--- title: Unapologetically Surviving Community ~ A safe harbor for survivors description: A safe harbor for survivors of sexual harm, domestic violence, and abuse. Share your story, exchange messages of hope, and find community support. url: https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/en/index.md --- {{customAnalyticsScripts}} [\[Image: Unapologetically Surviving Logo\]\[Image: Unapologetically Surviving Logo\]](/en/) [ Community ](/en/)[ Questions & Answers ](/en/learn)[ Find Support ](/en/resources) Share story Post a message 0 Users 0 Views 0 Reactions 0 Stories read ##### Need to take a break? 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Send it to us # Community All Community Messages Survivor Stories Curated Sort by - Curated - Newest Format Format - Narrative - Artwork Find by Tag I was... Home at Work in School / University in a Bar / Restaurant Traveling Other The person who harmed me was a... Stranger Acquaintance Non-Romantic Friend Casual / First Date Romantic Partner Family Member Authority Figure I identify as... Asian Black / African / Caribbean Hispanic / Latino / Spanish White My sexual orientation is... LGBTQ+ Straight / Heterosexual Bisexual Pansexual I identify as... a Woman I was... a Child a Teenager a Young Adult an Adult ### Welcome to Unapologetically Surviving. This is a space where survivors of trauma and abuse share their stories alongside supportive allies. These stories remind us that hope exists even in dark times. You are never alone in your experience. Healing is possible for everyone. ##### What feels like the right place to start today? 🌤️ ✍️ 🙋 🤲 I'm ready to explore the community ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### What Does a Pinky Promise Mean In Terms of Consent? 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? ](/en/story/what-does-a-pinky-promise-mean-in-terms-of-consent-87) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #136](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/life-does-get-better-136) [ Healing to me is forgiving yourself for what happened. Knowing it’s ok to distance yourself from family if they aren’t supporting you. Only sharing your story with people you’ve built trust with, cause you no longer feel vulnerable. Being able to accept what happened without knowing why it happened to you. ](/en/message/healing-to-me-is-forgiving-yourself-for-what-happened-knowing-its-ok-to-distance-yourself-from-family-if-they-arent-supporting-you-only-sharing-your-story-with-people-youve-built-trust-with-cause-you-114) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### Rising Above Betrayal 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. ](/en/story/rising-above-betrayal-317) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “Healing means forgiving myself for all the things I may have gotten wrong in the moment.” ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇦🇺 [Story #118](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/mums-arent-safe-118) [ Growing and embracing the past as something that changed you and made you ](/en/message/growing-and-embracing-the-past-as-something-that-changed-you-and-made-you-104) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### #91 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. ](/en/story/dTrrbWRMDong91gwIQFT) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #316](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/988a2502-2536-4db8-b1ed-6f654b520fd6) [ Healing to me was reclaiming every part of me. My body, my mind, my emotions, my relationships. Healing to me is getting to know myself again. Healing to me comes in waves. Some of it is really, really hard. Other times, it’s beautiful and like a breath of fresh air. ](/en/message/healing-to-me-was-reclaiming-every-part-of-me-my-body-my-mind-my-emotions-my-relationships-healing-to-me-is-getting-to-know-myself-again-healing-to-me-comes-in-waves-some-of-it-is-really-really-hard-o-276) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇬🇧 [ #### Life does get better. 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. ](/en/story/life-does-get-better-136) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #121](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/d73826d3-7028-4db4-8f2d-c8652cbfa829) [If you’ve been groomed, or are being groomed, please don’t be afraid to cut all contact with them if you can. I know firsthand how terrifying it is, but I promise you will never do anything better for yourself. Whether or not you want to go to the police is absolutely up to you. Please don’t feel pressured as if you have to go, or you shouldn’t go. Your mental health comes first.](/en/message/if-youve-been-groomed-or-are-being-groomed-please-dont-be-afraid-to-cut-all-contact-with-them-if-you-can-i-know-firsthand-how-terrifying-it-is-but-i-promise-you-you-will-never-do-anything-better-for-y-106) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “I really hope sharing my story will help others in one way or another and I can certainly say that it will help me be more open with my story.” ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### #316 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. ](/en/story/988a2502-2536-4db8-b1ed-6f654b520fd6) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #430](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/the-fall-and-rising-from-the-ashes-430) [ Healing is waking up every day with an understanding that my experience doesn't have to define me or change my path. Healing is being able to lift others up while doing the same for myself. Healing is being able to realize that there will be bad days and sometimes, they might outnumber the good ones. It's understanding that I have a long road and I no longer have to do this alone. ](/en/message/healing-is-waking-up-every-day-with-an-understanding-that-my-experience-doesnt-have-to-define-me-or-change-my-path-healing-is-being-able-to-lift-others-up-while-doing-the-same-for-myself-healing-is-be-373) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇦🇺 [ #### Mums aren't safe 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. ](/en/story/mums-arent-safe-118) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #317](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/rising-above-betrayal-317) [ Healing is first acceptance of horrific circumstances, and stop trying to be neutral about it, to not rock the boat, and then to be horrified, and be devastated, and mourn. A lot of crying and depression and feelings of worthlessnesses are involved. It is important to shut yourself off from any and all mean people and seek out those who have kindness, acceptance and understanding . This mourning is ongoing, but part of healing is that you must move forward. It is not a couch to lie on , but a springboard to launch you into a better life, realizing you CAN choose, you CAN move on. You will be able at some point to compartmentalize this awfulness, stuff it in a back drawer of your mind and go on with happier things. Healing becomes awareness, awakening, and an exploration of one's own behaviors that allowed abuse to stand unconfronted, undefended, denied, rationalized. Being "nice" is overrated, as it allows evil to flourish. I will never lose my empathy and understanding of others but realize I can choose those who are deserving of it, and walk away from those who have violated it. No second chances with disrespectful people. Healing is understanding that explaining my experience will never work with an abuser, a narcissist, and it's best and right to disengage, without guilt or second guessing. Explaining my experience to others who have experienced betrayal, disloyalty and a breach of trust lends further clarity to healing, not only for me. I hope it also lends validation to others who have been beaten down and are coming to recognize their strength and goodness, and to free themselves from the falsehoods perpetrated by abusers. ](/en/message/healing-is-first-acceptance-of-horrific-circumstances-and-stop-trying-to-be-neutral-about-it-to-not-rock-the-boat-and-then-to-be-horrified-and-be-devastated-and-mourn-a-lot-of-crying-and-depression-an-277) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### He was my friend, my lover, but he was also my truest enemy. 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! ](/en/story/he-was-my-friend-my-lover-but-he-was-also-my-truest-enemy-187) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### If you are reading this, you have survived 100% of your worst days. You’re doing great. ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #136](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/life-does-get-better-136) [ Message of hope. To anyone that’s survived sexual abuse. My therapist told me, “no matter what you did or didn’t do, it wasn’t your fault” that stopped me from blaming myself. Take time to heal yourself. If you need to, distance yourself from anyone that doesn’t believe you, that included family. One day you’ll look back and see just how far you’ve came. It’s a long journey but I’m excited for you to get there. Just know it will happen one day. ](/en/message/message-of-hope-to-anyone-thats-survived-sexual-abuse-my-therapist-told-me-no-matter-what-you-did-or-didnt-do-it-wasnt-your-fault-that-stopped-me-from-blaming-myself-take-time-to-heal-yourself-if-you-113) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### My story with complex PTSD, BPD, and bipolar disorder. 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. ](/en/story/my-story-with-complex-ptsd-bpd-and-bipolar-disorder-314) Dear reader, this story contains language of self-harm that some may find triggering or discomforting. 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #120](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/survivor-120) [ I don't know what healing really is, I've never known a life without abuse or mental illness. For me, I guess, healing would mean the chance at having a normal life. I don't think that is possible though. ](/en/message/i-dont-know-what-healing-really-is-ive-never-known-a-life-without-abuse-or-mental-illness-for-me-i-guess-healing-would-mean-the-chance-at-having-a-normal-life-i-dont-think-that-is-possible-though-1818) Dear reader, this message contains language of self-harm that some may find triggering or discomforting. 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### survivor: Speaking out about my abuse... When I turned 24, my life began to change. I started having severe bouts of sadness that seemed to come out of nowhere. They would leave me feeling low and upset. I was confused, asking myself, “What was going on? Why was this happening?”. As time passed, these episodes started lasting hours, and they came coupled with memories from my past. They were memories of when I was a young 8-year-old boy. I was in disbelief that this was happening after all of this time. Why now?! I had come so far since the abuse. I had a good job, great friends, and life was generally going well. Of course, I had never forgotten what happened to me. Occasionally something would come up on the news, or somebody would say something that would remind me of it, but I didn’t care, life was good and I wanted it to stay that way. I decided the best thing to do was to fight the memories. My strategy was to keep pushing them away until they gave up and disappeared. But it seemed the more I pushed, the more strength it gave them. They started attacking me from all angles, and I couldn’t hold them off. They even made their way into my dreams, where I would wake up screaming that he had snuck into my room. At this point, I knew the fight was over, and I needed to do something about it. I spoke out for the first time to a close friend when I was 27-years-old, which was just short of 20 years after the abuse happened. As soon as I did this, I felt an incredible lift, like I had achieved something great. It encouraged me to continue sharing my story, one person at a time. As the years went on, I could feel myself growing in confidence. It was a fantastic feeling, and to add to this, as the confidence grew, the fear of what other people may think was reducing. I spent a lot of time reflecting on the journey I had been on to get to this point, looking at the different stages of coming to terms with my past and figuring out how to move forward. It led me to wonder what other people may be going through. How were they doing? I started searching online to find out. I came across a chat room where people were writing their stories and expressing how they felt. There was one post that really struck a chord with me. So much so that I had to re-read it several times. It was from a 70-year-old woman; she explained that she never told anyone what happened to her as a child. She felt this was one of the main reasons that held her back in life. She explained that she will now take this secret to the grave her. I couldn’t believe it; I felt so sad for her. It made me realise how fortunate I was to have people around me that I could tell. I felt a sense of gratitude to be in that situation, and I decided that I should try to do something for people like her. I began to think of how I could be of use, how I could use my story to help others. I thought the first thing to do was start sharing my story publicly. I remembered that I had been to an open mic night earlier that year, which was a free event to the public where you could sign up on the door and perform that night. I knew this would be a good starting point, so I went as a storyteller and began speaking on the open mic stages around City. These events were held in pubs and bars. They were busy venues where people came to have a drink with friends and listen to the musicians and singers who were performing. It was the wrong environment for my story. The audiences looked uncomfortable as I spoke, and things were not going well at all. One venue cut my microphone halfway through my story and told me that I had to stop and come off the stage. It felt terrible. On another night, I had a guy from the audience stand up and shout, “This is meant to be a night of entertainment, and you’ve come here talking about kids getting touched!”. I literally couldn’t believe it; I felt completely defeated. It was like I couldn’t take one more night, but I knew I couldn’t stop. It was the best option for me, and I had to keep going. I needed to improve my performance to stand any chance of getting somewhere at these venues. I needed to be more creative with how I told my story. I started experimenting with different ideas. I wrote a performance that explained why I never said anything at the time the abuse was going on, and I delivered it over music. It was catching people's attention. One night I started with two or three people watching, and by the end of my performance, I had the whole venue's attention. They clapped and cheered; I will never forget that moment. From there on, I knew I was on to something. I began performing at every event that I could. I didn’t care what type of venue it was anymore. If the night went ‘badly,’ then so be it; it was all helping me develop my content and delivery on stage. I started recording my performances and uploading them onto social media. Somebody saw my work and told me about a poetry and spoken word open mic night happening in City, so I went. I couldn’t believe it when I arrived. It was a room packed with a supportive audience, who were there solely to watch the performers. Everybody paid full attention to the stage and showed overwhelming support. The night was fantastic. I felt like I had finally found the right platform to share my story. I have now been speaking out in public for two years. I have also been creating videos and social media posts online. I have collaborated with filmmakers, illustrators, and photographers to be as creative as possible in communicating this topic. I believe if things can be kept engaging and interesting for the viewer, then we can bring more attention to this subject, which is essential if we stand any chance of breaking the stigma and the silence. I truly believe we can do this. Thank you for listening to my story. If you would like to see the content I have been creating around child sexual abuse, please go to survivor on social media platforms and YouTube. ](/en/story/speaking-out-about-my-abuse-105) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #92](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/name-sexual-harassment-in-the-work-place-92) [ To heal, is to become a survivor. I believe all survivors should come together, let’s fight this battle together ! ](/en/message/to-heal-is-to-become-a-survivor-i-believe-all-survivors-should-come-together-lets-fight-this-battle-together-1824) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “We believe you. Your stories matter.” ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### #467 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. ](/en/story/4862e37f-f429-4241-a06f-23824c9dc1c1) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #332](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/desperate-to-be-loved-but-at-what-price-332) [ Healing means peace. Healing means acceptance. Healing means you don't have to prove yourself in order to be loved. ](/en/message/healing-means-peace-healing-means-acceptance-healing-means-you-dont-have-to-prove-yourself-in-order-to-be-loved-293) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### It Doesn’t Matter TW: sexual violence We dated for a long time. He supported me the most and we were always together, like our identities merged into one. Looking back I know it as codependency. Looking back I know there were signs, but I wasn’t educated enough to see them. He made me think I was the abuser after it all ended. One night, I was 19. We were at his parents house while they were away, with all his friends from high school that I had grown to call my own friends. We played video games and watched tv. Got drunk. Tried to sleep. I remember him telling me he was horny when I got into his bed. I was so tired but I said “okay”. That’s why I struggle. Because I gave the verbal consent but I wasn’t aware. I wasn’t sober. I remember falling asleep and waking up to him inside of me. I felt my underwear with my hand on the side of the bed. I said “what are you doing?” And he said “we’re having sex.” I remember his body on top of mine. I remember him yelling my name to wake me up while he was still thrusting. Then he stopped. A moment of clarity. The destruction of who I was. Tears from him. Apologies. Threats to kill himself the next day. It doesn’t matter. He’s still a rapist. ](/en/story/it-doesnt-matter-85) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #92](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/name-sexual-harassment-in-the-work-place-92) [ Please, do what you ever you can. I promise it will get better, you learn to cope. Contact other survivors and we shall share our stories. ](/en/message/please-do-what-you-ever-you-can-i-promise-it-will-get-better-you-learn-to-cope-contact-other-survivors-and-we-shall-share-our-stories-1823) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### Survivor 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. ](/en/story/survivor-86) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “It’s always okay to reach out for help” ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #91](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/dTrrbWRMDong91gwIQFT) [ Feeling content with my journey. Accepting the past but not allowing it to define me. ](/en/message/feeling-content-with-my-journey-accepting-the-past-but-not-allowing-it-to-define-me-79) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇬🇧 [ #### #121 It took me years to come to terms with what was really happening. When I was 9 years old, I met a boy online, and we quickly became friends. We knew everything about each other - He was 15 when we first met. When I was 10 and he was 16, he asked to be my boyfriend. Being a naive 10 year old girl I said yes. I can’t be mad at her for that. It was innocent at first. Just what you’d expect from a childhood relationship - “I love you, goodnight.” “Hope you’re doing okay.” “Let’s play some games together!” The only difference was that one of us were nearly an adult. Someone who should have known better to not even THINK about being romantically involved with a 10 year old girl. However, it went sour. He started talking to me about sexual subjects. Stuff I wasn’t at all familiar with. He’d make us roleplay situations, what he’d do to me if he got ahold of me in real life. Asking for photos. Guilt tripping me for seeming “off” or uninterested. I began to feel distressed at the time, but I was so young, that wasn’t really an emotion I had felt before. I told myself, this sick feeling must be love. That must be why I feel so nervous, why I feel knots in my stomach when I see his name pop up on my screen. I was very attached to him, at least I thought I was. I was always picked on in school and the few friends I had were awful to me, so he was my only real friend. My worst fear was somehow losing him, and he must have known that I thought that. He took advantage of that, and would guilt trip me at any opportunity to make sure I did whatever he wanted me to. After a while, he broke up with me, but we were still very much so “friends”. We would talk everyday, and he was still just as inappropriate and creepy with me as he was before. Throughout the years, he would begin to talk to me about worse and worse stuff. He explicitly told me about his attraction to children, and that he worked as a teaching assistant in a primary school. I tried to brush it off and keep it at the back of my mind, but I got to tipping point last year when he started to pressure me into meeting with him in real life. It went on for 7 years. I hate to say it, and it makes me sad for the little girl that I was, but the rest of my childhood was stolen from me. I’m 17 now, about the same age he was when we met. The thought of EVER saying the stuff to a 10,11,12 year old that he did makes me feel physically ill. I still haven’t fully processed what happened to me, but I’ve been working on it. I’m yet to cry, at least properly, about it. The thing that sucks about this is that this went on for so long, that it felt completely normal. The people in my life who know all cried when I told them. It felt unfair, really - that they could cry about it. And I’m just stuck in a mindset I’m desperately trying to get out of where this is normal, and I feel completely numb. Recently, I decided I wanted to do something about it. I went to the police. This night, I sent off old screenshots of conversations between us to a detective working on my case. It’s terrifying, being that vulnerable. But I feel obligated to do it. The thought of him being around children all day makes me sick. I don’t care if he doesn’t go to prison - as long as he’s never near a child again I’ll be happy. That’s why I’m doing it. I won’t let shame and embarrassment stop me from doing this, and I especially won’t let my brain tell me he doesn’t deserve punishment. Because that’s exactly what he’d want me to think, too. ](/en/story/d73826d3-7028-4db4-8f2d-c8652cbfa829) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇪🇸 [Story #416](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/author-416) [ Time is the only healer in reality, but sharing your story with whoever you need to is super important. Let your feeling be validated, seek empathy from loved ones and not sympathy. ](/en/message/time-is-the-only-healer-in-reality-but-sharing-your-story-with-whoever-you-need-to-is-super-important-let-your-feeling-be-validated-seek-empathy-from-loved-ones-and-not-sympathy-1753) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [My Path Back to MyselfTW: sexual assault I’m going to begin by saying that I have moved forward by the means that made it possible for me to do so, but I encourage others to do what is best for them. It has taken a lot for me to post to here given that beyond my attacker and myself, only two other people in my life know about my rape. I tend to internalize my problems to handle them, and only when comfortable internally do I ever truly express things externally. I am not one to ascribe to the title of “victim” despite being victimized, so sharing here I suppose is a way of expressing frustration, fear, pain, and the struggle to find a way forward in hopes of maybe helping someone else. That all being said, here it goes. I am a strong person in every sense of the word. I grew up with older brothers, played on the boys sports teams until I couldn’t, lift weights most women can’t, and push myself as any athlete would. As any of my friends will attest to, as strong as I am, I’m probably the biggest softie emotionally speaking. I trust wholeheartedly, am always willing to give of myself for the sake of others, and am a wildly hopeless romantic. Though not looking for likes or love, it would often find its way into my life due to just seeing the good and beauty that exist in other people. In most cases my relationships, flings, and fancies were enjoyable albeit the occasional woe-is-me-summer-love heartbreak that is bound to happen along the way. Early in the fall of my Junior year of college, I found myself with a crush on this guy I met from a different university through a program I was in and shared similar interests and though in different schools similar classes. The thought of a study session seemed innocent enough, even in the notion of it being in my dorm room. I anticipated actually studying, because it was one of my tougher subjects and I had a test coming up. When fifteen minutes in we were kissing, I didn’t think it terrible, though now the thought gives me mild stomach knots. After a few minutes he became a bit more handsy than I was comfortable with so I tried to get us back to the studying, politely suggesting as much. He ignored me and continued. I was more forceful in my asking him to cool it; he just kissed harder and pushed me against the wall. I gave one of those uncomfortable laughs and said, “Seriously, can we stop.” I am strong, I fought back to the point of hopelessness where my body and mind essentially blacked-out, limp mentally and physically to what was happening. He got dressed and left, dropped the program we shared, and I never saw him again. I dropped to the floor. Retrospectively, I’m surprised I didn’t cry. I just sat there on the floor for what must have been an hour or so until an alarm went off for practice. I don’t honestly remember the rest of that day, in reality even that week. I know things are starting to change but in my mind I had no evidence on this guy to report him beyond his name. He used a condom. I was in shock and showered what must have been three or four times over after practice that day. In realizing this, I felt there was truly nothing I could do. I had always enjoyed drinking socially, but I know that was a downward turning point for me in some of my drinking habits. The college I went to was a solid party school, but I think I was drunk every minute of everyday I was able to be during that point of my life, and not for fun, but to be drunk because being that drunk fun version of myself I didn’t have to be me. I didn’t have to deal with it and I felt like I could move forward somehow that way. Having a high tolerance didn’t help my drinking habits. It’s odd to say but thankfully one night I intentionally tried to finish a handle on my own and blacked-out hard. I joke about it now, but it was probably one of the lowest points in my life. I can honestly say that I was severely depressed at that point in my life. I had two friends at the time that were amazing and took care of me that night, and though our friendships have severed a bit since, I am thankful for their care even in not knowing what I was going through. I woke up the next day and knew I had to change something or this was going to get worse. I had been considering study abroad but had hesitations until that morning hungover. I put in my application, was accepted and flew away for 7 months in another country the following January. Some might say I was running from my problems, but for me it was more of a running towards some freedom, personal growth, and a new perspective on life. Any one of my friends who knew me then would say I came back an entirely different person. I found my voice, ironically in many cases by becoming more self-concerned, something I had rarely been before. I lost a good few friends along the way, but gained so much from the ones that stuck through even in not knowing what had happened. About two years later I started dating again, and after some short relationships I was blessed to meet the love of my life. She was the first person who I told about what happened to me. There were and are still things that trigger me to panicked mindset, but I’ve learned ways to calm myself down and bring myself back. With the right person and quality communication I’ve found that all aspects of love can be enjoyable despite the pain of the past. Like I said at the onset, my path back to myself may not be your path. I didn’t report, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t, especially with the increasing notoriety the #metoo movement has made. I was lucky enough to have the option to study abroad at the time, but much of what I found strength in was meeting new people and seeing that despite the crap, there are good people in the world. I had to find patience with myself as well as healthy outlets to work through my moments of frustration or pain. In time I sought to just meet people for the sake of it, not to date but to see that there are so many good people out there again. It took time to trust and love myself in order to be able to accept love from others, but you will be able to. Mostly, have patience with yourself, don’t blame yourself, and don’t try and handle it all on your own. You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want, but don’t isolate yourself from people. Cling to those good friends, and even if they don’t know they’re doing it, they will help drag you out of your dark place. The good ones always do. And know that no one can ever take away your strength; it takes a great deal of strength to move forward and living your best life as a survivor. You are strong, and nothing will change that.](/en/story/my-path-back-to-myself-81) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #91](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/dTrrbWRMDong91gwIQFT) [ Stay strong, you are not alone. ](/en/message/stay-strong-you-are-not-alone-78) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### You are surviving and that is enough. ##### Story From a survivor 🇬🇧 [ #### My Story 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. ](/en/story/my-story-531) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #117](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/survivor-small-town-ways-117) [ Healing is growth. It doesn’t mean you are completely over what happened and it doesn’t erase what happened. It simply means that you can now face what hurt you. It is a never ending process. It doesn’t happen over night and it is never over. You are constantly healing and growing in order to move forward and not let your trauma dictate your life. ](/en/message/healing-is-growth-it-doesnt-mean-you-are-completely-over-what-happened-and-it-doesnt-erase-what-happened-it-simply-means-that-you-can-now-face-what-hurt-you-it-is-a-never-ending-process-it-doesnt-happ-1829) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇬🇧 [1 new update](/en/story/behind-closed-doors-119#updates) [ #### Behind closed doors 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 :) ](/en/story/behind-closed-doors-119) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #117](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/survivor-small-town-ways-117) [ There are good people in this world. Yes there are those who will victim blame and side with tour abuser. But there are those who will also stick up for your name when you aren’t around. Don’t let the bad people in this world stop you from seeing all the good. ](/en/message/there-are-good-people-in-this-world-yes-there-are-those-who-will-victim-blame-and-side-with-tour-abuser-but-there-are-those-who-will-also-stick-up-for-your-name-when-you-arent-around-dont-let-the-bad-1828) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### I Don’t Talk About It Much 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.” ](/en/story/i-dont-talk-about-it-much-79) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “You are the author of your own story. Your story is yours and yours alone despite your experiences.” ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #187](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/he-was-my-friend-my-lover-but-he-was-also-my-truest-enemy-187) [ Know that no matter how badly you have been hurt, there is someone out there who will love you, accept you, and will believe you. Know that you can love yourself again and that you can trust again. Know that it is not your fault and that you can keep on living. Our trauma does not have to define us; our trauma can help us grow stronger. I am stronger because of what happened to me, I love myself more than ever, and I never thought I could reach this sense of happiness or closure. You can forgive; without forgiving, you can move on without leaving your past behind. I learned how to forgive; I am learning how to heal; I am surviving. ](/en/message/know-that-no-matter-how-badly-you-have-been-hurt-there-is-someone-out-there-who-will-love-you-accept-you-and-will-believe-you-know-that-you-can-love-yourself-again-and-that-you-can-trust-again-know-th-173) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### Home Sweet Home 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. ](/en/story/home-sweet-home-106) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #446](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/he-was-28-446) [ This is a horrible journey for any person to go through. We all will heal on our own time, in our own terms, through our own processes. It is a hard journey to travel through but try to find a community around you that can help you through all of this. People who will pick you up, people who will not let you fall, people who will hold your hand and continue to check in and make sure that what is happening is safe for you to go through. If I did not have my friends throughout this journey, it would be a harder process for me. Find your family (either biological or the family that you have created because we all need that), find a community around you of people who are there for you. In order to heal we need safe spaces; we need people who love us checking in on us. You can do this. You can start the process of healing. It has taken me 22 years to finally want to confront the reality of what happened to me as a child and at this point I am ready to fully confront those things. I am a decidedly logical person who wants answers to questions that will never get answers, and there just are not answers when you have gone through this type of trauma. In order to heal you need to do what is good for you, not for anyone else. Do this for you. ](/en/message/this-is-a-horrible-journey-for-any-person-to-go-through-we-all-will-heal-on-our-own-time-in-our-own-terms-through-our-own-processes-it-is-a-hard-journey-to-travel-through-but-try-to-find-a-community-a-381) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### The Snapshot 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. ](/en/story/the-snapshot-90) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #531](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/my-story-531) [ It gets better we’ll maybe not better but it gets easier keep fighting for your confidence and trust in people again just because a one or multiple people did you wrong doesn’t mean everyone will! ](/en/message/it-gets-better-well-maybe-not-better-but-it-gets-easier-keep-fighting-for-your-confidence-and-trust-in-people-again-just-because-a-one-or-multiple-people-did-you-wrong-doesnt-mean-everyone-will-450) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “Healing is different for everyone, but for me it is listening to myself...I make sure to take some time out of each week to put me first and practice self-care.” ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### Where Time Stands Still TW: description of sexual assault Deep breath. The thing that I hate about my story is that while I hate that it happened to me, I hate how similar it is to so many other people’s stories. I don’t mean that I wish that there had been a unique or standout factor in my rape (wow, even typing that word makes breathing a chore), but that it kills me that so many others know exactly what I am talking about despite there only being some differences in our respective situations, and likewise, I know exactly what they’re talking about. I don’t know how other survivors felt when their sexual assaults happened because that is what is unique to everyone’s story across the board; everyone describes it, expresses it, and experiences it differently. While I cannot and do not wish to speak for all survivors, as I believe and know that each story from us is valuable, I can tell you my own. It is something that I have never written out or even thought out in full, only in fragments. Maybe this was my brain’s way of protecting me, even four years after I was raped and three after I was assaulted, but anyway, here’s my survivor story. I was a freshman in college, it was April, and I was two and a half weeks in to my nineteenth trip around the sun. I had been drinking some and was on my way home from a party when I realized I had told a friend that I would stop by a party that she was attending. I changed my course and headed for the campus house. Over the course of maybe twenty minutes, a guy had chatted me up and we were just talking. He seemed funny and nice at the time, but if alcohol does anything, it makes a lot of people seem fun and nice. We ended up leaving the party together and he offered to walk me back to my dorm, to which I consented. I was wearing flip flops, which made me stumble a bit, so he picked me up and did not put me down until we arrived at my dorm room. It was now that time where everything gets a little awkward because it’s the end of the night and you don’t know what to do with yourself, let alone how to handle the other person: I chose to be bold. I told him to wait outside while I changed into something a little sexier. I had a roommate who was in always in the room, so we couldn’t hook up in my room. After changing into a lacy bra and lacy black underwear, I put on an oversized button down and opened my door. I told him we could go to the laundry room since there was a slim chance that anyone would be doing their laundry at two in the morning on a Saturday. This is where my throat gets tight and my fingers grow more reluctant to pound out my survivorship. I unbuttoned my shirt and we began making out. I knew what I was doing and what was going on. He asked if I wanted to have sex and I said yes, so he propped me up on top of a washing machine and took off his pants. Between the height and the angle, the dynamics and physics just were not working out. He asked if I would give him a blow job. I said yes. When he finished, he asked for another one. I was still on my knees. This is the part where time stands still. I said no. I said it. The words left my lips. He responded by putting his hands on the back of my head and shoving my head toward his crotch until my face was smushed up against his penis. It was right there in my face. He took one hand from the back of my head and held his penis up to my lips and began trying to press it into my mouth, forcing me to take it. I had said no, and all that did was land me here. I felt my kneecaps dig into the linoleum floor. I felt the silence of the wee hours of the morning. What I felt the most was my inability to breathe or to speak: my own silence. When he finally eased up on the pressure on my head, I pulled away, stood up, and straightened myself out. He smiled at me and said good night. I walked back to my room, and that was that. However, that wasn’t that. I thought that this was normal, how things usually went. That night was always in the back of my mind until I decided to bring it up in therapy in the October of my sophomore year. I described the night and both of our actions and words to my therapist. I was expecting her to agree with me: it had just been another night at college. I was expecting her to tell me to not worry about it and to rid my mind of the night. Instead, I became the one statistic I never thought that I would ever become. That night went from being in the back of my mind to the very front of it, consuming me. “You were raped.” I was silent. I thought I had misheard her, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that I had not. The rest of that session is a blur, but how it affected me from that day forth is not. When the semester started, I would often party with my friends on the weekends. The person whose room in which we would most frequently party was roommates with my rapist. During parties before that therapy session, I always felt genuinely uncomfortable seeing him in the same room as me, so I would just drink the discomfort away. After that therapy session, I felt suffocating fear and overwhelming panic. I disappeared from partying with my friends and they noticed. When they asked what was up, I lied and said I had a lot of homework or that I had a big test coming up that I needed to study for. None of them knew the truth. I went to a small school with just under 2000 total students, so I saw my rapist a lot. The amount of anxiety I felt whenever I would see him, even if he was on the other side of the quad, was incredible. Even seeing him from afar would cause me to power walk or run in any direction but his. So that’s how I spent his remaining two years on campus: as an anxiety-ridden, fearful, guilty, embarrassed, relatively isolated, nightmare and panic attack-having girl. I thought he was in Spanish with me on the first day of second semester classes sophomore year, but it was actually another guy who bore some resemblance to him. My junior year, I went to Commencement to watch a good friend graduate. My rapist was also graduating. I put my hands over my ears and buried my head in my arms when they got close to calling his name. How, I thought, how the hell is he graduating and going out into the workforce or to graduate school? Why does his world keep spinning when mine just stopped? It’s not fair. My junior year was the same year that I finally told my father that I was raped. I called him sobbing. As soon as I finished telling him that I had been raped, his immediate response was to ask if I had been drinking. Then he asked if I had reported, which I hadn’t at that point because I was absolutely terrified. He concluded the conversation by saying how it on me and my fault that I had gotten raped. Furthermore, I was also selfish and irresponsible for not reporting. By senior year, I thought that everything would be fine. He was no longer on campus, so I should be okay, right? Wrong. I quickly learned that just because my rapist was gone did not mean that the damage he had done through that heinous act just magically vanished. The February of my senior year, I was getting ready for a party with my friends in one of their rooms. I had been so caught up in trying to wrap up my thesis that I had not been partying in the recent weeks, so this was my emergence into the social scene. One of my friends suddenly exclaimed how she had just gotten a text from my rapist saying that he was coming to campus. She was the one person in that room of four people who did not know that I had been raped and that it was by him. I froze and tried to keep taking deep breaths; it was sort of working. He’s probably just going to be visiting his buddies. He won’t be at this party. I was trying to rationalize. Fifteen minutes later, she got another text from him saying he would be at the party we were going to. I excused myself and went out to the deserted lounge where I broke down on the couch. I could not stop crying and hyperventilating, so, as much as I did not want to go, I ran to the wellness center, tears still streaming down my face. That Tuesday, I had my weekly meeting with my two thesis advisors. I had spent Friday night in the wellness center, but had returned to my room on Saturday where I spent the remainder of the weekend unable to sleep, eat, breathe, or move. On Monday, I barely made it through my morning class before I went back to the wellness center and spent the night there. Tuesday was the first day that I felt even remotely okay. I knew I hadn’t done a lot of work on my thesis, so I was not looking forward to my advisor meeting that afternoon. When it came time for the meeting, I just talked about the work that I had done and tried to control the conversation. While they both thought that what I had accomplished was good, one of my advisors asked me something to the extent of why hadn’t I done more. It was then that I felt my voice give out and I felt tears roll down my face. When I composed myself enough to muster words, I told them the background, the original incident, before telling them about what had occurred over the weekend. They were silent. I was drowning in shame. My history advisor spoke up first, apologizing for what I had been through, before saying that if I ever chose to report, she would be happy to accompany me. I thanked her and left. The next day I received an email from her asking me to come to her office when I could. I finished up my lunch and went over to the humanities building. In her office, she told me that she had an obligation to report my rape since she was a professor. I felt all the color drain from my face. This was not a part of the plan. Then she said that I could sit in her office to absorb what she had said and to talk through what I wanted to say. She said that it really pissed her off that someone had done this to me and how she couldn’t imagine how much energy I expended on avoiding him, and then she said something that began to change how I saw my situation: she told me that I need to let the people whose job it is to protect me do their job instead of assuming that role myself. About an hour and a half later, we began our walk to the administrative building where the Title IX coordinator worked. She put her arm around my shoulder and reassured me the whole walk over. Once we were in the coordinator’s office, I asked her to stay. I couldn’t do it alone. The coordinator asked me a few questions, including the name of my rapist, and then she gave me some options regarding potential next steps, including issuing a no trespass order. I told her I would think about it and thanked her for her time. My advisor and I made it to the top of the stairs before I began sobbing. She walked me into the bathroom and sat with me on the bench, calming me down and offering comforting words and wisdom. That’s my story. What I have learned about healing, especially from something such as rape and sexual assault is that you don’t get over it; you get through it. The pain from the trauma ebbs and flows. Some days your lungs will be so open and welcoming to air, and other times, you’ll be gasping for your life. Something else I have learned in healing is regarding the victim versus survivor label. While some write-off the victim label as someone who is too caught up in what happened to them and associate it with an unwillingness to move forward in life, I don’t see it that way. I think victim captures the true heinous and terrible nature of the act, and I think it both reminds others and the person who was assaulted that a crime was committed. That it wasn’t some little sex game of another night at college, but an actual crime. I am simultaneously in support of the survivor label because I think it captures the heart, bravery, and strength one has to have in order to endure the crime and come out on the other side, even if you’re barely breathing. You can call yourself whatever you want, even if it doesn’t fit within the victim/survivor dichotomy, but know that there is no shame in calling yourself a victim and it is never too self-centered to call yourself a survivor, because no matter what, you’re here today, and that’s what’s important. ](/en/story/where-time-stands-still-80) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #531](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/my-story-531) [ Therapy didn’t help me at all because I had a set them I had to talk about what happened and I could never tell the story to a stranger but I could never tell my family about it either. The worst part was having to talk when they wanted me too not when I wanted to talk about it but to be fair I never wanted which was good for me but when people treated me different it made me feel like a monkey in an enclosure if you want family or friends to treat you properly I had to build or confidence to lay ground rules and I got never stayed over at house with anyone for about a 8 months and I did with 2 girls and I never fell asleep but then they stayed over a lot and the last time i fell asleep it does get easier this was good closure for me as well you should write your story ](/en/message/therapy-didnt-help-me-at-all-because-i-had-a-set-them-i-had-to-talk-about-what-happened-and-i-could-never-tell-the-story-to-a-stranger-but-i-could-never-tell-my-family-about-it-either-the-worst-part-w-451) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ### Welcome to Unapologetically Surviving. This is a space where survivors of trauma and abuse share their stories alongside supportive allies. These stories remind us that hope exists even in dark times. You are never alone in your experience. Healing is possible for everyone. ##### What feels like the right place to start today? 🌤️ ✍️ 🙋 🤲 I'm ready to explore the community ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### Rising Above Betrayal 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. ](/en/story/rising-above-betrayal-317) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### #91 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. ](/en/story/dTrrbWRMDong91gwIQFT) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #121](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/d73826d3-7028-4db4-8f2d-c8652cbfa829) [If you’ve been groomed, or are being groomed, please don’t be afraid to cut all contact with them if you can. I know firsthand how terrifying it is, but I promise you will never do anything better for yourself. Whether or not you want to go to the police is absolutely up to you. Please don’t feel pressured as if you have to go, or you shouldn’t go. Your mental health comes first.](/en/message/if-youve-been-groomed-or-are-being-groomed-please-dont-be-afraid-to-cut-all-contact-with-them-if-you-can-i-know-firsthand-how-terrifying-it-is-but-i-promise-you-you-will-never-do-anything-better-for-y-106) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #430](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/the-fall-and-rising-from-the-ashes-430) [ Healing is waking up every day with an understanding that my experience doesn't have to define me or change my path. Healing is being able to lift others up while doing the same for myself. Healing is being able to realize that there will be bad days and sometimes, they might outnumber the good ones. It's understanding that I have a long road and I no longer have to do this alone. ](/en/message/healing-is-waking-up-every-day-with-an-understanding-that-my-experience-doesnt-have-to-define-me-or-change-my-path-healing-is-being-able-to-lift-others-up-while-doing-the-same-for-myself-healing-is-be-373) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### He was my friend, my lover, but he was also my truest enemy. 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! ](/en/story/he-was-my-friend-my-lover-but-he-was-also-my-truest-enemy-187) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### My story with complex PTSD, BPD, and bipolar disorder. 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. ](/en/story/my-story-with-complex-ptsd-bpd-and-bipolar-disorder-314) Dear reader, this story contains language of self-harm that some may find triggering or discomforting. 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #92](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/name-sexual-harassment-in-the-work-place-92) [ To heal, is to become a survivor. I believe all survivors should come together, let’s fight this battle together ! ](/en/message/to-heal-is-to-become-a-survivor-i-believe-all-survivors-should-come-together-lets-fight-this-battle-together-1824) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #332](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/desperate-to-be-loved-but-at-what-price-332) [ Healing means peace. Healing means acceptance. Healing means you don't have to prove yourself in order to be loved. ](/en/message/healing-means-peace-healing-means-acceptance-healing-means-you-dont-have-to-prove-yourself-in-order-to-be-loved-293) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### Survivor 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. ](/en/story/survivor-86) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇬🇧 [ #### #121 It took me years to come to terms with what was really happening. When I was 9 years old, I met a boy online, and we quickly became friends. We knew everything about each other - He was 15 when we first met. When I was 10 and he was 16, he asked to be my boyfriend. Being a naive 10 year old girl I said yes. I can’t be mad at her for that. It was innocent at first. Just what you’d expect from a childhood relationship - “I love you, goodnight.” “Hope you’re doing okay.” “Let’s play some games together!” The only difference was that one of us were nearly an adult. Someone who should have known better to not even THINK about being romantically involved with a 10 year old girl. However, it went sour. He started talking to me about sexual subjects. Stuff I wasn’t at all familiar with. He’d make us roleplay situations, what he’d do to me if he got ahold of me in real life. Asking for photos. Guilt tripping me for seeming “off” or uninterested. I began to feel distressed at the time, but I was so young, that wasn’t really an emotion I had felt before. I told myself, this sick feeling must be love. That must be why I feel so nervous, why I feel knots in my stomach when I see his name pop up on my screen. I was very attached to him, at least I thought I was. I was always picked on in school and the few friends I had were awful to me, so he was my only real friend. My worst fear was somehow losing him, and he must have known that I thought that. He took advantage of that, and would guilt trip me at any opportunity to make sure I did whatever he wanted me to. After a while, he broke up with me, but we were still very much so “friends”. We would talk everyday, and he was still just as inappropriate and creepy with me as he was before. Throughout the years, he would begin to talk to me about worse and worse stuff. He explicitly told me about his attraction to children, and that he worked as a teaching assistant in a primary school. I tried to brush it off and keep it at the back of my mind, but I got to tipping point last year when he started to pressure me into meeting with him in real life. It went on for 7 years. I hate to say it, and it makes me sad for the little girl that I was, but the rest of my childhood was stolen from me. I’m 17 now, about the same age he was when we met. The thought of EVER saying the stuff to a 10,11,12 year old that he did makes me feel physically ill. I still haven’t fully processed what happened to me, but I’ve been working on it. I’m yet to cry, at least properly, about it. The thing that sucks about this is that this went on for so long, that it felt completely normal. The people in my life who know all cried when I told them. It felt unfair, really - that they could cry about it. And I’m just stuck in a mindset I’m desperately trying to get out of where this is normal, and I feel completely numb. Recently, I decided I wanted to do something about it. I went to the police. This night, I sent off old screenshots of conversations between us to a detective working on my case. It’s terrifying, being that vulnerable. But I feel obligated to do it. The thought of him being around children all day makes me sick. I don’t care if he doesn’t go to prison - as long as he’s never near a child again I’ll be happy. That’s why I’m doing it. I won’t let shame and embarrassment stop me from doing this, and I especially won’t let my brain tell me he doesn’t deserve punishment. Because that’s exactly what he’d want me to think, too. ](/en/story/d73826d3-7028-4db4-8f2d-c8652cbfa829) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #91](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/dTrrbWRMDong91gwIQFT) [ Stay strong, you are not alone. ](/en/message/stay-strong-you-are-not-alone-78) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #117](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/survivor-small-town-ways-117) [ Healing is growth. It doesn’t mean you are completely over what happened and it doesn’t erase what happened. It simply means that you can now face what hurt you. It is a never ending process. It doesn’t happen over night and it is never over. You are constantly healing and growing in order to move forward and not let your trauma dictate your life. ](/en/message/healing-is-growth-it-doesnt-mean-you-are-completely-over-what-happened-and-it-doesnt-erase-what-happened-it-simply-means-that-you-can-now-face-what-hurt-you-it-is-a-never-ending-process-it-doesnt-happ-1829) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### I Don’t Talk About It Much 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.” ](/en/story/i-dont-talk-about-it-much-79) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### Home Sweet Home 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. ](/en/story/home-sweet-home-106) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #531](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/my-story-531) [ It gets better we’ll maybe not better but it gets easier keep fighting for your confidence and trust in people again just because a one or multiple people did you wrong doesn’t mean everyone will! ](/en/message/it-gets-better-well-maybe-not-better-but-it-gets-easier-keep-fighting-for-your-confidence-and-trust-in-people-again-just-because-a-one-or-multiple-people-did-you-wrong-doesnt-mean-everyone-will-450) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #531](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/my-story-531) [ Therapy didn’t help me at all because I had a set them I had to talk about what happened and I could never tell the story to a stranger but I could never tell my family about it either. The worst part was having to talk when they wanted me too not when I wanted to talk about it but to be fair I never wanted which was good for me but when people treated me different it made me feel like a monkey in an enclosure if you want family or friends to treat you properly I had to build or confidence to lay ground rules and I got never stayed over at house with anyone for about a 8 months and I did with 2 girls and I never fell asleep but then they stayed over a lot and the last time i fell asleep it does get easier this was good closure for me as well you should write your story ](/en/message/therapy-didnt-help-me-at-all-because-i-had-a-set-them-i-had-to-talk-about-what-happened-and-i-could-never-tell-the-story-to-a-stranger-but-i-could-never-tell-my-family-about-it-either-the-worst-part-w-451) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### What Does a Pinky Promise Mean In Terms of Consent? 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? ](/en/story/what-does-a-pinky-promise-mean-in-terms-of-consent-87) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “Healing means forgiving myself for all the things I may have gotten wrong in the moment.” ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #316](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/988a2502-2536-4db8-b1ed-6f654b520fd6) [ Healing to me was reclaiming every part of me. My body, my mind, my emotions, my relationships. Healing to me is getting to know myself again. Healing to me comes in waves. Some of it is really, really hard. Other times, it’s beautiful and like a breath of fresh air. ](/en/message/healing-to-me-was-reclaiming-every-part-of-me-my-body-my-mind-my-emotions-my-relationships-healing-to-me-is-getting-to-know-myself-again-healing-to-me-comes-in-waves-some-of-it-is-really-really-hard-o-276) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “I really hope sharing my story will help others in one way or another and I can certainly say that it will help me be more open with my story.” ##### Story From a survivor 🇦🇺 [ #### Mums aren't safe 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. ](/en/story/mums-arent-safe-118) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### If you are reading this, you have survived 100% of your worst days. You’re doing great. ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #120](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/survivor-120) [ I don't know what healing really is, I've never known a life without abuse or mental illness. For me, I guess, healing would mean the chance at having a normal life. I don't think that is possible though. ](/en/message/i-dont-know-what-healing-really-is-ive-never-known-a-life-without-abuse-or-mental-illness-for-me-i-guess-healing-would-mean-the-chance-at-having-a-normal-life-i-dont-think-that-is-possible-though-1818) Dear reader, this message contains language of self-harm that some may find triggering or discomforting. 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “We believe you. Your stories matter.” ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### It Doesn’t Matter TW: sexual violence We dated for a long time. He supported me the most and we were always together, like our identities merged into one. Looking back I know it as codependency. Looking back I know there were signs, but I wasn’t educated enough to see them. He made me think I was the abuser after it all ended. One night, I was 19. We were at his parents house while they were away, with all his friends from high school that I had grown to call my own friends. We played video games and watched tv. Got drunk. Tried to sleep. I remember him telling me he was horny when I got into his bed. I was so tired but I said “okay”. That’s why I struggle. Because I gave the verbal consent but I wasn’t aware. I wasn’t sober. I remember falling asleep and waking up to him inside of me. I felt my underwear with my hand on the side of the bed. I said “what are you doing?” And he said “we’re having sex.” I remember his body on top of mine. I remember him yelling my name to wake me up while he was still thrusting. Then he stopped. A moment of clarity. The destruction of who I was. Tears from him. Apologies. Threats to kill himself the next day. It doesn’t matter. He’s still a rapist. ](/en/story/it-doesnt-matter-85) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “It’s always okay to reach out for help” ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇪🇸 [Story #416](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/author-416) [ Time is the only healer in reality, but sharing your story with whoever you need to is super important. Let your feeling be validated, seek empathy from loved ones and not sympathy. ](/en/message/time-is-the-only-healer-in-reality-but-sharing-your-story-with-whoever-you-need-to-is-super-important-let-your-feeling-be-validated-seek-empathy-from-loved-ones-and-not-sympathy-1753) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### You are surviving and that is enough. ##### Story From a survivor 🇬🇧 [1 new update](/en/story/behind-closed-doors-119#updates) [ #### Behind closed doors 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 :) ](/en/story/behind-closed-doors-119) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “You are the author of your own story. Your story is yours and yours alone despite your experiences.” ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #446](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/he-was-28-446) [ This is a horrible journey for any person to go through. We all will heal on our own time, in our own terms, through our own processes. It is a hard journey to travel through but try to find a community around you that can help you through all of this. People who will pick you up, people who will not let you fall, people who will hold your hand and continue to check in and make sure that what is happening is safe for you to go through. If I did not have my friends throughout this journey, it would be a harder process for me. Find your family (either biological or the family that you have created because we all need that), find a community around you of people who are there for you. In order to heal we need safe spaces; we need people who love us checking in on us. You can do this. You can start the process of healing. It has taken me 22 years to finally want to confront the reality of what happened to me as a child and at this point I am ready to fully confront those things. I am a decidedly logical person who wants answers to questions that will never get answers, and there just are not answers when you have gone through this type of trauma. In order to heal you need to do what is good for you, not for anyone else. Do this for you. ](/en/message/this-is-a-horrible-journey-for-any-person-to-go-through-we-all-will-heal-on-our-own-time-in-our-own-terms-through-our-own-processes-it-is-a-hard-journey-to-travel-through-but-try-to-find-a-community-a-381) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report #### “Healing is different for everyone, but for me it is listening to myself...I make sure to take some time out of each week to put me first and practice self-care.” ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #136](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/life-does-get-better-136) [ Healing to me is forgiving yourself for what happened. Knowing it’s ok to distance yourself from family if they aren’t supporting you. Only sharing your story with people you’ve built trust with, cause you no longer feel vulnerable. Being able to accept what happened without knowing why it happened to you. ](/en/message/healing-to-me-is-forgiving-yourself-for-what-happened-knowing-its-ok-to-distance-yourself-from-family-if-they-arent-supporting-you-only-sharing-your-story-with-people-youve-built-trust-with-cause-you-114) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇦🇺 [Story #118](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/mums-arent-safe-118) [ Growing and embracing the past as something that changed you and made you ](/en/message/growing-and-embracing-the-past-as-something-that-changed-you-and-made-you-104) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇬🇧 [ #### Life does get better. 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. ](/en/story/life-does-get-better-136) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### #316 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. ](/en/story/988a2502-2536-4db8-b1ed-6f654b520fd6) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #317](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/rising-above-betrayal-317) [ Healing is first acceptance of horrific circumstances, and stop trying to be neutral about it, to not rock the boat, and then to be horrified, and be devastated, and mourn. A lot of crying and depression and feelings of worthlessnesses are involved. It is important to shut yourself off from any and all mean people and seek out those who have kindness, acceptance and understanding . This mourning is ongoing, but part of healing is that you must move forward. It is not a couch to lie on , but a springboard to launch you into a better life, realizing you CAN choose, you CAN move on. You will be able at some point to compartmentalize this awfulness, stuff it in a back drawer of your mind and go on with happier things. Healing becomes awareness, awakening, and an exploration of one's own behaviors that allowed abuse to stand unconfronted, undefended, denied, rationalized. Being "nice" is overrated, as it allows evil to flourish. I will never lose my empathy and understanding of others but realize I can choose those who are deserving of it, and walk away from those who have violated it. No second chances with disrespectful people. Healing is understanding that explaining my experience will never work with an abuser, a narcissist, and it's best and right to disengage, without guilt or second guessing. Explaining my experience to others who have experienced betrayal, disloyalty and a breach of trust lends further clarity to healing, not only for me. I hope it also lends validation to others who have been beaten down and are coming to recognize their strength and goodness, and to free themselves from the falsehoods perpetrated by abusers. ](/en/message/healing-is-first-acceptance-of-horrific-circumstances-and-stop-trying-to-be-neutral-about-it-to-not-rock-the-boat-and-then-to-be-horrified-and-be-devastated-and-mourn-a-lot-of-crying-and-depression-an-277) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇬🇧 [Story #136](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/life-does-get-better-136) [ Message of hope. To anyone that’s survived sexual abuse. My therapist told me, “no matter what you did or didn’t do, it wasn’t your fault” that stopped me from blaming myself. Take time to heal yourself. If you need to, distance yourself from anyone that doesn’t believe you, that included family. One day you’ll look back and see just how far you’ve came. It’s a long journey but I’m excited for you to get there. Just know it will happen one day. ](/en/message/message-of-hope-to-anyone-thats-survived-sexual-abuse-my-therapist-told-me-no-matter-what-you-did-or-didnt-do-it-wasnt-your-fault-that-stopped-me-from-blaming-myself-take-time-to-heal-yourself-if-you-113) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### survivor: Speaking out about my abuse... When I turned 24, my life began to change. I started having severe bouts of sadness that seemed to come out of nowhere. They would leave me feeling low and upset. I was confused, asking myself, “What was going on? Why was this happening?”. As time passed, these episodes started lasting hours, and they came coupled with memories from my past. They were memories of when I was a young 8-year-old boy. I was in disbelief that this was happening after all of this time. Why now?! I had come so far since the abuse. I had a good job, great friends, and life was generally going well. Of course, I had never forgotten what happened to me. Occasionally something would come up on the news, or somebody would say something that would remind me of it, but I didn’t care, life was good and I wanted it to stay that way. I decided the best thing to do was to fight the memories. My strategy was to keep pushing them away until they gave up and disappeared. But it seemed the more I pushed, the more strength it gave them. They started attacking me from all angles, and I couldn’t hold them off. They even made their way into my dreams, where I would wake up screaming that he had snuck into my room. At this point, I knew the fight was over, and I needed to do something about it. I spoke out for the first time to a close friend when I was 27-years-old, which was just short of 20 years after the abuse happened. As soon as I did this, I felt an incredible lift, like I had achieved something great. It encouraged me to continue sharing my story, one person at a time. As the years went on, I could feel myself growing in confidence. It was a fantastic feeling, and to add to this, as the confidence grew, the fear of what other people may think was reducing. I spent a lot of time reflecting on the journey I had been on to get to this point, looking at the different stages of coming to terms with my past and figuring out how to move forward. It led me to wonder what other people may be going through. How were they doing? I started searching online to find out. I came across a chat room where people were writing their stories and expressing how they felt. There was one post that really struck a chord with me. So much so that I had to re-read it several times. It was from a 70-year-old woman; she explained that she never told anyone what happened to her as a child. She felt this was one of the main reasons that held her back in life. She explained that she will now take this secret to the grave her. I couldn’t believe it; I felt so sad for her. It made me realise how fortunate I was to have people around me that I could tell. I felt a sense of gratitude to be in that situation, and I decided that I should try to do something for people like her. I began to think of how I could be of use, how I could use my story to help others. I thought the first thing to do was start sharing my story publicly. I remembered that I had been to an open mic night earlier that year, which was a free event to the public where you could sign up on the door and perform that night. I knew this would be a good starting point, so I went as a storyteller and began speaking on the open mic stages around City. These events were held in pubs and bars. They were busy venues where people came to have a drink with friends and listen to the musicians and singers who were performing. It was the wrong environment for my story. The audiences looked uncomfortable as I spoke, and things were not going well at all. One venue cut my microphone halfway through my story and told me that I had to stop and come off the stage. It felt terrible. On another night, I had a guy from the audience stand up and shout, “This is meant to be a night of entertainment, and you’ve come here talking about kids getting touched!”. I literally couldn’t believe it; I felt completely defeated. It was like I couldn’t take one more night, but I knew I couldn’t stop. It was the best option for me, and I had to keep going. I needed to improve my performance to stand any chance of getting somewhere at these venues. I needed to be more creative with how I told my story. I started experimenting with different ideas. I wrote a performance that explained why I never said anything at the time the abuse was going on, and I delivered it over music. It was catching people's attention. One night I started with two or three people watching, and by the end of my performance, I had the whole venue's attention. They clapped and cheered; I will never forget that moment. From there on, I knew I was on to something. I began performing at every event that I could. I didn’t care what type of venue it was anymore. If the night went ‘badly,’ then so be it; it was all helping me develop my content and delivery on stage. I started recording my performances and uploading them onto social media. Somebody saw my work and told me about a poetry and spoken word open mic night happening in City, so I went. I couldn’t believe it when I arrived. It was a room packed with a supportive audience, who were there solely to watch the performers. Everybody paid full attention to the stage and showed overwhelming support. The night was fantastic. I felt like I had finally found the right platform to share my story. I have now been speaking out in public for two years. I have also been creating videos and social media posts online. I have collaborated with filmmakers, illustrators, and photographers to be as creative as possible in communicating this topic. I believe if things can be kept engaging and interesting for the viewer, then we can bring more attention to this subject, which is essential if we stand any chance of breaking the stigma and the silence. I truly believe we can do this. Thank you for listening to my story. If you would like to see the content I have been creating around child sexual abuse, please go to survivor on social media platforms and YouTube. ](/en/story/speaking-out-about-my-abuse-105) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### #467 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. ](/en/story/4862e37f-f429-4241-a06f-23824c9dc1c1) 1 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #92](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/name-sexual-harassment-in-the-work-place-92) [ Please, do what you ever you can. I promise it will get better, you learn to cope. Contact other survivors and we shall share our stories. ](/en/message/please-do-what-you-ever-you-can-i-promise-it-will-get-better-you-learn-to-cope-contact-other-survivors-and-we-shall-share-our-stories-1823) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Healing From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #91](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/dTrrbWRMDong91gwIQFT) [ Feeling content with my journey. Accepting the past but not allowing it to define me. ](/en/message/feeling-content-with-my-journey-accepting-the-past-but-not-allowing-it-to-define-me-79) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [My Path Back to MyselfTW: sexual assault I’m going to begin by saying that I have moved forward by the means that made it possible for me to do so, but I encourage others to do what is best for them. It has taken a lot for me to post to here given that beyond my attacker and myself, only two other people in my life know about my rape. I tend to internalize my problems to handle them, and only when comfortable internally do I ever truly express things externally. I am not one to ascribe to the title of “victim” despite being victimized, so sharing here I suppose is a way of expressing frustration, fear, pain, and the struggle to find a way forward in hopes of maybe helping someone else. That all being said, here it goes. I am a strong person in every sense of the word. I grew up with older brothers, played on the boys sports teams until I couldn’t, lift weights most women can’t, and push myself as any athlete would. As any of my friends will attest to, as strong as I am, I’m probably the biggest softie emotionally speaking. I trust wholeheartedly, am always willing to give of myself for the sake of others, and am a wildly hopeless romantic. Though not looking for likes or love, it would often find its way into my life due to just seeing the good and beauty that exist in other people. In most cases my relationships, flings, and fancies were enjoyable albeit the occasional woe-is-me-summer-love heartbreak that is bound to happen along the way. Early in the fall of my Junior year of college, I found myself with a crush on this guy I met from a different university through a program I was in and shared similar interests and though in different schools similar classes. The thought of a study session seemed innocent enough, even in the notion of it being in my dorm room. I anticipated actually studying, because it was one of my tougher subjects and I had a test coming up. When fifteen minutes in we were kissing, I didn’t think it terrible, though now the thought gives me mild stomach knots. After a few minutes he became a bit more handsy than I was comfortable with so I tried to get us back to the studying, politely suggesting as much. He ignored me and continued. I was more forceful in my asking him to cool it; he just kissed harder and pushed me against the wall. I gave one of those uncomfortable laughs and said, “Seriously, can we stop.” I am strong, I fought back to the point of hopelessness where my body and mind essentially blacked-out, limp mentally and physically to what was happening. He got dressed and left, dropped the program we shared, and I never saw him again. I dropped to the floor. Retrospectively, I’m surprised I didn’t cry. I just sat there on the floor for what must have been an hour or so until an alarm went off for practice. I don’t honestly remember the rest of that day, in reality even that week. I know things are starting to change but in my mind I had no evidence on this guy to report him beyond his name. He used a condom. I was in shock and showered what must have been three or four times over after practice that day. In realizing this, I felt there was truly nothing I could do. I had always enjoyed drinking socially, but I know that was a downward turning point for me in some of my drinking habits. The college I went to was a solid party school, but I think I was drunk every minute of everyday I was able to be during that point of my life, and not for fun, but to be drunk because being that drunk fun version of myself I didn’t have to be me. I didn’t have to deal with it and I felt like I could move forward somehow that way. Having a high tolerance didn’t help my drinking habits. It’s odd to say but thankfully one night I intentionally tried to finish a handle on my own and blacked-out hard. I joke about it now, but it was probably one of the lowest points in my life. I can honestly say that I was severely depressed at that point in my life. I had two friends at the time that were amazing and took care of me that night, and though our friendships have severed a bit since, I am thankful for their care even in not knowing what I was going through. I woke up the next day and knew I had to change something or this was going to get worse. I had been considering study abroad but had hesitations until that morning hungover. I put in my application, was accepted and flew away for 7 months in another country the following January. Some might say I was running from my problems, but for me it was more of a running towards some freedom, personal growth, and a new perspective on life. Any one of my friends who knew me then would say I came back an entirely different person. I found my voice, ironically in many cases by becoming more self-concerned, something I had rarely been before. I lost a good few friends along the way, but gained so much from the ones that stuck through even in not knowing what had happened. About two years later I started dating again, and after some short relationships I was blessed to meet the love of my life. She was the first person who I told about what happened to me. There were and are still things that trigger me to panicked mindset, but I’ve learned ways to calm myself down and bring myself back. With the right person and quality communication I’ve found that all aspects of love can be enjoyable despite the pain of the past. Like I said at the onset, my path back to myself may not be your path. I didn’t report, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t, especially with the increasing notoriety the #metoo movement has made. I was lucky enough to have the option to study abroad at the time, but much of what I found strength in was meeting new people and seeing that despite the crap, there are good people in the world. I had to find patience with myself as well as healthy outlets to work through my moments of frustration or pain. In time I sought to just meet people for the sake of it, not to date but to see that there are so many good people out there again. It took time to trust and love myself in order to be able to accept love from others, but you will be able to. Mostly, have patience with yourself, don’t blame yourself, and don’t try and handle it all on your own. You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want, but don’t isolate yourself from people. Cling to those good friends, and even if they don’t know they’re doing it, they will help drag you out of your dark place. The good ones always do. And know that no one can ever take away your strength; it takes a great deal of strength to move forward and living your best life as a survivor. You are strong, and nothing will change that.](/en/story/my-path-back-to-myself-81) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇬🇧 [ #### My Story 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. ](/en/story/my-story-531) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #117](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/survivor-small-town-ways-117) [ There are good people in this world. Yes there are those who will victim blame and side with tour abuser. But there are those who will also stick up for your name when you aren’t around. Don’t let the bad people in this world stop you from seeing all the good. ](/en/message/there-are-good-people-in-this-world-yes-there-are-those-who-will-victim-blame-and-side-with-tour-abuser-but-there-are-those-who-will-also-stick-up-for-your-name-when-you-arent-around-dont-let-the-bad-1828) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Message of Hope From a survivor 🇺🇸 [Story #187](https://unapologeticallysurviving.ourwave.org/story/he-was-my-friend-my-lover-but-he-was-also-my-truest-enemy-187) [ Know that no matter how badly you have been hurt, there is someone out there who will love you, accept you, and will believe you. Know that you can love yourself again and that you can trust again. Know that it is not your fault and that you can keep on living. Our trauma does not have to define us; our trauma can help us grow stronger. I am stronger because of what happened to me, I love myself more than ever, and I never thought I could reach this sense of happiness or closure. You can forgive; without forgiving, you can move on without leaving your past behind. I learned how to forgive; I am learning how to heal; I am surviving. ](/en/message/know-that-no-matter-how-badly-you-have-been-hurt-there-is-someone-out-there-who-will-love-you-accept-you-and-will-believe-you-know-that-you-can-love-yourself-again-and-that-you-can-trust-again-know-th-173) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### The Snapshot 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. ](/en/story/the-snapshot-90) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report ##### Story From a survivor 🇺🇸 [ #### Where Time Stands Still TW: description of sexual assault Deep breath. The thing that I hate about my story is that while I hate that it happened to me, I hate how similar it is to so many other people’s stories. I don’t mean that I wish that there had been a unique or standout factor in my rape (wow, even typing that word makes breathing a chore), but that it kills me that so many others know exactly what I am talking about despite there only being some differences in our respective situations, and likewise, I know exactly what they’re talking about. I don’t know how other survivors felt when their sexual assaults happened because that is what is unique to everyone’s story across the board; everyone describes it, expresses it, and experiences it differently. While I cannot and do not wish to speak for all survivors, as I believe and know that each story from us is valuable, I can tell you my own. It is something that I have never written out or even thought out in full, only in fragments. Maybe this was my brain’s way of protecting me, even four years after I was raped and three after I was assaulted, but anyway, here’s my survivor story. I was a freshman in college, it was April, and I was two and a half weeks in to my nineteenth trip around the sun. I had been drinking some and was on my way home from a party when I realized I had told a friend that I would stop by a party that she was attending. I changed my course and headed for the campus house. Over the course of maybe twenty minutes, a guy had chatted me up and we were just talking. He seemed funny and nice at the time, but if alcohol does anything, it makes a lot of people seem fun and nice. We ended up leaving the party together and he offered to walk me back to my dorm, to which I consented. I was wearing flip flops, which made me stumble a bit, so he picked me up and did not put me down until we arrived at my dorm room. It was now that time where everything gets a little awkward because it’s the end of the night and you don’t know what to do with yourself, let alone how to handle the other person: I chose to be bold. I told him to wait outside while I changed into something a little sexier. I had a roommate who was in always in the room, so we couldn’t hook up in my room. After changing into a lacy bra and lacy black underwear, I put on an oversized button down and opened my door. I told him we could go to the laundry room since there was a slim chance that anyone would be doing their laundry at two in the morning on a Saturday. This is where my throat gets tight and my fingers grow more reluctant to pound out my survivorship. I unbuttoned my shirt and we began making out. I knew what I was doing and what was going on. He asked if I wanted to have sex and I said yes, so he propped me up on top of a washing machine and took off his pants. Between the height and the angle, the dynamics and physics just were not working out. He asked if I would give him a blow job. I said yes. When he finished, he asked for another one. I was still on my knees. This is the part where time stands still. I said no. I said it. The words left my lips. He responded by putting his hands on the back of my head and shoving my head toward his crotch until my face was smushed up against his penis. It was right there in my face. He took one hand from the back of my head and held his penis up to my lips and began trying to press it into my mouth, forcing me to take it. I had said no, and all that did was land me here. I felt my kneecaps dig into the linoleum floor. I felt the silence of the wee hours of the morning. What I felt the most was my inability to breathe or to speak: my own silence. When he finally eased up on the pressure on my head, I pulled away, stood up, and straightened myself out. He smiled at me and said good night. I walked back to my room, and that was that. However, that wasn’t that. I thought that this was normal, how things usually went. That night was always in the back of my mind until I decided to bring it up in therapy in the October of my sophomore year. I described the night and both of our actions and words to my therapist. I was expecting her to agree with me: it had just been another night at college. I was expecting her to tell me to not worry about it and to rid my mind of the night. Instead, I became the one statistic I never thought that I would ever become. That night went from being in the back of my mind to the very front of it, consuming me. “You were raped.” I was silent. I thought I had misheard her, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that I had not. The rest of that session is a blur, but how it affected me from that day forth is not. When the semester started, I would often party with my friends on the weekends. The person whose room in which we would most frequently party was roommates with my rapist. During parties before that therapy session, I always felt genuinely uncomfortable seeing him in the same room as me, so I would just drink the discomfort away. After that therapy session, I felt suffocating fear and overwhelming panic. I disappeared from partying with my friends and they noticed. When they asked what was up, I lied and said I had a lot of homework or that I had a big test coming up that I needed to study for. None of them knew the truth. I went to a small school with just under 2000 total students, so I saw my rapist a lot. The amount of anxiety I felt whenever I would see him, even if he was on the other side of the quad, was incredible. Even seeing him from afar would cause me to power walk or run in any direction but his. So that’s how I spent his remaining two years on campus: as an anxiety-ridden, fearful, guilty, embarrassed, relatively isolated, nightmare and panic attack-having girl. I thought he was in Spanish with me on the first day of second semester classes sophomore year, but it was actually another guy who bore some resemblance to him. My junior year, I went to Commencement to watch a good friend graduate. My rapist was also graduating. I put my hands over my ears and buried my head in my arms when they got close to calling his name. How, I thought, how the hell is he graduating and going out into the workforce or to graduate school? Why does his world keep spinning when mine just stopped? It’s not fair. My junior year was the same year that I finally told my father that I was raped. I called him sobbing. As soon as I finished telling him that I had been raped, his immediate response was to ask if I had been drinking. Then he asked if I had reported, which I hadn’t at that point because I was absolutely terrified. He concluded the conversation by saying how it on me and my fault that I had gotten raped. Furthermore, I was also selfish and irresponsible for not reporting. By senior year, I thought that everything would be fine. He was no longer on campus, so I should be okay, right? Wrong. I quickly learned that just because my rapist was gone did not mean that the damage he had done through that heinous act just magically vanished. The February of my senior year, I was getting ready for a party with my friends in one of their rooms. I had been so caught up in trying to wrap up my thesis that I had not been partying in the recent weeks, so this was my emergence into the social scene. One of my friends suddenly exclaimed how she had just gotten a text from my rapist saying that he was coming to campus. She was the one person in that room of four people who did not know that I had been raped and that it was by him. I froze and tried to keep taking deep breaths; it was sort of working. He’s probably just going to be visiting his buddies. He won’t be at this party. I was trying to rationalize. Fifteen minutes later, she got another text from him saying he would be at the party we were going to. I excused myself and went out to the deserted lounge where I broke down on the couch. I could not stop crying and hyperventilating, so, as much as I did not want to go, I ran to the wellness center, tears still streaming down my face. That Tuesday, I had my weekly meeting with my two thesis advisors. I had spent Friday night in the wellness center, but had returned to my room on Saturday where I spent the remainder of the weekend unable to sleep, eat, breathe, or move. On Monday, I barely made it through my morning class before I went back to the wellness center and spent the night there. Tuesday was the first day that I felt even remotely okay. I knew I hadn’t done a lot of work on my thesis, so I was not looking forward to my advisor meeting that afternoon. When it came time for the meeting, I just talked about the work that I had done and tried to control the conversation. While they both thought that what I had accomplished was good, one of my advisors asked me something to the extent of why hadn’t I done more. It was then that I felt my voice give out and I felt tears roll down my face. When I composed myself enough to muster words, I told them the background, the original incident, before telling them about what had occurred over the weekend. They were silent. I was drowning in shame. My history advisor spoke up first, apologizing for what I had been through, before saying that if I ever chose to report, she would be happy to accompany me. I thanked her and left. The next day I received an email from her asking me to come to her office when I could. I finished up my lunch and went over to the humanities building. In her office, she told me that she had an obligation to report my rape since she was a professor. I felt all the color drain from my face. This was not a part of the plan. Then she said that I could sit in her office to absorb what she had said and to talk through what I wanted to say. She said that it really pissed her off that someone had done this to me and how she couldn’t imagine how much energy I expended on avoiding him, and then she said something that began to change how I saw my situation: she told me that I need to let the people whose job it is to protect me do their job instead of assuming that role myself. About an hour and a half later, we began our walk to the administrative building where the Title IX coordinator worked. She put her arm around my shoulder and reassured me the whole walk over. Once we were in the coordinator’s office, I asked her to stay. I couldn’t do it alone. The coordinator asked me a few questions, including the name of my rapist, and then she gave me some options regarding potential next steps, including issuing a no trespass order. I told her I would think about it and thanked her for her time. My advisor and I made it to the top of the stairs before I began sobbing. She walked me into the bathroom and sat with me on the bench, calming me down and offering comforting words and wisdom. That’s my story. What I have learned about healing, especially from something such as rape and sexual assault is that you don’t get over it; you get through it. The pain from the trauma ebbs and flows. Some days your lungs will be so open and welcoming to air, and other times, you’ll be gasping for your life. Something else I have learned in healing is regarding the victim versus survivor label. While some write-off the victim label as someone who is too caught up in what happened to them and associate it with an unwillingness to move forward in life, I don’t see it that way. I think victim captures the true heinous and terrible nature of the act, and I think it both reminds others and the person who was assaulted that a crime was committed. That it wasn’t some little sex game of another night at college, but an actual crime. I am simultaneously in support of the survivor label because I think it captures the heart, bravery, and strength one has to have in order to endure the crime and come out on the other side, even if you’re barely breathing. You can call yourself whatever you want, even if it doesn’t fit within the victim/survivor dichotomy, but know that there is no shame in calling yourself a victim and it is never too self-centered to call yourself a survivor, because no matter what, you’re here today, and that’s what’s important. ](/en/story/where-time-stands-still-80) 0 Comment(s) Comment(s) - Report 0 Users 0 Views 0 Reactions 0 Stories read ##### Need to take a break? 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Name the following out loud: 5 – things you can see (you can look within the room and out of the window) 4 – things you can feel (what is in front of you that you can touch?) 3 – things you can hear 2 – things you can smell 1 – thing you like about yourself. Take a deep breath to end. From where you are sitting, look around for things that have a texture or are nice or interesting to look at. Hold an object in your hand and bring your full focus to it. Look at where shadows fall on parts of it or maybe where there are shapes that form within the object. Feel how heavy or light it is in your hand and what the surface texture feels like under your fingers (This can also be done with a pet if you have one). Take a deep breath to end. Ask yourself the following questions and answer them out loud: 1\. Where am I? 2\. What day of the week is today? 3\. What is today’s date? 4\. What is the current month? 5\. What is the current year? 6\. How old am I? 7\. What season is it? Take a deep breath to end. Put your right hand palm down on your left shoulder. Put your left hand palm down on your right shoulder. Choose a sentence that will strengthen you. For example: “I am powerful.” Say the sentence out loud first and pat your right hand on your left shoulder, then your left hand on your right shoulder. Alternate the patting. Do ten pats altogether, five on each side, each time repeating your sentences aloud. Take a deep breath to end. Cross your arms in front of you and draw them towards your chest. With your right hand, hold your left upper arm. With your left hand, hold your right upper arm. Squeeze gently, and pull your arms inwards. Hold the squeeze for a little while, finding the right amount of squeeze for you in this moment. Hold the tension and release. Then squeeze for a little while again and release. Stay like that for a moment. Take a deep breath to end. Try another grounding activity I feel grounded and ready