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he wouldn’t listen to me when i told him i didn’t want to go to his room. i told him i was too drunk and i didn’t feel well, that i wanted to go back to my room. he took me with him anyway. he stuck his hand in my pants and i told him to stop. he did for a moment, then he tried again. i told him no again, and he did stop. we went to bed. i wish he had done more, because now i’m traumatized and having panic attacks but don’t feel like i should be, because he stopped. i feel even worse for wishing he hadn’t. because then my feelings would be valid.

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.”

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.

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.

It took me years to come to terms with what was really happening. When I was 9 years old, I met a boy online, and we quickly became friends. We knew everything about each other - He was 15 when we first met. When I was 10 and he was 16, he asked to be my boyfriend. Being a naive 10 year old girl I said yes. I can’t be mad at her for that. It was innocent at first. Just what you’d expect from a childhood relationship - “I love you, goodnight.” “Hope you’re doing okay.” “Let’s play some games together!” The only difference was that one of us were nearly an adult. Someone who should have known better to not even THINK about being romantically involved with a 10 year old girl. However, it went sour. He started talking to me about sexual subjects. Stuff I wasn’t at all familiar with. He’d make us roleplay situations, what he’d do to me if he got ahold of me in real life. Asking for photos. Guilt tripping me for seeming “off” or uninterested. I began to feel distressed at the time, but I was so young, that wasn’t really an emotion I had felt before. I told myself, this sick feeling must be love. That must be why I feel so nervous, why I feel knots in my stomach when I see his name pop up on my screen. I was very attached to him, at least I thought I was. I was always picked on in school and the few friends I had were awful to me, so he was my only real friend. My worst fear was somehow losing him, and he must have known that I thought that. He took advantage of that, and would guilt trip me at any opportunity to make sure I did whatever he wanted me to. After a while, he broke up with me, but we were still very much so “friends”. We would talk everyday, and he was still just as inappropriate and creepy with me as he was before. Throughout the years, he would begin to talk to me about worse and worse stuff. He explicitly told me about his attraction to children, and that he worked as a teaching assistant in a primary school. I tried to brush it off and keep it at the back of my mind, but I got to tipping point last year when he started to pressure me into meeting with him in real life. It went on for 7 years. I hate to say it, and it makes me sad for the little girl that I was, but the rest of my childhood was stolen from me. I’m 17 now, about the same age he was when we met. The thought of EVER saying the stuff to a 10,11,12 year old that he did makes me feel physically ill. I still haven’t fully processed what happened to me, but I’ve been working on it. I’m yet to cry, at least properly, about it. The thing that sucks about this is that this went on for so long, that it felt completely normal. The people in my life who know all cried when I told them. It felt unfair, really - that they could cry about it. And I’m just stuck in a mindset I’m desperately trying to get out of where this is normal, and I feel completely numb. Recently, I decided I wanted to do something about it. I went to the police. This night, I sent off old screenshots of conversations between us to a detective working on my case. It’s terrifying, being that vulnerable. But I feel obligated to do it. The thought of him being around children all day makes me sick. I don’t care if he doesn’t go to prison - as long as he’s never near a child again I’ll be happy. That’s why I’m doing it. I won’t let shame and embarrassment stop me from doing this, and I especially won’t let my brain tell me he doesn’t deserve punishment. Because that’s exactly what he’d want me to think, too.

TW: sexual violence, child abuse I was about 8 and at that time I used to live in a big house with my parents and my cousins. My oldest cousin was 12 and we never really talked to each other. One day I was alone with him and he asked me to come downstairs and then when I did he locked the door, proceeded to take my clothes off and then rape me. After I cried and cried he asked me to fuck off. I ran to my bedroom and cried. I kept all of this inside me for 6 years. I told my parents recently and they have taken legal action since. And I’m proud to call myself a survivor.

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.

It started as me being 16 and him being 28. He and I met on an AOL chatroom, and it started with the generic a/s/l question. He ended up driving from his home over 1.5 hours away to my mom's home. The graphic nature of it is I felt dehumanized during the entire experience, he stated later when he turned himself in that I had invited him to the house for sex. Never mind that I was a literal child, and he was a fully grown adult. Later on, he would apologize to me and in my not being ready to process the full extent of what happened I had told him that it was consensual (it was not) and that it was not his fault (it most definitely was). I decided that to fully heal from my experience with him I took a friend to the federal courthouse 22 years later to see what exactly he said to the police when he had turned himself in. There were lies and manipulations within him trying to paint himself as the "good guy" who had "guilt" towards the situation. He said he picked me because of geographic location, that due to my age I would probably not expect marriage from him, and he could control when we would meet and talk. He lied about the number of times that we had had sex and also the location where the sex took place. The bulk of the file is a psychiatric evaluation. I recall the Sheriff coming to our house, but I could also tell that 1) it was not taken very seriously because I talked to a Sheriff very briefly and 2) it was a complete violation of what I had told him I actually wanted to happen. Like always, he had to control the narrative, not the victim. He knew that if I had come forward with the truth of what happened, had I opened up to my therapist, friends or dad about what this man had done then he would have gotten way more than 3 years' probation and a slap on the wrist fine with very minimal sex offender classes. It has taken me 22 years to want to regain control of what happened to me at 16 years old. It has taken me 22 years to realize that I need to heal from the trauma that this man gave me at way too young of an age to fully comprehend said trauma and way too young of an age to ever have given consent to him. Going to the federal courthouse to obtain copies of the lies that he told, including the lies he told in order to get friends and acquaintances to write character references (one mentioned a job, and another mentioned a program he was wanting to enter). I know the truth about what happened, even if a court of law never did, he knows the truth about what happened as well, but wants to continue to control the narrative, because that is just how he wants to be perceived. His life is in a whirlwind, but as long as he believes he is in control, then he is in control.

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.

This isn’t my story but something I wrote that I feel would help and resonate with a lot of readers. Someone asked, “ what exactly is a narcissist?” to a different group I’m on and this was my reply: They are the most manipulative, gaslighting, liars. They tear you down to bring them up. They don’t have empathy or remorse. Your feelings will never be validated. No matter how hard you love them, no matter how much you do for them, and no matter how hard you fight and try to make the relationship work… it won’t. Your effort will never be good enough and you’ll go unappreciated. They only care about themselves. They are charming and will fool everyone into thinking they’re someone they’re not. They will ruin you and make you question your reality, sanity, and even your own memory. After a relationship with a narc, it’s so F’ING hard to move on because you end up losing yourself in that relationship. It’s the most hurtful type of relationship to be in. There are different types of narcs. Some are harder to spot. They will make you fall so madly in love within weeks (at least I did). They are the best during the honeymoon stage. You’ll think it’ll never end.. but it will. You become blind. You either don’t see the red flags or you ignore them. You’ll beg for them to give you back the love you give them… but they won’t. And yet, you’d do anything for them. But, you’ll wake up and you’ll realize what he’s doing to you. He’s making you not even recognize yourself anymore. He’s emotionally abusing you every single day. You are losing your happiness and your self-respect. He’s making you question everything. And also, that person you once knew and loved will be gone. You’ll heal, it’s going to take time but you will. And days will become brighter again. It’s going to hurt and you’re going to be so mad at him/her and probably yourself. Another thing, you will never be the same person you were after being with a narcissist.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

I take the last line, drink that last sip of beer from the dented can. I feel another piece of my consciousness float away. It doesn't matter what has just come before though. I feel a sudden grip on my outer leg, it wakes me. I start to blink, try to get rid of my weary vision. I pull my body away from this grip, he pulls back harder. I start to use my voice... repeating the classic "no" "stop". my already limp body starts to struggle; pushing, elbowing and scratching. My wrists are met with yet another, tighter, grip. I feel his digging in, between my tendons. he pushes his weight inside and upon me. the consistent "no" coming from my mouth is answered with a soft "shhh" like an attentive father to a crying baby. After five or so minutes it is as if he can hear me; "should I stop" he says. "please stop, stop" "ahh, a little more" he responds. He goes harder. Maybe my voice is bothering or worrying him. He jams his hand deep into my mouth, clawing at the back of my throat. I start to splutter and search for air, he pulls out his hands and places his grip around my mouth and jaw and vigorously shakes my head around. "are you mine" "are you mine" he asks me with a low volumed rage, while his body still beats fiercely into mine. I start to wonder how these same hands that must have once combed through his young daughters hair were the same ones ragging and tearing at mine. He finally takes a break, the mass of his legs still crushing on top of mine. While I think he's sleeping I throw off his arm that is wrapped around me. Not yet "heyy" he says as he hurls it back around me tighter. As if I am his sulking lover upset by his late arrival home from a night of drinking. In those minutes, while I can only stare into my surroundings, I start to think of this setting being my new life. I will physically remain like this, a worn out body to be misused and wounded by this creature forever. Until I am so damaged that my body and my mind become numb and irreparable. He's awake and ready for round 2, I still have fragments of fight left. He pulls my legs apart as I use all of my strength trying to keep them together. he is completely on top of me , his sweat smothering my skin. His face above mine but his gaze is somewhere; anywhere except into my eyes. he goes again, each thrust more painful than the last. His heavy painted body sagging over me again and again. He pauses again. The sweat drips from his hair down the side of his face over his pulsing veins. I look at his eyes, hooded and bloodshot with an emptiness I have never seen before. I have seen spite from people who didn't like me, but I have never before felt that someone wanted to destroy me like this. I have heard this man say I was pretty before, but I know in this moment that his pleasure comes from damaging me. Round three. He goes again, this time he squeezes my neck. He starts to shake me, his grip still firm, my weak body stops its fighting. I start to hear an echoey voice of my mother, as if she is here but just not in my sights. I start to see an image of a friend of mine, as if he is standing on a balcony looking down at me with either pity or disgust but I don’t have the capacity to tell. I gasp for air in away I have never felt before. Some time has passed , I don’t know how long. Some ten seconds I stare, I see the door half open to a room where there are several hanging patterned shirts. I look at the floor and see a pair of crumpled jeans, I don’t yet realise they are mine. I start to hear a faint voice, saying my name. It reminds me of a time in hospital, awaking from anaesthetic to a doctors voice. I start to put the pieces together and remember where I am. He looks at me. “You scared me” he says, as if he posits some kind of care. Although I am breathing again, I am just a small mass of flesh, slowly decomposing into the sheets under his heavy body. Eventually I notice him sleeping, this time deeply. I get up quietly and pick up my clothes, feeling my jeans scrape across my bruised hips. I pass by the mirror in the corner of the room, I almost cannot recognise the reflection that is there. My hair sticks out, matted and messy. I pat it down and try to comb my fingers through. I feel my face is dirty, it is rough and red where his hands have corroded. I look over at the disheveled bed, the sweaty sleeping body upon it. I notice a slight grin on his face as he continues sleeping soundly. I look at my own eyes, smeared outlines of mascara, I can tell something in there is missing in this moment. I go to the door, open it with my shaking hand and o down to the street, and I hope that no one notices my hair.

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE: MY STORY I struggled writing this because only a small handful of people know my story. This article has been several months in the making. I’d write a little bit, then stop. Recounting the events would become too traumatic for me. Was it even worth writing anyway? I have realized that there is strength in numbers. And, although it’s scary to come forward, it’s important. Abuse thrives only in silence, and we have the power to end it by shining the spotlight on it. I had just graduated from college and moved across the country to Los Angeles, California. I was 22. That’s when I met him. He took me out for sushi on our first date- my favorite! He did all the little things, like pulling out my chair for me. He was funny and had me laughing until my stomach hurt. Most of all, he was so, so charming and knew all the right things to say. I still remember texting my best friend from the restaurant bathroom. “This is the best date of my life,” I told her. After our date, he wanted to hangout nearly every day. Although I liked him, it was not what I wanted at the time. I explained to him that I had just moved to a new city, so I wanted to focus on the reason I came here, which was for my job. I was nervous that if I jumped into a relationship, I would miss out on meeting people and building friendships, something that was necessary for me to feel at home here. He told me that the way I felt was valid, but he didn’t want to give up. “Also, I know a lot of girls here, and I’d love to introduce you to them,” he concluded. I wasn’t quite prepared for that answer, but he was right. He was born here, raised here, and attended school here. His whole life was in this city, and mine was just beginning. Fast forward several months, and he became my boyfriend. He planned cute beach picnics for us, would always bring me flowers out of the blue, plastered me all over his social media accompanied with a cute caption and cooked me dinner almost daily. I was on cloud nine. If you would have told me one day he’d have me in a chokehold, threatening to kill me, I would have laughed at you. He had so many friends, and didn’t posses any anger or aggression. I didn’t know until later that the first stage in a domestic violence relationship is to seduce and charm the victim. I am usually guarded with my heart, but he had something about him. He was able to make me feel safe and like I could be unapologetically myself. He roped me in, and when he knew he had me, he started to control me. He thrived off of control. Going through my phone, digging through my trash, rummaging through my drawers, making me have my location on at all times. He called me names and yelled vulgar things at me. He did everything he could to belittle me and make me feel worthless. “You’re a dumb c*nt,” he’d say. “You’ll never have someone who loves you. If you weren’t attractive you’d be jobless and friendless, because everything else is nonexistent.”’ His insults became more frequent and more intense. “Have you ever thought about killing yourself? You really should. The world would be a better place if you were dead,” he told me. “Hope you die.” Once, I actually considered taking my own life. Saturday, August 18, 2018, is a date that I’ll always remember. It was the first time he ever hit me. In the middle of the night, his phone started going off. It was another girl. I asked him if he was cheating on me, to which he responded by jumping out of bed and slamming my body against the wall with full force. I could barely pick myself up off the ground before he swung at me and knocked me down again. This continued a few more times before I mustered up the strength to get out and drive home. I was so in shock I couldn’t even cry. I kept thinking it wasn’t real and that it was a bad dream that I’d soon wake up from. The bruises on my face the next morning proved what I didn’t want to accept. I reached for my makeup because I had to go into work, and didn’t want anyone suspicious of what had happened. I patted the concealer over my bruises and looked into the mirror. My eyes welded up with tears. How the hell did I get here? Finally, I made up my mind: I wasn’t going back. I blocked his number and told my mom and two best friends what he had done. I didn’t want to ever see him again. But, later that day, he showed up at my apartment with an abundance of apologies, chocolate, and pink roses – my favorite color. He sobbed into his hands when I explained to him what he had done to me. He claimed he had no recollection of any of the events that took place. “And, in no circumstance, is it okay for a man to ever put his hands on a woman.” That is what he told me. As for my mom, he wrote her a 5-paged email apologizing for his behavior and blaming it all on a sleep disorder he alleged to have. Mind you, no sleep disorder exists that causes someone to wake up in the middle of the night and beat their significant other. However, I could see how bad he felt. I was hurting, physically and mentally, but I knew he was too. I cared about him and I wanted to be there for him and help him emerge a better person. I thought that maybe this could make us stronger. I realize now that I have the perfect personality fit for sociopathic behavior as well as perpetrators. My eagerness to please, trusting attitude, kind smile and willingness to forgive and see the best in people has helped me make a lot of friends, but also has the ability to lead predators to my door. I minimized the issue and rationalized it to myself – he was tired, he didn’t mean it, he’s clearly sorry for his actions. So, I swept it under the rug. I stayed with him and even invited him to spend Christmas with my family and I, because he didn’t have anyone to spend the holiday with. We posed in front of the Christmas tree in our matching plaid pajamas. From the outside, we looked like a perfectly happy couple, but it was all a facade to cover up what was really happening. Domestic violence occurs with a spouse, partner, girl/boyfriend or intimate family member. It’s a very complex issue when someone you love is hurting you. Once you have established an intimate relationship with a person, it’s human nature to bond with them, even if they mistreat you. You live on hope, hope that they will alter their behavior to accommodate the relationship. I accepted his initial apology. I thought it meant he wasn’t going to do it again. I was wrong. A few months later, he became violent again. After finding out he had an online dating profile under a different name for the past ten months, I told him I wanted to end the relationship. He didn’t like that answer and began pushing me against the wall and throwing me to the ground when I tried to escape. He stood to create a barrier between him and the door. “If you leave, I will kill myself,” he told me. I told him I was calling 911, that I needed to put an end to this. He grabbed my phone out of my hand and threw it. I was shaking and could taste the saltiness of my tears as they rolled down my face and onto my lips. He punched a hole in the wall. “I fucking hate that you make me this way,” he shouted. He had me questioning myself, even though I had done nothing wrong. He told me I was the problem, I was the reason he was so angry, I was to blame for all of our arguments. I felt defeated. After hours of fighting, I told him to give me my phone and let me go home for the night. He agreed, as long as I promised to answer his calls and give him a chance. I went home that night and checked my phone once I settled into bed. I had a text from him. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. Trust me, I know a lot of people here and can easily ruin you. Your life would be hell.” The text sent chills down my spine. I could not believe that after what had just happen, THIS was his first text to me. He was right, he knew many people here. He presented the perfect public image to evade ever being caught. He was like a chameleon, morphing into whoever he wished to get his agenda met. That’s how he was able to love-bomb and groom me in the first place. He knew very well what he was doing to me, and he knew if anyone found out exactly what he was doing behind closed doors, then they probably wouldn’t be his friend anymore. So, I did as he said. I didn’t tell anyone about the abuse. Sure enough, it happened again, and I still didn’t tell a single person. I was ashamed to tell my friends because I felt foolish for choosing someone who would ever lay his hands on me. I was scared of being deemed stupid for sticking by someone who did those things to me. I didn’t tell my family because I didn’t want them worried about me from across the country. I knew if I spoke up or left, he was capable of following through with the threats he was making. I was paralyzed with fear. This scary distorted reality became my new normal. Things became “good” for several months. Abuse usually isn’t consistent or constant. So in between, you become a normal couple. You cook dinner together, go to work, watch movies. Whenever there’s a break in the violence, whether it’s emotional or physical, you are lulled into a sense of complacency. When times are good, you feel such a sense of comfort and relief that you become grateful to your abuser. The abuse followed a pattern: He would be loving and sweet for about four months, then he would blow up and hit me. I always thought each time was the last. It became my mission to save him from himself. I believed I could love the abuse out of him. I figured that if I was a good enough girlfriend — if I showered him with love— he wouldn’t want to hurt me again. It was a twisted, sick game I was playing in my head that I thought I could conquer. We think that our abusers are going to have this ‘aha’ moment. That one day they’ll wake up and realize what they are doing to the women who love them. Every day we’re hoping it’s that day. I got stuck on the fact that he could be a good man when he wasn’t abusing. I got glimpses of the kind, sweet, funny man, and I held onto that, continuing to look for happiness in the person who was taking it away from me. It took me fourteen whole months to finally leave and speak up about what had happened to me. The fourth and final time, he beat me so badly, I thought I was going to die. I was tackled to the ground, had my head slammed against a wall, and had objects from his living room thrown at me. Before running out of his apartment, he wrapped both hands around my neck and repeatedly said “I am going to fucking kill you. I swear, I’ll kill you.” He made a gun motion with his hand and put it up to my head. “Pew,” he whispered. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t breathe. I started seeing stars. He needed to let go of my neck. I turned my head and bit his arm hard enough for him to release his grasp. I grabbed my things and drove away. I was disoriented from being strangled and having my head hit against the walls and floor. My heart was pounding and my fingers hurt so badly I could barely wrap them around the steering wheel. My right foot was in so much pain, I thought he may have broken it. That night, my body ached so badly that I barely slept. In the morning, I told my best friend what had happened to me. She urged me to go to the police station and to tell my family about what I experienced. I told her no. That I would deal with it myself. I was so used to his threats and being silenced, that I was terrified to speak up. She told me that if I didn’t tell my family, she’d tell them herself. That was the hardest phone call I ever had to make to my mom. I couldn’t help but cry as I admitted to her that I had been badly beaten, strangled, and that the man I thought loved me was threatening to kill me. If I hadn’t had their support, I would never have been able to get the help I needed or gone through with seeking justice. I am sure there are many victims who give up because they feel it is not worth the trouble. Or, they are scared of the backlash they could face if they speak up. Trust me, I was in your shoes. I know how you feel. After I spoke up, he harassed me daily. He texted me swearing he’d ruin my life and that I would forever be sorry that I ever said anything. He sent me nasty texts that I cannot even bring myself to repeat. So many days, I wanted to just give up. The weight was too much to carry. I could barely make it through a day without breaking down. I desperately wanted my life back. I was distracted at work, and getting through a full day became so hard, I contemplated leaving. I excused myself to cry in the hallways more times than I can count because I just couldn’t fathom the realization that this was now my life. My outgoing, happy-go-lucky, amicable, carefree personality had been distorted beyond recognition. I became closed-off, stressed, angry, tired, self deprecating. I felt as though I had no one to relate to, and as a result, I isolated myself, which became nearly unbearable at times. I used to pride myself on being independent, but I was scared to even go to the grocery store alone in fear of bumping into him in one of the aisles. We lived in such close proximity so I avoided going places. Any time I saw car lights outside my bedroom window, my heart raced. I live by myself on the first floor of my complex, and I was afraid to be in my apartment alone. My mom took off of work to come stay with me for a month because I was in constant fear for my life. It’s a horrible way to live, always looking over your shoulder. He made the place I called home an uncomfortable place to be. I tried so hard to forget those nights, but was constantly having to recount the events of my assault. Answering questions like “Were his fists opened or closed when he hit you? Did he punch you first or did he kick you first? How long were his hands around your neck? Did your head hit the wall first or the floor first?” Replaying those memories in my head is traumatizing, to say the least. When the judge delivered the verdict, he screamed across the courtroom and told me to go fuck myself. He yelled that I ruined his life by bringing this to attention. But, he seemed to have forgotten about the other person in the equation: me. He forgot about my life. You should have never laid your hands on a woman, not once, not twice, but four times. You have no idea how many sleepless nights I had, and how many days I spent inside crying, too scared to leave my home. I lost so much weight from the stress, but when people would comment on it I’d tell them I’d just been going to the gym a lot lately. I am still working to rebuild parts of me that are weak. I am hesitant to let my guard down and get close to men. I am learning to be okay with being touched. That guys can put their arms around me and it doesn’t mean they’re about to strangle me. I pray that one day you will look back and understand all of this better. That I am the first and last person you will ever do this to. I need to heal, and I fully support your journey towards healing, too, because that’s the only way you will be able to change for the better and help others. You may be wondering: Why did I stay? It’s the most commonly asked question, and to me it’s also one of the most painful questions. It’s code to some people for “Well, it’s kind of her fault for staying.” Like I knew all along what I was getting myself into. The answer is easy. I was terrified. Over 70% of domestic violence murders happen after the victim has left the relationship – because the abuser has nothing to lose. It seems like an easy thing to get out of. If a guy lays a hand on you, leave him – it’s simple. I would have thought the same. Never in a million years did I think I would forgive a man who put his hands on me. Until you are in the situation, you will never understand the hold an abuser has on his victim. According to the Domestic Violence Prevention Center, it takes between five and seven times before successfully and permanently leaving an abusive relationship. You think we don’t know it’s bad for us? We are hyperaware of all of it. Many times, people in abusive relationships have to decide themselves when it’s time to leave. We rationalize until we can’t rationalize anymore. I was so naïve that I didn’t realize no matter how much I loved him he was always going to abuse me. This 28-year-old man was never going to grow out of it. Men don’t outgrow being abusers. People in those situations need support – not back handed callouts or humiliation. Instead of judging, extend compassion. Calling me dumb for staying in a relationship with an abuser only reinforces what the abuser told me: I’m useless and dumb. Being there and supporting someone who got out of an abusive relationship goes a long way. I’m not sure if I’d be alive today if I didn’t have the outpouring support from my friends and family. It’s been many long, stressful trials later, but I have found my voice. I am not a victim, I’m a survivor with a story to tell. When someone pushes be­yond my boundaries, I push back. Love is not how much shit you can tolerate from someone. Approximately 1 in 3 women and 1 in 10 men above the age of 18 will experience domestic violence. It’s hard to accept what has happened to me, but I share my story in hopes of helping others. I am the happiest I have been in a long time. Although it has taken its toll on me in a lot of ways, I like to think that I am better and stronger because of it. I know that I shouldn’t have to feel embarrassment or shame about what happened to me. The way I look at the whole process of leaving, I am one day further away from the abuse I endured, and one day closer to reaching happiness and success in life. It’s a part of my past, but it’s done defining me.

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 was 3 years old when I was first raped. That time, by my neighbor—my parents’ chiropractor, to be exact. The abuse continued until I was around 5 years old. I was suddenly no longer allowed to go to his house, and I didn’t understand why; after all, we just were “playing doctor.” My traumatized, yet innocent brain couldn’t handle the memories so I chose to never think about it again…until I remembered it all. EVERYTHING. The second time I was raped, I was 15 years old. The perpetrator was two years older than me, and much stronger. I don’t remember much of the actual assault, but I sure do remember the aftermath. I remember walking out from the Uber into my house, holding my ripped underwear in my hands. I remember when he sent threats to hurt me afterwards if I dared to tell anyone. I remember him forcing me to take a video of swallowing a Plan B pill. Flash forward to four years later. I am 19 years old. I have severe mental health issues with suicide attempts and a hospitalization under my belt. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and borderline personality, along with severe PTSD. I dropped out of high school and got my GED. I’m trying to function as a normal young adult, with a job and family drama and lots of emotional baggage. Yet I fail; then I stand up and fight again. And again. And again.

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!!!