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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 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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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 was my husband, but he was also my abuser. It started when we were dating with some details that didn’t add up. But I never questioned him. Then we got engaged, and I caught myself questioning if this was the person I wanted to spend forever with. But his gaslighting made me feel like I was the crazy one. I felt guilty for wanted to call off the wedding after my parents put so much money in. Nine months into our marriage, he wanted a child. I wasn’t ready. I was only 25 and had so many dreams. He decided we were having one against my will. When I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t feel the excitement I thought I would. When he found out it was a girl, he completely checked out. He only wanted a boy. That’s when he stopped coming home, started “working late” often, and started drinking heavily. He wasn’t there for me through an extremely difficult pregnancy, and even almost didn’t make it to her birth. He chose to be anywhere but the hospital. His desires and life were more important than mine. On top of all that, he was a firearms dealer with unlimited access to weapons. He began yelling at me in front of the baby, kicking holes in walls and furniture, and even grabbing my arm to subdue me. When my daughter was 4 months old, my therapist told me to run. Run away as far and as secretory as I could. By the time she was 7 months, I filed for divorce. I found 15 women he had affairs with in the last year while pregnant and post part in. He lied, he manipulated, he made me feel like I was crazy and made me scared of him. He left and never came back. Now, over two years later, I’m still fighting for my life back in court. He stole my money and my trust, but I am moving forward. My daughter is almost three and my new husband is everything that he wasn’t. He plans to adopt my daughter, knowing that my ex will put up a fight in court. But we are in good hands and he loves and supports me without fear or abuse.

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.

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.

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.

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.

2019 I came face to face with a gorgeous little 23 year old with an ornery smile. He went to the same high school as I did. However, our paths were not destined to cross until years later when I moved back to Ohio. He embraced our old alma mater where I ran from any connection to the place. But considering he was a 23 year old still stuck wishing he was catching touchdown passes, his love for that school wasn’t a surprise. We met by chance, talked on the phone, exchanged messages, until one fateful night where we decided to finally meet up. Mutual friends of ours had been “seeing” each other, so it just happened to workout that we could all go to a local bar together. I’ll be honest I had no business agreeing to meet up with this former football star. You see 2019 had started off rough with all the court / restraining order drama from the fall out with my abusive ex. This morning before our night out I had to face that abusive ex in court. So by the time night fell I had already had a couple Xanax and drinks in my system. When it came time for us all to meet up I was gone. I don’t remember anything from that night except for his gorgeous eyes and the smell of cinnamon from the big red gum he was chewing. From what I’ve been told, he ran across 224 to my apartment after I left the bar. At some point in the night I thought I must have fallen because I woke up the next morning with gravel in my hair and bruises on my legs. But you see I don’t remember any of the events that occurred after taking shots at the bar. It all went dark. I don’t remember him coming to the apartment, I don’t remember talking all night with him, and I certainly didn’t remember sleeping with him. You see all I remember is waking up next to him and him telling me he needed a ride home. I was dressed, I had clothes on and other than a headache felt fine. At this point I didn’t know we had sex I thought we just fell asleep next to each other in the living room. I guess he had to hurry home because he was supposed to be driving to Columbus with his family that day. After I got home I received a thanks for the ride text followed by one that said “I can’t believe I finished in you”... this was the first instance where I realized oh shit we slept together. Until that moment I had no idea what happened. I was later told he pinned me down outside my apartment in front of my car and the mailboxes. At one point he walked me over to a friends car and they gave him the keys to the apartment. He carried my inside. This is how I found out where the bruises and gravel in my hair came from. My friends thought it was funny that I was so far gone, they couldn’t believe I didn’t remember any of it. They said that’s what you get for getting so drunk. I found all this out in the days that followed. I felt broken and ashamed. I didn’t know it was rape. I blamed myself. I thought if it was really rape and they all saw someone would have stopped it. Someone would have stopped him instead of giving him the key. This story gets worse because well a few weeks go by and guess what I don’t hear from the kid, and then I realize wait I haven’t had a period either. I shrugged it off at first, my periods were never perfectly on time anyways. However, to play it safe I took a test and there it was clear as day. The second those lines appeared my heart sank. This is it I thought, I’m having a baby and I don’t even know this guys middle name. The moment those two little lines appeared, I realized I suddenly had this whole little life inside me and I didn’t even know this kid from Adam. I sobbed, I couldn’t think straight, I could barely breathe when I sent him the text that said I’m pregnant followed by a photo of the test. He immediately FaceTimed me. He thought I was lying, then he tried to convince me that it was a false positive because the lines were faint, and then he tried telling me those tests weren’t always accurate. I could tell he was panicking. This kid was sitting there mouthing “Oh my God” over and over again while one hand was pulling his hair. My heart was pounding how am I going to have a baby with this child? I immediately began to question even telling him. Maybe I should have just handled it myself. But how could I do that? This was his baby. No… this was our baby. He created this mess, one stupid drunken night and now we were suddenly responsible for this human. He was dead set from the start on not having this baby. I convinced myself I could do it alone, I could raise the baby and never have to wonder what if. However, this confidence in myself didn’t last long. The look on his face killed me. This kid looked like he was going to lose it at the thought of his parents and friends knowing he knocked up a girl he barely knew. He played me like a fool and knew exactly what he was doing. Out of guilt I did what he wanted. You see I’m a natural born people pleaser… even if by pleasing others I’m hurting myself. If I could do it over, I would never agree to do what we did. It doesn’t matter that at the time we swore up and down it was the right thing because lord does my soul feel different. You see the lovely thing about having the option to choose is that you have this great timeline you have to follow or otherwise your decision is made for you. And my clock was ticking. If I kept going back and forth on what I was going to do I’d be out of time and the abortion would have to be a surgical one instead of the pill. Abortions are expensive and he made sure to remind me of this. So I set my appointment, I made sure to tell him when I was going to go. He told me he didn’t feel comfortable going, said it wasn’t his place to be there with me. So there I was about to face one of the hardest days of my life completely alone. I was choosing to end our baby's life and I had to do it alone. I hated him for this, it was so easy for him to just ignore what we did but for me I had to live with it. I heard our baby’s heartbeat. I saw them on the screen. They were real. They were here. These are things I will never be able to forget. Images that will sit in my mind for all of time. He did keep his word by paying for it. Even had me meet him in the middle of a parking lot to give me the money. He didn’t want anyone seeing us, you see came from one of those families, he was connected. That’s the thing with people who grew up in our small town and went to our catholic high school. Reputation is everything, so this little indiscretion of his could change everything. The day of the appointment I got in the car and went. I had a friend take me, the whole hour long drive she kept telling me she could turn around, I could change my mind. But I knew this wasn’t true. I knew he would kill me if I decided to keep this baby. So I sat there in silence, with my hand pressed against my stomach hoping that this unborn baby I was carrying would forgive me for what I was about to do. Praying they would understand I was just trying to protect them from their father. The appointment was straightforward and simple. Take one pill in the office and the other a few hours later. He made me send him a photo of the pill to make sure I actually was going through with it (As if calling the clinic to confirm I arrived wasn’t enough). I sometimes find myself dreaming about how different life would have turned out had I just kept the baby. I think of how if I would have just never told him I was pregnant, I could be holding our little one right now instead of writing this. I sometimes wonder what became of him. I wonder if he ever thinks of me and what he did. Does he sit and think about the night he decided to take advantage of a drunk girl? Does he think about the fact that he chose not to wear a condom after pinning me down in a parking lot? Does he sit and think about how different life would have been if we would have just kept the baby? I mean he once said he had thought he had feelings for me,(I doubt this I found out he slept with a girl the day after he knocked me up). And I found out I’m not his only victim. But that’s the thing we can’t live and wonder what if. That’s a dangerous place that can only lead to a depressing spiral. I know a part of me died that day with our choice, for the rest of my life I will mourn what we did every December. I look at the abortion differently now because I know mother’s will do whatever the have to in order to protect their child. And that’s what I did. I saved them from having him as a father. And I saved myself from being stuck to him. I’m trying to stay strong. I’m now beginning to face the demons in my mind in order to stay alive. I have come to realize like many victims I never acknowledged what happened to me the night I conceived his baby. I was caught so off guard by what happened I never processed what occurred. When I told the story to friends, some called it rape but if that’s what it was why didn’t my so called friends stop it? Why did they watch him pin me down? I still have so many questions surrounding that night. However, I am now doing my best to move forward. I will grieve and remember but I am now focused on living rather than dying. I live a great life, a happy life. I have a wonderful boyfriend who is supportive of my past. He understands my pain and my guilt. It takes a strong man to love a victim of abuse / assault. For they have to stand by and watch as the person they love suffers to heal the broken bits created by another. - Survivor

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

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.

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?

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: physical, emotional, sexual abuse Ever since I started primary school at the age of 4, I’ve been afraid of my dad. I truly believed I was the worst daughter in the world and that I was a huge disappointment to my parents. My Ukrainian immigrant parents were well educated and well respected people, they were quite wealthy and interesting people who had a “perfect” daughter. No one knew what happened behind closed doors, of course, and no one suspected anything as I was taught to hide my feelings and physical signs of abuse (still hate thinking about that word) really well. The physical and emotional abuse started as I started school and was a punishment for something I did or didn’t do, but looking back now, there was no consistency and no “reasoning” behind all of it. The sexual abuse started when I was 8 and stopped when I got my period at 14, when he told me it made me dirty and disgusting. Only at the end of high school I realised that not all fathers were like this and, in fact, this was very severe abuse. At 15 I was sexual assaulted by a coworker of my age at my job in a leisure center. At this point I was attracting the somewhat wanted attention of boys and I was naive. Even now, I am still trying to remind myself that I am not at fault. My 2 years at sixth form were made up of studying very hard and also trying to get help for ptsd symptoms. I met my current boyfriend of 2 years at sixth form too. I have told him about the majority of my childhood and he has been extremely supportive. I am so grateful for him. I am now having CPTSD support and, although I have bad days, I am keen to get better and to start a new chapter of life :)