I take a deep, quiet breath. Looking down at the walk I tell her, “The worst of what he’s done or going to do to you is over.” I let that sink in. Little me presses her lips together and lets her eyes glance to the side away from me in disbelief. Why would she believe me? How could she believe me? I keep on telling her what I know, what she can’t yet know, “You are going to get through this. You are going to decide that no matter how hard it feels you are going to do everything you can to heal from all the awful things your dad has done and said to you. And you’re going to heal from the travesty of your mother not ever protecting you. Then you’re going to find the medicine your heart will need when this sweet boy brother of yours – in a few decades – abandons you for making what he’ll say are false accusations about the man that is father to you both. You’re going to forget that I came here today to tell you all this – but not completely. A tiny spot in your heart is going to know that you can and will believe in yourself.

When I turned 24, my life began to change. I started having severe bouts of sadness that seemed to come out of nowhere. They would leave me feeling low and upset. I was confused, asking myself, “What was going on? Why was this happening?”. As time passed, these episodes started lasting hours, and they came coupled with memories from my past. They were memories of when I was a young 8-year-old boy. I was in disbelief that this was happening after all of this time. Why now?! I had come so far since the abuse. I had a good job, great friends, and life was generally going well. Of course, I had never forgotten what happened to me. Occasionally something would come up on the news, or somebody would say something that would remind me of it, but I didn’t care, life was good and I wanted it to stay that way. I decided the best thing to do was to fight the memories. My strategy was to keep pushing them away until they gave up and disappeared. But it seemed the more I pushed, the more strength it gave them. They started attacking me from all angles, and I couldn’t hold them off. They even made their way into my dreams, where I would wake up screaming that he had snuck into my room. At this point, I knew the fight was over, and I needed to do something about it. I spoke out for the first time to a close friend when I was 27-years-old, which was just short of 20 years after the abuse happened. As soon as I did this, I felt an incredible lift, like I had achieved something great. It encouraged me to continue sharing my story, one person at a time. As the years went on, I could feel myself growing in confidence. It was a fantastic feeling, and to add to this, as the confidence grew, the fear of what other people may think was reducing. I spent a lot of time reflecting on the journey I had been on to get to this point, looking at the different stages of coming to terms with my past and figuring out how to move forward. It led me to wonder what other people may be going through. How were they doing? I started searching online to find out. I came across a chat room where people were writing their stories and expressing how they felt. There was one post that really struck a chord with me. So much so that I had to re-read it several times. It was from a 70-year-old woman; she explained that she never told anyone what happened to her as a child. She felt this was one of the main reasons that held her back in life. She explained that she will now take this secret to the grave her. I couldn’t believe it; I felt so sad for her. It made me realise how fortunate I was to have people around me that I could tell. I felt a sense of gratitude to be in that situation, and I decided that I should try to do something for people like her. I began to think of how I could be of use, how I could use my story to help others. I thought the first thing to do was start sharing my story publicly. I remembered that I had been to an open mic night earlier that year, which was a free event to the public where you could sign up on the door and perform that night. I knew this would be a good starting point, so I went as a storyteller and began speaking on the open mic stages around City. These events were held in pubs and bars. They were busy venues where people came to have a drink with friends and listen to the musicians and singers who were performing. It was the wrong environment for my story. The audiences looked uncomfortable as I spoke, and things were not going well at all. One venue cut my microphone halfway through my story and told me that I had to stop and come off the stage. It felt terrible. On another night, I had a guy from the audience stand up and shout, “This is meant to be a night of entertainment, and you’ve come here talking about kids getting touched!”. I literally couldn’t believe it; I felt completely defeated. It was like I couldn’t take one more night, but I knew I couldn’t stop. It was the best option for me, and I had to keep going. I needed to improve my performance to stand any chance of getting somewhere at these venues. I needed to be more creative with how I told my story. I started experimenting with different ideas. I wrote a performance that explained why I never said anything at the time the abuse was going on, and I delivered it over music. It was catching people's attention. One night I started with two or three people watching, and by the end of my performance, I had the whole venue's attention. They clapped and cheered; I will never forget that moment. From there on, I knew I was on to something. I began performing at every event that I could. I didn’t care what type of venue it was anymore. If the night went ‘badly,’ then so be it; it was all helping me develop my content and delivery on stage. I started recording my performances and uploading them onto social media. Somebody saw my work and told me about a poetry and spoken word open mic night happening in City, so I went. I couldn’t believe it when I arrived. It was a room packed with a supportive audience, who were there solely to watch the performers. Everybody paid full attention to the stage and showed overwhelming support. The night was fantastic. I felt like I had finally found the right platform to share my story. I have now been speaking out in public for two years. I have also been creating videos and social media posts online. I have collaborated with filmmakers, illustrators, and photographers to be as creative as possible in communicating this topic. I believe if things can be kept engaging and interesting for the viewer, then we can bring more attention to this subject, which is essential if we stand any chance of breaking the stigma and the silence. I truly believe we can do this. Thank you for listening to my story. If you would like to see the content I have been creating around child sexual abuse, please go to survivor on social media platforms and YouTube.

TW: sexual violence I am a survivor. I don’t know a lot of what happened when I was small. I only have short memories of incidents, and then it’s black. I know they’ll come back to haunt me someday. Especially because I want to know what happened to me. I know men, particularly my mom’s boyfriends, were involved. But I can’t remember. I know the sound of Sublime’s music makes me uncomfortable. I know that for a while I hated big spoons. Besides all of that, I know that I was raped when I was 10 by two boys who were older than me and attended the same school. They kept me in the bathroom and forced me to give oral to one of them. One of them stood in front of the door and wouldn’t let me out. I cried and I begged, but they wouldn’t let me go. That only came back to me recently too. I’ve suppressed all of these memories because I lived with an abusive father. They’re coming out slowly and I know I’ll be ok because I’m safe now. Thanks to pages like [Unapologetically Surviving] they give me peace and make me feel like I’m not alone.

TW: sexual violence “I don’t talk about it much.” It’s my phrase, my shield, my deflection. I say it happened to me, but I don’t talk about it much, that it’s not about that night, but who I’ve become after. They don’t know it’s because I can’t talk about it, that if I say it out loud it becomes real, that the details exist in someone else’s mine and not just my own. I keep hidden inside of me the flash of the bartender I was trying to ask for help but my body couldn’t make the words because it was lethargic and incapacitated who looked at me and said, “I’m sorry she can’t be here like this.” Her eyes are so clear to me when I go to sleep at night – she’s blonde, older, drying a glass. My heart starts racing when I try to understand how I could see her so clearly, knew what I wanted to say, and yet my body was too broken to cry out for help. I wonder where she is, if she knew, if she remembers my face. I see hers every time I close my eyes. In my phone, there’s his name and phone number that he put into my phone that night. I know it’s there, but I’ve never looked. I have still not decided whether or not to find it to delete it. If I go in to delete it, I have to acknowledge it’s actually there, that it happened, that it wasn’t a bad dream I could ignore. It sits there in my phone, a name I don’t want to know, that no one knows, weighing on me. My phone is a symbol for my body – it is a fluttering machine filled with my best memories and life and love, but deep inside lies too my darkest pain. I think about how I’m afraid to be left alone because I punish myself that if I wasn’t left alone, it would have never happened to me, that someone would have been there to save me. I don’t say these things. I’ve never said these things. I speak about it like fact, like I tally myself off as a static because if I tell my story I have to acknowledge the pain. I fear it I open it, it will swallow me alive and I don’t know if I will ever heal. I try to be strong, to be an open voice, but I am still afraid to speak, not because I am afraid of what the world outside will say, but I’m afraid of what’s inside of me. They ask, and deep inside my insides shake and my heart drops, but I say quickly, holding my voice as steady as I can, “Yes, I’ve been raped, but, honestly, I don’t talk about it much.”

2021 was the year that I decided to face my rape head on. For 6 years, I lived In fear and I was finally done. I didn’t want to give that man a second more of my life. So I began the hard journey of acknowledging, feeling, and remembering. I walked into a new therapists office and said “On December 23, 2015 I was raped, and I need to stop living in fear”. So that’s exactly what my therapist and I did. After many sessions and weeks of lil flashbacks, I finally was able to piece together what had happened to me. For the first time in 6 years, and it was terrifying, and made me angry, and sad, and ashamed. But I think one of the biggest realizations I came too was, I wouldn’t change a damn thing. He took my power for one night, but since then, I’ve used it as fuel. I switched my profession to social work, I started lifting weights and falling in love with my body again, I learned to advocate for myself and others. I met an amazing community of people who are also survivors. I got the most amazing emotional support dog who taught me love and trust again. So even though I experienced something horrific, and something no one should ever have to go through, I wouldn’t change it because it lit a fire in me that has changed my life for the better.

This girl who did this to me, everyone thought we were sisters we were so close but here’s my story… Throughout being 9-13 I was molested by my cousin who is a year younger than me I know it sounds weird but we knew from a young age that she had things wrong with her. Her mum is a drug addict who’s been in and out her life for as long as I can remember I grew up with her and we were always so close. I never saw anything wrong with what she was doing because she made it into games so I didn’t see that there was anything wrong with it. I also have mental issues but when I started to realise what she was doing was more than “games” I didn’t stay at my grandads for a while because we used to spend every weekend there together. But then the last 6 months of lockdown she had to come live with me and I had never told anyone what she had been doing to me but nothing happens threw out the 6 months because we didn’t have to share a bed thankfully I had a cabin bed which is like a bunk bed and she was in a mattress on the floor and one night I heard making weird noises and I looked over to see her masterbating but never said a word. Then afterwords she went to live with her sister which she still does now and my grandad told us he bought two beds so we didn’t have to share whenever we came over anymore and he got me a cabin bed so I was fine so I stayed there a couple times and nothing happened so I started trusting her again and then one night she made us make a den like we used to when she was. Younger I didn’t want to but she said “well I’m already having a bad day your just making it worse” so I just did make it then I woke up and she was raping me but I couldn’t move all I could do was cry but she didn’t notice then we she stopped all I could hear was her finishing herself off and then she kissed me on the top of my back which to this day makes me feel so dirty but then I could move I grabbed my shorts put them on grabbed my phone ran out side and called my dad and he came and got me and he asked her what she was doing and she just sat there saying she didn’t do anything to this day j haven’t spoke to her and she’s tried to get in touch with me multiple times. Also she told her sister that she doesn’t get why she doesnt talk to me anymore I hate her I hate her I could never tel my family the details and how long she actually did it for all they know about is that one night.

TW: sexual violence We dated for a long time. He supported me the most and we were always together, like our identities merged into one. Looking back I know it as codependency. Looking back I know there were signs, but I wasn’t educated enough to see them. He made me think I was the abuser after it all ended. One night, I was 19. We were at his parents house while they were away, with all his friends from high school that I had grown to call my own friends. We played video games and watched tv. Got drunk. Tried to sleep. I remember him telling me he was horny when I got into his bed. I was so tired but I said “okay”. That’s why I struggle. Because I gave the verbal consent but I wasn’t aware. I wasn’t sober. I remember falling asleep and waking up to him inside of me. I felt my underwear with my hand on the side of the bed. I said “what are you doing?” And he said “we’re having sex.” I remember his body on top of mine. I remember him yelling my name to wake me up while he was still thrusting. Then he stopped. A moment of clarity. The destruction of who I was. Tears from him. Apologies. Threats to kill himself the next day. It doesn’t matter. He’s still a rapist.

I have been married for 14 years. Within this last year I have come to realize that my marriage is not "normal". I was told early on, by my husband, that he was a narcissist. I quickly dismissed him and said he was nothing like that. Now... Idk. He is very controlling, but we have no sex life. I have to ask to be intimate and 99% of the time the answer is no. This is the confusing to me. I thought narcissist liked sex. As soon as we were married the sex stopped. I know I am in an unhealthy relationship, but I am just now realizing this. For 14 years this has been my life and I just accepted it. Now I am confused and scared of what the future will be. I am so devoted to him. I have been trained to be this person and I don't know who I am outside of it.

TW: sexual assault I’m going to begin by saying that I have moved forward by the means that made it possible for me to do so, but I encourage others to do what is best for them. It has taken a lot for me to post to here given that beyond my attacker and myself, only two other people in my life know about my rape. I tend to internalize my problems to handle them, and only when comfortable internally do I ever truly express things externally. I am not one to ascribe to the title of “victim” despite being victimized, so sharing here I suppose is a way of expressing frustration, fear, pain, and the struggle to find a way forward in hopes of maybe helping someone else. That all being said, here it goes. I am a strong person in every sense of the word. I grew up with older brothers, played on the boys sports teams until I couldn’t, lift weights most women can’t, and push myself as any athlete would. As any of my friends will attest to, as strong as I am, I’m probably the biggest softie emotionally speaking. I trust wholeheartedly, am always willing to give of myself for the sake of others, and am a wildly hopeless romantic. Though not looking for likes or love, it would often find its way into my life due to just seeing the good and beauty that exist in other people. In most cases my relationships, flings, and fancies were enjoyable albeit the occasional woe-is-me-summer-love heartbreak that is bound to happen along the way. Early in the fall of my Junior year of college, I found myself with a crush on this guy I met from a different university through a program I was in and shared similar interests and though in different schools similar classes. The thought of a study session seemed innocent enough, even in the notion of it being in my dorm room. I anticipated actually studying, because it was one of my tougher subjects and I had a test coming up. When fifteen minutes in we were kissing, I didn’t think it terrible, though now the thought gives me mild stomach knots. After a few minutes he became a bit more handsy than I was comfortable with so I tried to get us back to the studying, politely suggesting as much. He ignored me and continued. I was more forceful in my asking him to cool it; he just kissed harder and pushed me against the wall. I gave one of those uncomfortable laughs and said, “Seriously, can we stop.” I am strong, I fought back to the point of hopelessness where my body and mind essentially blacked-out, limp mentally and physically to what was happening. He got dressed and left, dropped the program we shared, and I never saw him again. I dropped to the floor. Retrospectively, I’m surprised I didn’t cry. I just sat there on the floor for what must have been an hour or so until an alarm went off for practice. I don’t honestly remember the rest of that day, in reality even that week. I know things are starting to change but in my mind I had no evidence on this guy to report him beyond his name. He used a condom. I was in shock and showered what must have been three or four times over after practice that day. In realizing this, I felt there was truly nothing I could do. I had always enjoyed drinking socially, but I know that that was a downward turning point for me in some of my drinking habits. The college I went to was a solid party school, but I think I was drunk every minute of everyday I was able to be during that point of my life, and not for fun, but to be drunk because being that drunk fun version of myself I didn’t have to be me. I didn’t have to deal with it and I felt like I could move forward somehow that way. Having a high tolerance didn’t help my drinking habits. It’s odd to say but thankfully one night I intentionally tried to finish a handle on my own and blacked-out hard. I joke about it now, but it was probably one of the lowest points in my life. I can honestly say that I was severely depressed at that point in my life. I had two friends at the time that were amazing and took care of me that night, and though our friendships have severed a bit since, I am thankful for their care even in not knowing what I was going through. I woke up the next day and knew I had to change something or this was going to get worse. I had been considering study abroad but had hesitations until that morning hungover. I put in my application, was accepted and flew away for 7 months in another country the following January. Some might say I was running from my problems, but for me it was more of a running towards some freedom, personal growth, and a new perspective on life. Any one of my friends who knew me then would say I came back an entirely different person. I found my voice, ironically in many cases by becoming more self-concerned, something I had rarely been before. I lost a good few friends along the way, but gained so much from the ones that stuck through even in not knowing what had happened. About two years later I started dating again, and after some short relationships I was blessed to meet the love of my life. She was the first person who I told about what happened to me. There were and are still things that trigger me to panicked mindset, but I’ve learned ways to calm myself down and bring myself back. With the right person and quality communication I’ve found that all aspects of love can be enjoyable despite the pain of the past. Like I said at the onset, my path back to myself may not be your path. I didn’t report, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t, especially with the increasing notoriety the #metoo movement has made. I was lucky enough to have the option to study abroad at the time, but much of what I found strength in was meeting new people and seeing that despite the crap, there are good people in the world. I had to find patience with myself as well as healthy outlets to work through my moments of frustration or pain. In time I sought to just meet people for the sake of it, not to date but to see that there are so many good people out there again. It took time to trust and love myself in order to be able to accept love from others, but you will be able to. Mostly, have patience with yourself, don’t blame yourself, and don’t try and handle it all on your own. You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want, but don’t isolate yourself from people. Cling to those good friends, and even if they don’t know they’re doing it, they will help drag you out of your dark place. The good ones always do. And know that no one can ever take away your strength; it takes a great deal of strength to move forward and living your best life as a survivor. You are strong, and nothing will change that.

in january of this year i was sexually assaulted by the head chef at a restaurant that i worked for. the restaurants manager asked me to not go to the police otherwise i would lose my job. i went to the police anyway but they closed my case because of the little evidence they had. however, it has just come out now that this chef has a criminal record and three other girls have come forward claiming it has happened to them too, from the same man! our case is going to trial and there is a strong chance he might face prison time!!!