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From the time I was around nine years old up until I was seventeen, my twin sister coerced me into having oral and penetrative sex multiple times. This continued over many, many years. It started as a game--we played "characters", students at a school that had crushes on each other in the midst of a universe we created playing pretend. The realization that what we were doing was wrong--that she was my sister and that we were really doing this--didn't kick in until I was around fifteen years old. I should've stopped her then, I know that now. The guilt was enough to crush me. I tried to call her off. It worked for several weeks. But we'd been close for so long, and she was my only source of comfort. Without what I thought was an expression of her love, I grew depressed and upset. And when I saw a poem she wrote, describing in detail the love she felt for me in the slant of the "characters" we always played, I thought it was a sign that I had been wrong. I came back to her and the abuse continued from then on. I started to feel guilty again and began trying to find a compromise--ridding myself of the urge to listen to her before the manipulation started, before she came in. I dreaded her nightly visits that had become our routine. As we went on with life, her feelings towards me started to bleed into real life, outside of the fantasy world of our "characters". She'd act weird about me crushing on people at school, dating people at school or online. When I found another poem of hers lamenting about my online boyfriend that she'd discovered reading my diary, not in the voice of the "characters" but in her own voice, I knew it had to end. During an argument we had later when I was seventeen, I asked her how she thought /I/ felt after going back on my promise to stop what we were doing. She smiled in my face and told me, "I think you like it. You're a masochist." The following weekend my mother left to vacation with my grandmother and my sister was moved to my room. I was terrified that it would happen again. One night when she tried I called her out and told her to stop. I thought it wouldn't work...but it did. My relationship with my sister has never been the same. We lack the closeness we once had. As a now adult going into my sophomore year of college, I'm starting to notice depressive behaviors again at my lack in love. Maybe everyone has someone and my someone was her, I keep thinking, over and over. I need proof that I'm not alone, that someone else out there won't hate me for what happened. I need to know there's someone out there who loves me, who fate has picked for me, that isn't her. I'm so, so glad to have a safe space to express my truth.

My best friend invited me to a party at her mums house. Everyone was drinking. I’m bad at drinking. I notoriously can’t hold my alcohol and fall asleep. A drinking game started, so of course everyone picked on me. Predictably, I fell asleep on the sofa. My best friend made me comfortable and covered me in a blanket. I woke up later to find her boyfriend touching me under the blanket between my legs. I froze. Was this real? Was this really happening to me? It was. I’ve never told my best friend. They got married, and then divorced. I don’t know why I’m still keeping his secret.

I could never remember my childhood well, even as a kid. But I started to be hypersexual at 3, and so thats when I believe me and my brother started touching (hes 3 and a half years older). When I was 12 I remembered and told my parents, my mom freaked out and screamed at me. She said it was my fault and that it wasn't too bad if I didn't tell anyone. I fear thats she's right. When I was 14 and in deep psychosis, I felt like there was more to remember. I started to feel my brother's hands over my body and mouth. I remembered us having sex 3 times. The first time when I was 6 and the last when I was 8. One of those times he was hitting me and pinning me. I dont know how real those memories are because I recovered them in psychosis. I started doing really bad cus all I could think about was me and my brother fucking. A couple of months ago I remembered my brother fucking me with his hands around my neck (which was painful). Im so scared that really happened because I see my brother daily and hes my best friend. Im worried ill remember more.

I don't know if what my brother did to me can be classified as sexual abuse. I was staying over at his house. It was late at night, and we were watching a movie. At some point, he asked if he could initiate some cuddling. I actually agreed, since we are really close and both enjoy physical affection. While we were spooning, he snuck his hand under my shirt. He didn't say anything, and I didn't say anything. As the night went on, he alternated between different caresses, kisses on my head or the side of my face, and words of affection. I idly stroked his arm back because I felt awkward just lying there. He eventually asked "is this okay?" in reference to his hand inching up my stomach. I was giving him the benefit of the doubt and still thought the action was platonic, plus it felt nice, plus I am a timid person and have a hard time with confrontation, so my brain thinks saying "no" to people is provoking them, so I said "yes". I didn't really want to say it I, though. I don't think I wanted to say "no", wither. I don't think I wanted to say anything at all. I was tired. We both were. His caresses smoothly progressed to the point he was caressing the underside of my breasts. That's when I started really questioning his intentions. He asked "is this okay?" again. I said "yes" again. When the movie ended, I got scared. I had been using it to distract myself from what was happening, and I was afraid that now that there was no distraction, he would shift his whole attention to me and try to initiate something; so I sat up. He lightly squeezed the underside of my breast as I did so, maybe on purpose, or maybe as a reflex. When he realized I was genuinely pulling away, he took back his hands, said: "I'm sorry. Your brother's a creep", and got up to take a shower. I think that's the moment I started freaking out. It's what confirmed my suspicions that his touches really had sexual intent behind them. I had been trying to gaslight myself into believing they were innocent affection, but those words were forcing me to face the reality of my situation. I remember running my mouth non-stop about random topics when we were having breakfast because I was afraid he was going to bring up what just happened and would want to have a conversation about it. I didn't want to talk about it. I wanted to pretend it never happened. I still try to. But it haunts me. He and his wife (who had been sleeping peacefully in their bedroom through the whole night) left early in the morning for their honeymoon (I was there to house-sit, and had come the night before to hang out with them before they left). Once I was alone, I quietly went to their bed to sleep (with their permission and insistance, since there were no other beds in the apartment). As I tried to fall asleep, I still could feel his hands on me, like a phantom touch. I broke down right there. I felt guilty, and disgusting, for not having stopped it and for having enjoyed it too. I felt like maybe I was the creep, and maybe I was the one turning this interaction into something inappropriate. The following weeks, I tried to suppress my feelings. Some days before Christmas, I was on a plane with my mother, about to start our holiday vacation. I was close to my period and my breasts felt sensitive. That triggered something in me and I suddenly teared up right there, in public. That vague ache reminded me of the feeling of that one squeeze he gave to my breast. My mother noticed me about to cry, but I lied and said that's just because I'm close to my period and feeling gloomy (I had been struggling with depression for a while, which she knew.) During the trip, I would get random flashbacks to that night, sometimes even accompanied with feelings of nausea. I felt like I was making my brain overreact somehow, since I hadn't been raped and I shouldn't be traumatized for touching that can barely even be considered intimate. When we got back home, I did something I'm not sure whether I regret it: I talked to him about it. I sent him a long text (he lives in another city, which actually made me feel safer about confronting him) which I barely remember anything about, except that it mentioned "that night" and how I had been upset by it. I broke down while typing it, and it probably wasn't very coherent. My brother sent me many short replies in quick bursts when he saw it. He apologized profusely. He said "I don't know what's wrong with me", "I'll get psychological help", alongside many things I don't remember. That had me freaking out a bit. What did he need psychological help for? Was he admitting he's got urges he can't control? But I didn't say anything related to that. I was afraid of accusing him, and I made sure to clarify I was also to blame for not setting down any boundaries. We were both replying to each other without thinking. We were panicking, and full of adrenaline. I was scared of losing him. He was the only connection I had in the city we both lived in (very far from our hometown, where our parents and my friends all live). I didn't want to upset him, because he's a very sensitive person and I already felt guilty for how I was reacting to it. We somewhat resolved the issue over text. Except we didn't. At all. I pretended we did, but I was still plagued by doubts and paranoia. More than the touching, what haunted me were his words: "I'm sorry. Your brother's a creep." They shook me to my core. All I had wanted was to be in denial about what happened, but those words wouldn't let me. The story goes on to this day, but I don't want to write too much about the aftermath of "that night", since I'd be writing for too long and I want to focus on whether it was an instance of abuse. At this point, I feel a little more grounded and able to accept that what happened had sexual undertones. I am still full of shame and guilt. I did consent to some of the touching. I'm not certain I wanted to, but it is something I did. That would usually make me think this is a consensual encounter and that I simply regret it now, but there are many factors that also contribute to my belief that this could potentially be an instance of abuse too. First of all, my brother was 38 at the time. I was 20, which yes, is an adult, but still; he is my much older brother. He was already nearly an adult by the time I was born. He's been a figure of authority my whole life, even though he likes to pretend he's not. He's a little clueless when it comes to what's appropriate or not in social contexts, but I do think someone his age should know better than to sneak his hand under his little sister's shirt and go up her body so much his fingers actually brush against her areola. Secondly, I am neurodivergent, though I hadn't told him at the time. However, when I did tell him, he said he already had suspicions. Regardless of that, I've always been quiet and withdrawn, so it upsets that he initiated touching under the guise of innocent affection and then expected me to be able to express my discomfort when it escalated without him specifying it was going to. I don't think his form of seeking consent was productive at all either. He only asked me if two specific touches were okay, and only after starting to do them. He didn't ask for explicit permission for anything but the cuddling at the start. What I want to say is that I was vulnerable. I am young, inexperienced, autistic, and he has always been an emotional support and almost parental figure to me. I don't know how he can be so naive as to think he doesn't have any power over me. Maybe he does know that, but wasn't thinking at the time. I still don't get why he would touch me like that. I find a little solace in thinking that maybe I didn't have any control over it after all. But I don't know. Maybe I did. I am an adult after all. And I do believe he would have stopped if I had told him to. But I definitely never gave any enthusiastic consent. I feel betrayed. I feel lost. I feel angry. I feel sad. I've been avoiding thinking about it for months. Tonight, it all came back to me once more and I broke down again. I truly don't know what to do. I don't want to tell anyone close to me what happened because I am ashamed. I certainly don't want to tell my parents. I kind of want to cut ties with him, but at the same time I don't because I truly believe he is remorseful about it and I don't want to make him sad. I can't help being naive. I don't know if that's comforting, or embarrassing.

Last year I was gang raped. I have an ear ringing called tinnitus that has not stopped since. I have nightmares. I flew with my mom to a wedding overseas. I was excited. She would be busy with her friends and cousin and I would get to spend time with my awesome second cousin who is two years older than me. After the rehearsal dinner we went out. It was fun because I was not legally able to drink there even though the age was lower than in my province, but they did not check ID’s. I did not drink much because it was not my thing and I had a boyfriend but I was able to go to some bars then a club attached to a hotel. So much fun up to when we met two soldiers in uniform who were cute and separated us from her friends because of our looks. My cousin is stunning beautiful. They had a private room at the club and several soldiers were there and two prostitutes also. Those prostitutes definitely hated us being there. I wanted to get out anyway and the cute ones that invited us acted like they understood and took us out of there. We stupidly let them take us to their hotel room where they totally dropped the cute romantic act and made us strip our clothes to music. They showed us a gun they had in a drawer. I was terrified. They made us lay on our stomachs bent over the bed side by side and had sex with us that way. They switched like we were interchangeable before finishing in us with no protection. We held hands. I was crying while my cousin was trying to be strong and cheer me up. We weren’t allowed to leave and our clothes were hidden. Before took our phones we had to text that we were staying at my cousin’s friend’s house. Then they called two other soldiers, one of them a huge tall dark guy with body builder muscles. He was the worst to me. They made us dance and then we had to use our mouths on the cute ones that had lured us there while the other two had sex with us. I vomited and my cousin cleaned it up but then it started again. They had cocaine and made us sniff it off their parts and sniffed it off us. Another one came and I think it was just those five during the night but they kept raping us and making us do things even when we would pass out. I would like to have been more unconscious but cocaine makes you so awake. I want to remember less and think about it all less. We showered many times. The big dark one peed on me and in my mouth the shower. He did it more than once like I was his toilet. The other men even had to tell him to chill out when he was making me scream liking his fingers and pushing them in my arse, but not when he made me crawl around like a dog using my hair as a leash. I remember one of them calling their friends to tell them to turn all their t.v.’s way up to hide the noise in our room. They watched sports news on the t.v. They had me and my cousin kiss each other and stuff. I could not act like it was a fun party like my cousin did sometimes and encouraged me to do. She tried to take some of their attention away from me over and over. I love her for it but they did not leave me alone. My chest is something they were obsessed with. They did not care that I was obviously distressed and freaking out or that in my country I was three years below the age of consent. There I was the minimum. We woke up in the morning on one the beds together with only the two soldiers sleeping on the floor. The black one was gone! They had sex with us again and another man who was much older and who they called SIR came in and had sex with both us but mostly me. They cheered him on and my head was pounding and I was crying and it seemed to last forever. Finally we got our clothes back but they took us for brunch wearing their normal clothes. They showed me pictures on their phones that made it look like I was having fun and warned us how bad it would be if we said anything different than we had a nice party. A nice party in hell! Before that I’d had sex with only my 1 boyfriend ever. One night of hell and now my number was seven!! We had to start getting ready for the wedding right away and I was exhausted. My cousin hid me and I took a nap in my dress, hair and makeup until the last minute. I cried in the ceremony but not for the wedding. I was so sore in my vagina, muscles, and brain that I got so drunk at the reception I barely remember any of it. Just part of being on the plane home. I told my mom the truth when I got back and she got all crazy, so did my dad, and they tried to call over there and the hotel and such but there was nothing the police would do. I saw my dad cry for the first time as I told the whole story. My boyfriend could not handle it and dumped me. I go to group and do therapy. I take a pill everyday and now benzo’s for break through anxiety. I try to hide my large chest under baggy clothes where before I used it for attention. STUPID! My cousin does not seem to have the trauma I do or the nightmares. In her country they are done with secondary school up to two years before us and are more treated like adults sooner. I said mean things to her once because of it. She forgave me but we talk much less since I asked if she has gang bangs all the time. I felt terrible because she even let them have anal sex with her to lure them away from me. I could tell it hurt her so much but at the time was just thinking about my own survival. My childhood is OVER but I do not feel like an adult. Her advice is -Don’t let it get you so down-. Like I have a choice in this!! She went to a therapist ONCE because her mom made the appointment and does not plan to go back. Her life did not really change!! She works reception at a tech company and models on the side and still goes to parties and clubs and dates. How??? It is unbelievable how attitudes toward something like this can be so different in different countries. I am a victim now and I usually feel like it. Definitely damaged. Everybody at my school knows why. I am THAT girl. My new more mature boyfriend is understanding but I feel like a sad little burden to him. I am hypersexual sometimes now and can’t help it. It is a coping mechanism that happens to some victims of sexual assault. I did not ask for it. I worry my boyfriend can’t trust me because of it. I had an older guy friend who’s been my neighbor for years take advantage of me after I told him the story of what happened at his house. We had sex and then he felt guilty for being turned on by my rape story. He admitted it and asked me to forgive him. The sex helped me calm the ear ringing for just short time periods so I did it with him more than once a day for a bit until my dad started to suspect something and talked to him. Since then I don’t trust myself. I want to marry my boyfriend in large part just to protect myself and show him I love him and am loyal even though I am not sure I can be. I worry I cannot love like a normal person. I worry I push him away being too needy and wanting to marry him so soon. I need him more than he needs me. Is that the way it will always be in relationships for rape victims??? I work hard at school not to ruin my future. It is so hard to focus. My ears ring constantly. Thank you for listening.

I was used by my brother who has grown up a lot but I still carry scars. My brother is four years older than me and when I was going from elementary school to Junior high, that summer, he made me think that girls in junior high need to know how to give oral to boys. First he did oral to me to show me it was not a big deal. I thought it was a huge deal. But I did it and he got me trained and had me keep it a secret, except from by best friend. He had his friend over when I had a sleepover one night and had her do it to his friend. Then they would have us do contests where they wear blindfolds. At least I was not alone then. It changed me even though seventh grade itself had nothing to do with anything like that. It was a lie to get pleasure from me. My brother still had me doing it at home. And sometimes he would do it to me and I did climax. So I had this weird secret sex life and felt really messed up about it. Then in eight grade I had my first real boyfriend. My parents are so strict, even though they both worked and left me alone with my brother. To go to the movies with my boyfriend they made sure it was with a group and took me there and waited outside the theater. Well one time when we went to see Snow White and the Huntsman my same BFF and me went through with our plan to go down on our guys in the last row of the theater and we did it. It was only a month later I started having sex with him which never would have happened if not for what my brother had done. We snuck out from her place during a sleepover and met the boys outside and went to the nearby park and did it in the grass. That was my virginity. The really bad event, where my life got knocked off the tracks, is when we tried it from my house, sneaking out the window and going just out farther into my big back yard that opened into nothing but the side of a big hill and my dad caught us. It was awful. The world ended. I was treated like a huge betrayer and almost all my privileges were revoked and essentially I was grounded without any end date. And still by brother would make me do the oral. I was broken hearted because I was not allowed to have my boyfriend to the point my parents made me go to the school and talk to the principal and vice principal and they made sure I would not have any chance to ever see him alone. And my brother kept creeping in at night sometimes or when we were left alone expecting me to do what he had trained me to be used to. The next really bad part was two months into my new restricted life. My brother started doing his oral on me one afternoon after school and decided to take it farther and got up and started kissing me and had sex with me. I was in the moment and did not do anything to stop him and even participated. No condom. It was an afternoon when my parents were away and so we did not have to keep quiet or worry and he did it so much longer than my few times with my boyfriend, because he was older and knew more from being with other girls that I got sore for my first time and got a urine infection. I did not eat my dinner that night and pretended to be sick and cried myself to sleep. My brother really wanted to do it again, telling me it was the best sex he ever had, but I refused and one thing I could say for him back then was at least he was not a rapist. Even though he pressured me he never tried to force himself inside me. Four months after I had lost my incest virginity the school year ended and he graduated. I went to high school and he moved out to live in college dorms 120 miles from our home town. Public school was over for me, as was planned as soon as my dad caught me on the hill. I went to an all girl’s Catholic high school. My dad had to drive me a half hour every morning and my mom picked me up from my whole first year. Then they got me a car so I could drive myself but the mileage and my times were closely monitored. I did not have an intercourse throughout high school but seven times total I did oral on my brother during summer and winter breaks when we were both at home. That was the end of incest in my life. I went to college in Atlanta but not the same one as my brother. I rebelled against my parents and even though they tried to keep control, as a legal adult I did not let them. Turmoil and sadness lasted months until they finally got it. I separated from them financial and worked and took out student loans. I was very promiscuous in college. I drank, partied and used drugs recreationally and had several guys I was seeing on and off for mostly sex. That was my life and I thought I enjoyed it at the time. I became stronger and more assertive and when my brother first hinted during a Thanksgiving meeting at our relative’s house that we go for a drive I told him I never wanted to touch him again in such a powerful way that he knew I was off limits and even seemed like the scared one in our relationship. I didn’t enroll in classes for two nonconsecutive semester just because my party life was so much more fun. I traveled on and off. Sometimes with friends, sometimes with men, usually older, who invited me to exotic places. The Maldives, Portugal, The Virgin Islands. I let my married boss use me for a weekend in Key West. I had an affair with my Spanish teacher, who only took me as far as Panama City, Florida. So many risky one night stands. My identity was that I was not looking for anything permanent, a child of the universe. While I was used as a plaything so many times and believed I liked the game. I would tell them things about wanting to make their dick happy and stuff that would inflate their ego. I’m sure there are so many text messages out there that they saved about the size of their D fitting in my little P, about being a little girl wanting them to teach me to be woman and other depraved fantasies I thought they wanted to hear. Obviously directly related to what my brother did to me. I am almost positive I avoided being raped more than once by going with the flow when I did not expect to or probably want to. It may be good that some of them I probably don’t remember. Once was at one of the few fraternity parties I ever went to. It was three guys, not my usual style. Once was with my roommate's father who was visiting her at our rented house and found his way to my bed in the early morning. One of the more extreme traumatic events was with a police officer who pulled me over for driving when I had been drinking but was under the legal limit on his breathalyzer. He followed me home, like a mile away, “for my safety” and even followed me inside. I was in an apartment then and I thought my roomate was home and told him so. But when she wasn’t there he said I lied to a police officer and he had to do a more thorough search if I wanted to avoid being arrested. He was not attractive or nice. He had a gun thought he never took it out. You can guess what happened. I finally shed that wild life during my second to last semester when I saw the end of college coming. My G.P.A was 3.3. and my major was philosophy and it dawned on me that the future was not bright in terms of what I would do or how I would pay back my loans. I buckled down and decided to change. I had an offer to strip and ‘make a lot of money’ but thankfully not only did never considered myself like that, but when I went with a friend for her interview and they tried to recruit me they were so sleazy we both ran out of there disgusted. I reevaluated my whole life. I considered ending it, but some survival mechanism did not allow it. I did not want to be the person I had been for a few years. I looked ahead and saw it was not sustainable as I aged and had no real love or stability. I quit serving when I got an offer to work in a legal office. I slept with the manager who hired me as a receptionist but it was a drop in the bucket of things to be shameful of. He was the last one like that. I got all A’s and graduated cum laude. I got promoted in the firm mostly by title but used it to spring away and take a lower paying job in a nonprofit law firm where I had not slept with anyone. There I did sleep with a lawyer but I am married to him still and my life is back together. I love him and he loves me. He does not know the extent of my sluttiness in college or about my brother and I doubt he ever will. That darkness is fading and it is not part of my life now. It is not who I am. As for my brother, he has a family now and we are on good terms. We did talk about it once while I was studying like crazy my senior year, although it was not a big deep talk. I did mention that he used me, he apologized, we hugged, and that was it. Not the cathartic confrontation some might expect. My catharsis is my husband, and my life now that I am grateful for. We adopted two toddler brothers and I am their mom. Maybe we’ll have one of our own. Maybe we’ll adopt again. I was used and introduced to sex too young and early and it strained my relationship with my parents for a long time and I’ll never get that back. It derailed my life. I was set adrift for a while but God or the universe or random luck finally put me in a good place. Everything that happened led me what I have now. I can’t say I never contemplated suicide in darker times. But like in the move Cast Away, if I may quote, “I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am.” Thousands of hours spent studying philosophy and I quote a movie that was not even based on a book. But it’s perfect.

Just words. You have trouble talking about these things. You realize you have trouble talking about a lot of things. You remember being excited about your first job at Company Name. One of your friends works there and you know a lot of people work there as a summer job. It’s the 1990’s and it’s been grandfathered in that they can pay you less than minimum wage because it’s like a part time training experience for students getting their first work experience. Like a newspaper route. Those are for boys. You got so excited after being nervous you asked for an application along with your friend. You don’t remember meeting him then. So many people want to get chosen for that crap job because for some reason it’s become a sought after thing among the cool kids. You do remember the phone call that you can come for an interview. Walking home you wonder if being cute and having larger breasts than most almost freshman girls had something to do with it. You met Name and remember him for sure this time. The way you look has been a curse far more than a blessing. One reason people would not feel that bad for you. 'God sure blessed you, honey." You have so many bad memories, blocked memories, repressed memories because of Name. You are having second thoughts as tears build up. You need a drink. You quit drinking years ago and today you have three months and eight days sober. Your record is nine months and two days. You are strong. Most of the time. You are hollow. All the time. Name wasn’t the last but he was the first. You change his name although you don’t want to. He is the symbol of your hatred of all that is wrong with men. You were tricked. Name got what he wanted from you. Too many times. Too many times before you stopped going back. Just stopped. You could have just stopped after the first time he held you close and caressed you before your mom picked you up that night. The first time. You still don’t understand or forgive yourself for that. You had let a boy at a party and a boy at an 8th grade dance put their hand up your shirt. You had liked it so much those times. It had been exciting and happy. Name did not make you happy. You went back. You want to talk about something else now. Not the other men who thought your body was their plaything. Not the time you went to Ireland with your Aunts and mom. You miss mom. That was a good trip. You got back to that a lot. You sat down to talk about things you don’t talk about. On a family trip to Adventureland you asked your cousin if was considered losing your virginity of a boy did it to your boobs. You pretended it was a cute boy, not Name. It was hard to breathe with him sitting on your torso thrusting. You sometimes break things and scream. Never when your son is around. You have two jobs and don’t really like the one that pays the most. Your college degree does not count much. How much life is wasted on despair and doubt and taking the wrong path? You feel relief when he finally finished. You hate when he finishes because you know he is stealing his ultimate pleasure from you when he has a wife. He acts like it was just another day at work to keep you on his leash. You are pathetic. His remnants are inside you every time you go home after closing with him. Just another miserable day in the life. You say nothing. You tell no one. You are worthless except as a vessel for him. Your parents say nice things to you, about you. They always have. They have to. They don’t know what you really are. A black shame is the times you felt pleasure in your body while he was doing it do you. At least while you remained quiet and motionless there was some dignity. Defiance. Insult to him. When your body and voice reacted like you liked it it was a betrayal. Like you liked that tub of disgusting man on top of you and inside of you, fucking you on that tile floor, kissing you like a lover. You befriended a group of guys by mid high school. Over a year after Name was more than thorn in your soul. A deep callous. The group figured out what you were. They played football. They were important and had strong will. They shared you and passed you around. They told you they loved you. That you were the coolest girl. They took what they wanted when they wanted. Why? Name 2 was you lab partner for biology. He was the first. He was the only one your age. You went in his car for lunch and met some others. They wanted you. You volunteered. It is all you are good for. Draining them of their juice so they can be happy and feel like men. So you can feel empty and dirty. Even after they graduated they got together for group fun, or had you sneak out at night to go for a ride. You headed far west after you graduated. A fresh start. An exodus. An escape. You went to one reunion. The ten year reunion. Name 2 came with his wife. He introduced you as his ex-girlfriend. You let hm take you to the disabled restroom and have his quickie. You went to the bars afterward and ditched your real friend and let Name 3 take you back to his hotel room to live his fantasies just because he claimed that he always loved you. They say attractive people have sex more frequently with more partners than normal people. The darkness behind that statement is that for females it is no always because they want it that way but because of the relentless pressure from men and how they will do anything if they get the opportunity. You are not a nice innocent girl. Would you have been if it had not been for Name like you want to think? Would you have let your much older cousin you barely know take you back into the woods with him behind their house to the shack where he smokes pot after a wedding. Then wait there for him to call his friends after he found out you were a bad girl and wait for them too. Swatting flies in your underwear while you waited for them. You did not drink because your mom did not allow it even though kids younger than you were. But your cousin and his local friends did. Four of them counting your cousin old enough to be your uncle. Still, you acted like you liked everything they did. They took it so far like you were the world's greatest toy. Porn star, they called you like it was the best thing you could be. The anal was excruciating. It was easier to just wash off all your makeup than to try to fix it after all the sweat and sticky. Smiles and complements followed by the deep hollow feeling of total isolation in the station wagon on the way back home from Kansas city. Hating Name and feeling like you betrayed your aunt because one of them was her fiancé. You got an infection and it was embarrassing when the doctor told you. At least it was a female doctor. The idea of a male gynecologist is unnerving. The one time you were examined by one was terrifying. You were in college. He was way too thorough and talkative like he was working up to asking you out on a date and you decided never again. The only one you ever had that did not wear gloves for the breast exam. The most sensual digital vaginal exam you ever had to check the cervix and ovaries for pain. Was his thumb supposed to be brushing your clitoris? You even wonder if he was recording it on his phone that you saw him adjust twice as it was peaking out of the breast pocket of his lab coat. His stupid November mustache he asked you if you liked. So some days you don’t eat. You exercise to maintain the body they want. It gives you value to them. You are nothing. People always say nice things. Hollow things. What if you had never met Name? What if you never got fucked on the floor for $3.45 an hour. On your back, on your hands and knees, sometimes even on top of him. Your first orgasm on that floor that smelled like stale milk and bleach. Having to tell your mom pick you up 45 minutes after the place closes for your cleaning duties. You used tampons just to keep from his semen leaking out on the way home. You pretended to be a virgin when you were far from it. He told you not to worry because he had a vasectomy. That part must have been true. You don't got on dates even though they always try to set you up. Not a chance. Your son is a good excuse. And a real reason. Real love. The Earth spins in space. Why can’t it just freeze and die like me? Your boss doesn’t go all the way with you because he won’t cheat on his wife. You give him oral because he doesn’t think that counts. Preserves his purity. He says he wants to so badly, like he can take whatever he wants from you but he is strong and valiant. You are nothing. He is handsome. You let him kiss you and fondle you. You long for his touch. He is not a great man but you long for him. The closest thing to a good man you have known. A father figure. Your son needs a father figure. He is everything. He deserves better. He loves you. He tells you are a good mom and that is worth enduring the world for as long as it takes. You put on a good face but he knows you are hollow, deep down. A wounded duck pretending to be a swan. Always pretending. Was there no pretending before Name? Maybe not. The days begin and your mind pretends and it is hard and the days end. Bad dreams on both ends. Will he be a good man? The funny thing is you want him to be a prince because he is your prince but even if he is like most men you want his total happiness. You want beautiful girls, good times, and strong friends for him. You exist to fake it and to have let those men enjoy you but mostly to give your son the best life possible beyond you. You are not worthless. It is not your fault. You are stronger than you know. Hollow words. They have to say it. They always have. No creativity. No insight. No truth. Just words.

As an only child, I had no one to look up to really as a kid. But I always looked up to my Dad. Even though he was never really around due to work (although Mam worked more than he did and still found lots of time to spend with me), I still idolised him. He was my hero. He would always say 'Dads know everything - remember that', so lying to my dad (even little white lies) were pointless. Though when I hit 13 I began to realise he actually DID know everything. He knew what myself and my friends would talk about, he would know exactly where I was and who I was with without even needing to ask me, and I would always wonder why. In reality he had my phone tracked and could read all my messages. Now that I have been through the court system and he has been imprisoned for the abuse he inflicted upon me, I can confirm that he was in fact grooming me from the age of 13. About a month after my 18th Birthday, began the horrific 7.5 year abuse that I suffered. My Dad, masked for the first 2 years as a stranger, blackmailed me into performing sexual acts with strange men in our home - the one place I should've felt safe. When I finally realised it was him, I couldn't tell you how it then turned into just open ended abuse and rape from him. He would advertise us as a couple on hook up sites and in order to avoid physical beatings I would go along with it. I feared for my life so much that endless rapes and sexual assaults were easier - imagine that being the easiest choice - until you're in it, you just don't know how you'll react. I stopped going out, I gave up my hobbies, whilst in college I gave up my part time job - he controlled every single part of my life. And if I even let my "everything is rosey' mask slip even for a second, especially in front of my Mam, well it just doesn't bear thinking about. Fortunately for me, once Mam did find out, he was gone out of my life within 30 mins. Unfortunately, he went on to groom and abuse others after that. He was convicted, and is currently serving his prison sentence - but the fear of him stilll remains.

I don't even know if this is sexual abuse/cocsa honestly. My cousin was 9/10 i was 8. All I know is he started touching me and I wasn't allowed to tell anyone. I don't know if this counts as cocsa and I don't want to take away from people who were sexually abused.

You Are Not Alone You are not alone. So many of us had so much taken from us by people who put pleasing their basal urges over our sanity. For their moments of bliss and dominance we suffer. We blame ourselves for their sickness. THEIR pathology. There is an army of us. That is what these stories teach us. They show us we are legion. We are strong. Our psychological reactions of fear, mistrust, hatred are not crazy. They are normal. It is also normal, but not easy, to climb out the darkness together. I grew up in a large low income black of flats that was like a village. My mum worked and we went about by ourselves. In the winter we were never expected to be seen if we left. We were in some flat mucking about with some kids or neighbor, and it all worked out fine. I did lose my virginity when I was eleven to a friend of my older brother who was in year ten. But that was no bother because it was not uncommon there, sadly. I am half Brazilian on my absent father’s side and was considered quite exotic and fit. My secondary sexual characteristics developed early. I was reasonably careful and in control. True abuse began years later when we moved out to a proper house with HIM. HE was my mom’s dream man. HE was fit for a middle-aged man. By that time my brother wasn’t with us because he took work in Alaska on a fishing boat. HE was ex-Army and seemed like a good man at first. I was a bit of trouble maker and over-cheeky and my mom gave HIM carte blanche to discipline me like father. We weren’t there the length of a full season when HE started treating me like a tart. The spanking part mom knew about and thought it was funny, even with me being fifteen. HE spanked my bare bum even when she was home. She said I’d always needed a man’s hand to block of my rough edges. It was cringe, humiliating, but nothing compared to what HE did when mum was away. Not to get detailed, HE soon got to a point where I was going to get HIS load whenever there was the chance. Since HE got to set my schedule he made sure there were regular chances. It was my HELL and HE was the Prince of Darkness. He was rough but careful not to leave any marks. Unless time was short I had to shower first. Sometimes after there would be something specific sitting out to wear, like a costume or lingerie, or my netball kit. The grating anticipation of what was going to follow was the real torture. HE would tell me to “Pick a hole”. My holes! My foof was one, my mouth was two, and you’d think I would never select three. But you’d be wrong. I hated HIM. I am very sensitive sexually and if I went with one I looked like I loved it and if I chose two I was doing work to please HIM. Three was the way I could shut down and brace myself without him ever seeing me smile, even if I was facing toward him. When I was strong with hatred I would choose three. I compartmentalized that small but brutal part of my life for my mum. If was a mere thirty to one hundred twenty minutes per a week of 10080 minutes. And I saw no other way then. Mum, for the first time was living a happy life. I could have won a BAFTA for how I seemed so cozy and content for her. It gutted me that my fear of upsetting HIM made it appear that HE had smoothed out my rough edges and made me into a proper lady. I kept my marks up and stayed on the netball team in spite of being the shortest. I kept going. I developed a habit of stabbing mechanical pencil tips into my skin and biting my nailbeds to illicit pain. I had one boyfriend for a short time. I went to the dances. Home was my hell so I did everything HE would allow to be anywhere else. I could not work but he made my mum keep her job so he could have me. My birthdays I would get my way of having a just girls’ night out with mum. There were only two birthdays before I got free of him. College cost 1000 pounds and when HE paid it HE did not know I was not going to be his tart anymore. I had a friend with a home much closer to my school. They had spare bedroom because an older sibling had moved out. Being seventeen, HE couldn’t force me to live with them if I had other safe accommodations. I took employment and paid the meager rent. He got me one more time when I was sleeping back at his house on Christmas eve. Probably drugged mum to keep her sleeping. I made sure he never got a chance again. Through my Portuguese class I met a man who lived in Portugal and invited me to come stay with him as long as I wanted rent free. I finished one year of sixth form and went to Portugal. I had fleeting relations with the man I stayed with but he traveled often we both had our own things. I worked at an American-themed restaurant as a server then. I spoke with my mum on the phone most days. She visited once, with HIM. I missed her and tried not to show much of my sorrow about being forced apart from her. Seeing HIM was horrendous, yet I kept it contained inside like a cancer. It helped solidify my decision. I traveled with a friend to Florida and got a job serving in a posh restaurant. I applied for a work VISA and on my second try I got it. I am thirty-eight now. Only three years ago did I confront my demons because I read online stories about other abuse survivors. It opened up a deep wound so I could start to heal. It was and still is hard work and an ongoing process. I confessed to my mum who had split with HIM after years of her own abuse that she also kept hidden. HE had let her go when she started having health problems, showing his true black heart. She lives with my brother and his family. I regret losing years with mum and my brother and being chased away from my home when I was young but it made me stronger. I have never married but I have a loving partner, two dogs and I speak three languages. I am a physical trainer and work near the beach where I go to meditate and body surf. Our journeys and stories are individual but we are in this together. Worldwide. You are not alone in carrying the pain and the shame and the fear and the flashbacks! Even if you are in the dark, start toward a path that looks like others are using to try to climb out. Use the resources, even if just right there on your computer, and build from there. Just start and keep climbing, especially when it seems too hard.

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Remember that every life form happens without chosing where to be. The problem is not inside you, but around you. Life is the time you have in order to understand what is around you. Don't rest comfortably in places where you feel unsuitable to your best self. If you have no choice, this is not about you. This is about things you couldn't decide before being born. I wish you better luck and exposure to good things you find suitable to your best self.

After the election, the very end will have the political ask - feel free to cut that if you want to share. Thanks so much for reading my story. Link

"The lady bug and her spots " Hello guys its me again ! :D I am the magic behind " To become A dandelion " (go check it out ! ) I would like to introduce you to a special short I wrote dedicated to my loving boyfriend, boyfriend initials. my father father initials my mother mother initials and my very best friends multiple friends initials (I wont be releasing any names due to safety of others.!) and anyone who has ever struggled, been hurt, abandoned , struggled with mental health problems grew up with a hard back ground felt alone in a cluster of people was neglected , felt unloved or hurt by a parent, domestic violence , sexual violence, rape neglect or anything else that pains a soul. This is for YOU. This is how WE GET OUR SPOTS ,. Did you know a lady bug only lives for ONE YEAR?. That's only 365 days. Now you tell me , if that lady bug knew that she or he only had ONE YEAR to live,. do you think the lady bug would curl up in a leaf ? comforted by its Veridian arms with last nights dew drops laying cuddled up from the night before ?. Do you think the lady bug would see the leaf of its past life begging it to stay close for it wishes to be safe?. Absolutely not. That lady bug is going to do anything in its efforts to SURVIVE and that's exactly what all of you have been doing, I myself included, we have given ourselves a limited amount of time and haven't realized we have our WHOLE lives to heal, and its okay if youre only on day, one.. However just like a lady bug you kept going. Regardless of the weather, you kept going now look at all of you. You literally glow,. Your wings have finally came in and its time for you to soar. You see thats what its all about, some say we earn our stripes with ever lick, every unkind word , every heartbreak, lost job or struggle with ones self,. But really its not about remembering the bad, a memory is only a thought we keep alive,. No this is about feeling the good bad and ugly and still seeing the sunshine,. Its sitting next to your bestfriend of 20 something odd years and remembering how much trouble you caused,. Its forgiveness of others after you have burned to many bridges,.. Yet they still hand you a cup of water because they love you. Its the work meetings that melt your heart because together your family is not always bonded by blood its created by so many different qualities all by others with just as many licks and just as many or maybe even more or less spots then us. But regardless we are here we are ALIVE and we have our whole lives to gain those spots. I will start with mine today,. Its not about how many spots you've got on your back,. Its about when you finally realize you're a lady bug.. just fly already,, Its time to live guys, . ITS MY TURN. ITS YOUR TURN. So please, . Go fly. Thankyou for all who have read,. and continue to support my writing,'. remember to become a dandelion you must first remember a weed is only a flower if you look at it that way,. And a lady bug is only a insect if you look at it that way,. But in a world full of roses,. Don't be afraid to stand out such as the dandelion and never be afraid to show your spots,. You never know what flowers you may attract,. <3 -sincerely yours truly author initials

I don't know how in detail I can go here because I do not want to pursue legal action for anything. I truly do not know how bad everything was and how much is gaps in my memory, I only know that he hurt my dog in front of me and yelled at me and cursed at me and called me things at such a young age that I couldn't understand. I was a defiant child and I learned to be sexually exploratory at a very young age due to not understanding what was happening. I just knew I was forced to hug others without clothes on and that I was pinned down upon occasion for money incentives when I was really young and that I was touched by someone for something necessary and medial but that the wrong person did it to me and got carried away and made it about more than the medicine. I learned to be okay with it in my relationships as well and my first one was very weird, I was forced to act ways I did not want to and forced to go on dates or else the person would threaten to hurt themselves. I am in a healthy relationship now though. I don't really know how to describe what has happened to me because I don't think I have been raped per se but I feel like I have been taken advantage of my whole life.

I am still in the mid for 2 1/2 year battle in the courts and so I want to remain anonymous through this, but also help myself and others because we all deserve to be heard. I hear you I Hear You For a long time, I thought domestic violence had to look a certain way. I thought there had to be bruises. There had to be blood. There had to be scars that someone else could see. Because that is what we were told. He didn’t beat you with a pipe. It wasn’t that bad. You’re making a bigger deal out of it than it really was. Everybody has marital problems. But I know something now that I didn’t know then. Domestic violence is not defined by the size of the bruise. Sometimes there are no marks. Sometimes there is a pattern: A pattern of intimidation. A pattern of fear. A pattern of screaming and humiliation. A pattern of threats. A pattern of pushing and grabbing. A pattern of destroying things. A pattern of control. A pattern of provoking someone until they finally react—and then using that reaction as proof that they are the problem. And sometimes, there is physical violence too. But the absence of a visible injury does not make what happened less real. Domestic violence can change the entire atmosphere of a home. You learn to listen for the front door. You learn to read facial expressions. You learn the difference between a normal sigh and an angry one. You learn which words are safe and which ones aren’t. You learn what subjects to avoid. You learn how to answer. You learn when to be quiet. You learn how to keep the children quiet. You learn how to keep the peace. You learn to wait. Always waiting for the next shoe to drop. When that becomes your normal, you don’t always recognize that you are living in survival. You just think you’re trying to have a good marriage. Because that is what you wanted. You wanted a good marriage. You wanted a safe home. You wanted happy children. You wanted a close family. You wanted your children to grow up knowing what love looked like. You wanted the family you believed God had given you. And that is part of what makes this so difficult to understand from the outside. The victim often isn’t trying to destroy the family. She is trying desperately to save it. That desire to preserve the family can keep her in survival for years. It can also make the truth harder for others to see. When the Abuser Controls the Story Sometimes the abuser has been telling the story for years before the victim ever finds the courage to tell hers. The abuser doesn’t have to lock her in a room to isolate her. Sometimes they isolate her by controlling the narrative. They tell family members she’s unstable. They tell friends she’s controlling. They tell people she’s difficult. They say the children are disrespectful. They say the wife is turning the children against them. They say, “You don’t know what I have to deal with.” They tell everyone how unreasonable she is. Slowly, people begin to see the victim through the picture the abuser has painted. So when the victim finally speaks, people aren’t hearing her story for the first time. They’re hearing it after someone else has already explained who she supposedly is. That makes being believed even harder. Her tears become proof that she’s unstable. Her anger becomes proof that she’s controlling. Her children’s reactions become proof that she’s turned them against their father. Her attempts to protect the children become proof that she’s keeping them from him. Her frustration becomes proof that she’s difficult. And the abuser can stand back and say: “See?” “See how they are?” “See how crazy she is?” “See how disrespectful the kids are?” “See what I have to deal with?” But what people don’t always see is what happened before that moment. They don’t see the pushing and pushing and pushing. They don’t see the intimidation. They don’t see the hours of screaming. They don’t see the threats. They don’t see the humiliation. They don’t see the destruction. They don’t see the name-calling. They don’t see the financial control and manipulation. They don’t see the fear. They don’t see the gaslighting. They don’t see the years of walking on eggshells. They see the reaction. And sometimes the victim’s reaction is the only thing they remember. But a reaction is not the beginning of the story. And it is not the whole story. The Person Everyone Thinks They Know There is another reason this can be so difficult for people to understand. The abuser can be charming. He can be the guy everyone says would give you the shirt off his back. He can be silly. Funny. Generous. Helpful. Loving with his family. Sometimes he really can be that person, even when no one else is around. And that is where the victim finds hope again. Because she remembers that person too. She sees the good moments. She remembers the laughter. She remembers the tenderness. She sees the version of him that she hoped was the real him. So she tells herself maybe that is who he really is. Maybe things will stay good. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe if she does better, communicates better, mothers better, keeps the house better, says the right things, or stops upsetting him, the good version will stay. That hope can keep a woman trying long after she has been hurt. And when other people only see the charming version, they may have a hard time believing the woman describing what happens behind closed doors. But sometimes the manipulation happens in a way that is even harder to recognize. When we would go away on trips together, just the two of us, he would sometimes use that time to convince me that our problems weren’t really between us. He would say things like: “See how good we are when your child isn’t around?” “See? They’re the problem.” Or he would talk about one of my friends. “See how good we are when you’re not hanging out with that person?” These were the friends he felt intimidated by. The ones who would speak truth to me. The ones he did not have fooled. And because I was away with him, away from my child, away from those friends, and things could feel good, I would believe him. I would think, Maybe he’s right. Maybe my child really is the problem. Maybe that friend really is influencing me. Maybe we really are better when they aren’t around. That is what manipulation can do. It can make you question the very people who are trying to help you see what you cannot see yet. And that is why those trips could be so confusing. Because for a moment, things really could feel good. And then I would come home and my children would tell me what had happened while I was gone. For years, I didn’t know how to reconcile those two realities. The reality I experienced when I was alone with him and the reality my children experienced when I wasn’t there. Eventually, I had to understand that both experiences were real. Because charm does not erase a pattern. Funny does not erase fear. Generosity does not erase intimidation. Tender moments do not erase violence. And the person who can make everyone else laugh can still be the person whose family is afraid of what will happen when the door closes. The reality inside the home can be very different from the picture everyone else sees. Because my child should never have been hiding in the backyard. They should never have been hiding because they were afraid of what would happen when their father came after them with a large wooden spoon. There should never have been holes in the walls. There should never have been a fist in my face while I was being screamed at and yelled at. I should never have been prevented from using a phone when I was trying to call for help. My children should never have been physically thrown around. Items should never have been thrown and broken. There should never have been marks. There should never have been closed-door conversations where I was belittled, told what an awful mother I was, and given instructions about how I needed to correct my children, what I was doing wrong, and what I needed to expect from them. But those things happened. And sometimes the manipulation looked like something else entirely. He would tell me what I needed to do as a mother. He would tell me how I needed to correct the children. He would convince me that he knew better. And I was afraid of him. So I listened. I went out and did what he told me to do while he sat there playing the hero. And I became the bad guy to my own children. I carried out the correction because I was afraid not to. I believed that maybe he was right. That maybe I needed to keep him happy. That maybe he knew better. That maybe if I just did what he said, the anger would stop. That is one of the most painful things for a mother to look back on. Because she can see what her children saw. They saw Mom delivering the correction. They didn’t necessarily see the fear behind it. They didn’t know what had happened behind the closed door. They didn’t know that Mom was sometimes making decisions from a place of survival. And that is how abuse can distort an entire family. The person causing the fear can sometimes look like the hero. And the person trying to manage that fear can end up looking like the problem. When the Veil Begins to Lift But sometimes, something begins to change. There comes a point when you stop doing what he tells you to do. Not because you suddenly become fearless. Not because you have everything figured out. But because something inside you begins to see what you could not see before. The veil starts to come off. You begin to question the things you have accepted for years. You begin to hear your children differently. You begin to hear yourself differently. For years, my children would call me at work and tell me something was wrong. And I would tell them: “Just respect your father.” “What are you guys doing wrong?” I was telling them the same things that had been told to me. I was repeating the very words that had kept me doubting myself. And sometimes, while one of my children was telling me what was happening, he would call on the other line telling me how disrespectful they were. “Don’t believe them.” “They’re disrespectful.” “You don’t know what they’re doing.” And for years, I believed him. But my children kept trying to tell me. Over and over. “Mom, he is different when you’re not here.” “Please don’t leave us here alone with him.” “You don’t know how he is.” “He has you fooled.” Those words are hard for a mother to hear. Especially when you have spent years believing the person you thought you were supposed to trust. And I had spent years hearing another version of the same story. When we were away together, he would tell me: “See how good we are when your child isn’t around?” “See how good we are when you’re not listening to that friend?” He wanted me to believe that the people around me were the reason we had problems. And because things could feel good when I was alone with him, I believed it. I thought maybe my child really was the problem. Maybe that friend really was the problem. Maybe I was listening to people who were making things worse. But those were the very people who would speak truth to me. The people he felt intimidated by. The people he could not fool. And eventually, I started seeing that. Eventually, I started believing my children. And then something even more important happened. I started believing my own reality. I stopped automatically explaining everything away. I stopped automatically asking what they had done to cause it. I stopped automatically assuming that he must be right. And when I stopped playing the role he had given me, something changed. The control he had held for years began to slip. And the anger intensified. The manipulation intensified. The pressure intensified. It was as though losing control of me was different from simply being angry with me. Because for years, I had been responding the way he wanted me to respond. I was believing what he told me. I was correcting my children the way he told me to. I was questioning myself instead of questioning the behavior. I was trying to keep him happy because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. Then I began to stand up. I began to believe my children. I began to trust what I was seeing. And the person who had controlled the narrative for so long no longer had the same control. What I had once understood as simply him being angry began to look different. I could see the pattern. And sometimes that is when the behavior becomes even more frightening—not necessarily because something new has begun, but because the control that existed for years is no longer working the same way. My children had been trying to tell me for years. They had called me. They had begged me. They had pleaded with me not to leave them home alone with him. They were telling me that the person I knew was not the only person they knew. And eventually, I heard them. Eventually, I believed them. Eventually, I believed myself. And then I began to see that what had happened to me was not something that existed only in my imagination or in my marriage. The same patterns were showing up in what my children were experiencing. The same fear. The same manipulation. The same need to manage his anger. The same feeling that something was wrong, followed by the pressure to believe that they were the problem. That was when the picture became harder to deny. Because my children had been trying to tell me what I could not yet see. And sometimes the people closest to the truth are the ones we have been taught not to believe. The Breaking Point Is Not the Whole Story Sometimes when people finally show up at the door, the victim isn’t calm. She’s crying. She’s angry. She’s shaking. She’s defensive. She’s exhausted. She’s done. Because she has been pushed beyond what she can carry. The abuser may be standing there completely calm, looking like the reasonable one. Then comes: “See?” Suddenly, the victim’s breaking point becomes the evidence against her. But ask what happened before the breaking point. Ask what the pattern looked like. Ask what happened when someone said no. Ask what happened when the children didn’t comply. Ask why the children were afraid. Ask why everyone in the home learned how to keep the peace. Ask why the victim was always trying to prevent the next explosion and be the wife and mother the abuser demanded she be. Don’t judge the entire story by the moment the victim finally couldn’t hold it together anymore. Sometimes the person who looks the least composed when everyone arrives is the person who has been holding everything together for years. That is why the pattern matters more than a single moment. The Hidden Cost of Motherhood There is another part of abuse that mothers carry almost silently: the grief of the motherhood they dreamed about but never got to fully experience. Before your children ever arrived, you imagined their tiny hands, their laughter, protecting them, raising them, and giving them a safe and loving home. You didn’t dream about surviving motherhood. You dreamed about being a mom. But when you are living with abuse, motherhood can become another form of survival. You are watching his moods, measuring your words, protecting your children, trying to keep the peace, and wondering what will happen when he comes home. You are not simply raising children. You are trying to raise them while navigating someone else’s anger. And that can leave a mother looking backward with tremendous guilt. You may think about the moments you wish you had handled differently. You may grieve the childhood you wanted your children to have. You may wonder whether they saw you as the bad one because they couldn’t see what you were carrying. But before you condemn yourself, ask yourself: “What was I surviving?” You can acknowledge the moments you wish had been different without taking responsibility for the abuse. You can grieve what was stolen without believing you failed your children. Because your heart was there from the beginning. You wanted to be their mother. You wanted to protect them. You wanted them to be safe. Your heart was never to destroy your family. Your heart was to have one. You Deserve to Be Heard If you have lived something similar, I want you to hear what I wish I had heard sooner. I hear you. I hear the woman who doesn’t have a perfect timeline. I hear the woman who can’t remember every incident. I hear the woman who stayed. I hear the woman who defended him. I hear the woman who made excuses. I hear the woman who wondered whether she was the problem. I hear the woman whose friends and family may have believed someone else’s version of her. I hear the woman who finally reacted after being pushed too far. I hear the woman who began to question what she had been told. I hear the woman who started believing her children. I hear the woman who finally started believing herself. I hear the mother who feels like years were stolen. I hear the mother who looks back and wishes she could have given her children something different. I hear the woman who is ashamed that she stayed. I hear the woman who is ashamed that she reacted. I hear the woman who wonders whether anyone will believe her now. I hear you. You don’t need a perfect story. You don’t need to remember every date. You don’t need photographs of every incident. You don’t need a visible scar. You don’t have to have called the police the first time. You don’t have to have left the first time. You don’t have to prove that someone else had it worse before you are allowed to acknowledge what happened to you. You don’t have to minimize your pain because someone else doesn’t understand it. You don’t have to accept the identity someone else created for you. And you don’t have to believe that because you had imperfect reactions, the abuse wasn’t real. Your reaction does not erase the pattern. Your anger does not erase the fear. Your mistakes do not justify someone else’s choices. The story someone told about you does not automatically become the truth about you. Sometimes the realization comes slowly. Sometimes you can only see the pattern after you are finally far enough away from it. Sometimes you have to look backward and recognize that what you called “marital problems” was actually a pattern of fear, control, intimidation, and abuse. Sometimes the hardest realization isn’t admitting that someone hurt you. It is realizing how long you were taught to doubt yourself. Where We Are Now And then there is the part nobody always tells you about what comes after. Healing is slow. Sometimes it is two steps forward and one step back. Sometimes it is one step forward and two steps back. There are days when the doubt comes back. The fear. The confusion. The instinct to question yourself. Because when the abuser is finally out of the home, it is easy to instinctively go back to what you knew for years. You may hear his voice in your own thoughts. Did that really happen? It really happened. Was it really that bad? Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I was the problem. And when that happens, you take the next step toward truth. You tell yourself what you know. Yes. It happened. The hitting happened. The pushing happened. The name-calling happened. The screaming in my face happened. The phone calls I received while I was at work happened. The threats of violence happened. The actual violence happened. The broken items happened. The intimidation happened. The financial control happened. The lying and hiding of money happened. The fear was real. The pattern was real. It was all true. And you may have to tell yourself that more than once. Not because you are weak. But because you spent years being taught to question your own reality. So healing may not look like never doubting again. Sometimes healing looks like recognizing the doubt and answering it with truth. I know what happened. I know what I lived. I know what my children experienced. I do not have to rewrite the truth to make someone else’s narrative more comfortable. The story may still be told differently by the person who caused the harm. The narrative may still be manipulated. Other people may still believe a different version. But their version does not change what happened. You do not have to spend the rest of your life arguing with every version of the story. Sometimes you simply stand in the truth you know. And then you take the next step. Then another. And another. Healing is happening. Redemption is happening. Restoration is happening. Little by little. God is restoring what was taken. Not all at once. Not on the timeline you imagined. But piece by piece, He is teaching you that your life is more than what happened to you. The years cannot be rewritten. The things that happened cannot be undone. But what was stolen does not have to be the end of your story. There can be truth after confusion. There can be peace after fear. There can be identity after years of being told who you were. There can be motherhood after survival. There can be life after abuse. And there can be redemption. There can be restoration. So if you are somewhere in this story right now—still questioning, still afraid, still trying to understand, still grieving, or just beginning to see the veil lift—I want you to know: You do not have to figure it all out today. Take the next step toward truth. When the doubt comes, tell yourself what you know. It happened. It was real. The pattern was real. And you are allowed to heal from something that really happened. You are allowed to grieve what was lost. You are allowed to believe your children. You are allowed to believe yourself. You are allowed to rebuild. You are allowed to become more than the woman who survived. You are still here. And little by little, God is restoring what was taken. I hear you. Your story is real. And you matter—not because someone else finally believes you, but because you were always worthy to be heard.

People think moving on means letting go, closing the door, and never looking back. As much as my nervous system would like that, it's not my path. I am staring the monster dead in the eye and doing my best to learn what happened to us in hopes we will heal—mind, body, and spirit. Don't give up, whispers a flickering light on a dead battery, let the thoughts come. Answers will bring closure and protection in the long run, but for now there's cancer inside the ravaged shell. Welcome to your crash course in psychopathy—put your seatbelt on, because it's a brutal ride. We now step into the realization phase. Cognitive dissonance. Watch your step, it's going to hurt like hell as it crushes you from the inside out. Close your eyes, rip off the electrodes, and let's find out who you are. We don't bury memories in this sobering abyss. My ears bleed as my heart listens to everything it knows but doesn't want to understand. It has a name now, a sequence, and a chill to the aftermath. She challenges me, the mother part, she begs me to let her protect me. The sirens are piercing as reality blazes. The merry-go-round of flashbacks is like a non-stop slideshow that fits perfectly into place. Nothing makes sense, yet it's all right there. Everything I thought was, wasn't. I'm dizzy. I always pictured the beginning as a gentle shining thing, but that's not right. God is a woman with sweat on her skin, blood on the floor, and no honest man to be found. So here we are, moving back and forth in the stages of grief, but this is not like normal grief that others know. This is the insidious type—unique to the encounter of a psychopath. It's a spiritual malady, a soul rupture if you will. The poison that's been bestowed upon us is called PTSD, and all its symptoms are vile. This is about what is the same, familiar, and repeated. It's complex to live in a house with a security system that is always scanning for threat. The house was the abuser, the alarm system is you, and once you moved in, the security was broken and replaced with coercive control. The eye of this storm is ugly, nasty, cunning, baffling, and powerful—it lives in your mind, body, and soul. This is with you at the doctor, you see it in the mirror. You hear it alone in bed at night. It haunts the pages in your journal, rolls around your tortured mind, and cries through your voice in the moments you feel like dying. But none of that, not one bit, is as horrifying as watching someone benefit from consuming your daughter's soul and tossing her aside like roadkill. This person is no person at all, but a parasite—self-centered, self-serving, and devouring. She's living this experience right along with you, as it tries to kill her too. I cannot express the brutality of witnessing that the most important thing in my world is the exact thing he infested. That's what evil looks like—the greatest trick the devil ever played, convincing the world he wasn't real. As a mother, this is the blunt force that leaves no visible mark. This is the gentle force into acceptance. Please stop, it says. You cannot make them understand. They must seek it on their own. Only if they do will you be safe to give them pieces of your story. This is the uncomfortable mothership of truths about human beings. Those who don't educate themselves as passengers on this flight will continue to inadvertently trigger survivors with insensitive responses. That won't change unless they do. Where there's no lived experience, there's no understanding; understanding is the necessity for connection—and connection is life. And what a disturbing realization: you've been caught in this endless loop. Crumbs of attention were the only hope you had to cling to. Trapped in desperation, you've been searching for something to make you real, but it doesn't sit right anymore. Survivors don't thrive held in purgatory. The stars look very different today as we step into the unknown. Floating in the most peculiar way, it's time to exit the painful space of bargaining with others. My dream for you is that someday you'll be able to talk about trauma from your core self with clarity, serenity, and certainty. It will glow with the resilience of new limbs you grew from a deadly climb. Those willing to hear will learn from you, but for now, we stop translating while we're drowning and we start sitting still in the muck. When we don't sit with our parts, when we give them away, we cannot fully integrate them; when we cannot fully integrate them, we stay fragmented. We are not the professor, we are the student, and our spirit is in line. I release you from the job of hurting, healing, and helping all at once. This was never a fair assignment. The mental torture you've endured was terrorism. You never had to apologize. You didn't take anything; it was taken from you. "They tried to bury us, but they didn't know we were seeds."

In the wave of the Cornell 7, people forget about small colleges. I have since transitioned and identify as a transman. But at the time I still looked like a woman and didn’t know I was transsexual. In 2018 before I graduated, I met this guy at my small private art college. We had a small library and an editing bay at a different room. I always stayed behind to finish my projects. The library student worker was usually there with me alone since it was late into the night. I went there one night to check out the room. He seemed kind of weird but I didn’t think much of it. I contuined several days doing my work etc, staying late at night. One night he came in to check on me and was really weird. I felt off but had to get my project done. He sat on the floor of the room as I ate the dinner my mom packed. Then after I ate he started to kiss me and I felt weird. I didn’t move or say anything. He told me we would continue this later. I was just shocked and didn’t go home right away as I wished now I had. Later he came back to tell me the library was closed and started to kiss me and hug me which I felt weird again. I lived down the street from the college so after security locked up and the school was closed he offered me a ride home. Told me folks were scary out there. Now thinking back I wasn’t very smart because I accepted the ride. Instead of driving me down the street home, he drove to a nearby park and parked on street then pulled out his 🍆 and told me to do things to it. I was scared and didn’t know what to do so I used my hands. He told me to go to the back seat where this contained till he finished. Then he drove me home. The next few days he didn’t really talk to me and started dateing one of the popular girls. I always felt sorry for her seeing them together. If she knew what he was really like but she mean like Regina from Mean Girls. I didn’t tell the college anything because I didn’t know how this would end up or if people would hate me so I just let it go. So SA happens on small campuses as well even more so since they don’t have any kind of security department or have to follow Title IX laws. Plus they are not well known like Cornell or UCLA and won’t face pressure and public backlash to do things right and protect their students.

High Priest, You are not my superior Nor would I say equal The darkness overtook you? Abdication of responsibility - not good enough "Call to my house" You opened the door to naivety and trust Vulnerability at the worst You - only lust. In this now New Earth With the light streaming in I see your cowardice, your sin You took the phone off the hook Now, two decades later, to be disturbed The light won't let the dirt hide any longer Now I am stronger. I forgive you to set myself free You have played your part I am at peace, in my power and to reiterate, free.

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.