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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.

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.

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, 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.

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.

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, 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.

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 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.

the lights flashed in my eyes, red and white, blurry but equally bright. i had consumed more than enough alcohol to be out of control of my surroundings but remembered things, clearly. he had always assured me that he’d keep me safe and would never hurt me. but isn’t that what they all say? the car doors shut, followed by a locking sound. the music started and surrounded me with a sense of safety. he started to drive and promised to take me home but as we drove i realised we’d been making circles and several minutes had passed when we should’ve reached ages ago. the car stopped, in a dark but familiar place. he unzipped his pants and grabbed me by my hair hard forcing me down on him, until he was disappointed and dissatisfied- he threw me aside. i was broken on the inside but paralysed too. i said, “i want to go home." he smirked and started driving again until his rough hands made their way into my pants and he forced himself on me until he was satisfied with the pain i was feeling. the pain was sharp like needles poking me at my most delicate point, again and again and it wouldn’t stop, until he wanted it to. when he was done- i was done too, not with just him but with everything i had built for myself. every fragment of a healthy mental state, every single hope in life and every small piece of trust. it was all gone.

It has been over a year since I stopped reading emails and letters and opening packages of self help books. I have not seen my mother in four years and I will never visit again to be dismissed, invalidated and used as a prop on her stage. In order to support her narrative of how wrong, how disordered, how crazy I must be, my mother has been able to ignore her own heinous immorality towards her own daughter, and appears to believe she is the victim because I have cut her out of my life forever. She had no outrage when I told her a friend of the family had molested me. I told her when I was 27, and repeated it when I was 40, when it was clear she had done nothing to break her alliance. She continued her loyal friendship with this sexual predator for over two more decades, knowing he preyed upon not just me but many other children in our community. With great dismay and sadness, I have finally realized she is incapable of caring, and she is a monster. I raised my kids to be suspicious of inappropriate adults, and to stand up for themselves. I wish I'd had that courage but I'm proud I could break the cycle. I spent most of my life trying to be helpful, loyal and understanding to a mother who didn't know how to be a mother. I'm done now. Mother's Day is a day of mourning; I am still amazed and baffled that people have loving, protective, loyal mothers they cherish. I am fortunate however, to have many others who care about me and thus fortified, began the journey towards truth, wholeness and self-worth. Thanks to your website and many others, I have been validated and gained understanding and courage. Still plodding ahead, and gaining insight and strength.

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!!!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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: 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.”

TW: sexual violence 1 gallon of Diva detergent costs $71.95. His apartment reeked of its sweet scent, clogging my pores and cutting off my airways. When I folded my clothes the morning after, the faint scent of the detergent made my stomach churn and I immediately threw up. I was visiting a friend from college in her new city when I agreed to meet up with him. He had always had a girlfriend, I had always had a boyfriend, but the sexual tension between us was still charged a full year after college graduation. When I told him I was coming into town, I made it clear that I wasn’t looking for anything. I said “I’m taking a break from men” and “No, I won’t change my mind” and “I’m letting you know so you don’t get your hopes up.” He said “I won’t push you.” We pregamed with tequila. My mistake. Around 1 am, I made my way across town to meet him at another bar. My mistake. I kissed him at the bar. My mistake. He wanted to go get a drink at his place, so I made him pinky promise that he wouldn’t try anything if I went with him. My mistake. The problem with making promises when your brain slowly fades to black is that you begin to question how much you can trust yourself. Snippets of the night come back to me as short videos with blurred edges. Are they memories or am I dreaming? Stepping on the balcony to escape the scent of detergent stirring up old memories. Looking out at the city with an impressive pour of wine. Pressing me up against the wall. Pushing me onto the bed. Never stopped him, never tried leave. A rag doll with huge glass eyes. A puppet going through the motions without resistance. My next memory is standing in his shower, washing my makeup off, scrubbing away his scent. Yelling threats and insults, expressing fear the only way I could. I thought my vulnerability would save me as I told him how this situation reminded me of a previous sexual assault. He responded by asking for my consent in writing. I apologized that my previous trauma triggered a panic attack. He asked me to leave. I cried the entire uber ride home, first humiliated, then relieved. I took another shower at my friends apartment, this time to wash away the shame and anger. Why did he push me? Why didn’t I resist? Why doesn’t anyone honor a pinky promise anymore. One month into therapy, these questions remain: Does sex with an acquaintance in a dark one-bedroom apartment, in a strange city, at 3 am, with too much alcohol in my blood and frozen terror in my limbs amount to sexual assault? Does asking for consent after the fact negate the lack of consent during the act? Finally, why did he ask me to come over the next night, and why did I almost say yes?