For the longest time I had a regret and blamed myself. I didn't realize until now that I couldn't have done anything differently besides for being more careful of what I drank. I realized it wasn't my fault.
I don’t want to have to tell people and feel their judging eyes stare at me while I talk, and I feel guilty that I wasn’t held at gun point against my will. I feel like I could have stopped it at any time and I didn’t so that makes me just as wrong. I know thats not true I really do and if someone else told me their story and it matched mine word for word I would tell them over and over it wasn't their fault and that should have never happened to you, you have no reason to feel ashamed and I would truly believe it.
I am the third generation of childhood sexual abuse in my family. Three generations of girls who were treated like their purpose was to please men who held power over them. I was the first to tell and be believed.
If this becomes long, sorry! So April/May 2016, thanks to a newspaper article I get back in touch with an old friend. He asks me if I’m happy in the relationship I am currently in with my partner, I admit
I was sixteen and in the best relationship of my entire life. One that even after the rape, I would stay in and stick out no matter the harm we caused. We were very sexual beings after July 13th when
The most important thing I have learned is that sex doesn’t need to be scary or forced or painful or hurtful or upsetting, and those are the only words I could have used to describe it when I was with A. I want other women to know that someone being your boyfriend does not give them a free pass to do whatever they want. It might seem like an obvious thing to lots of people, but I think when you’re in the middle of something like that, it feels very complicated.
For a whole year thereafter, I beat myself up over my stupidity for allowing our relationship to escalate that night in New York. The depression and anxiety from that experience followed me around like a dark shadow. Eventually, I began to realize that I had done nothing wrong. I didn't mislead him; he didn't care about what I was saying or doing. I didn't allow it; I felt threatened having a man nearly twice my body weight on top of me. Most importantly, I never consented.
I have a lot of problems, trust is the biggest one, I am always scared of being hurt again, but I am slowly working my way back to the person I used to be, the one who was stolen and locked away but is slowly reemerging, I will make it.
At that moment in time I didn't even care about what had just happened to me because I was just so focused on trying to help my friend, trying all I could to wake her up but I couldn't move. It was like I was in a room full of people and I was screaming but no one could hear me.
But, Trump's "just kiss. Don't wait" guy talk shit or whatever we want to call it is a REAL problem and a REAL attitude men have. I can draw a direct parallel with my first experience. All through being touched inappropriately in ways I did NOT want, did NOT consent to, and was physically struggling to get away from, I was told over and over "I told you I fancied you, just give me one kiss, just one kiss, come on."
I have been manipulated, lied too and I was lonely. I was expressing my feelings all over social media, hoping they would realise what they have done. Instead he made himself the victum in the situation…and this was only the
I dont like the label 'survivor of domestic abuse'. I dont think that just because i didnt die that i survived at all. Parts of me that once were great are now gone. The person that i was no longer exists. The person i could of been will never exist. They say that you wouldnt be who you are today without the things that happen to you, good or bad. The saddest part of that is that i agree, i just know im not the person i was supposed to be anymore.
I don’t remember it happening. Shit. Now that I’m thinking hard of enough I do. Shit. Now that I’m thinking hard enough. I can remember his body pressed on mine. Stop. Shame. I don’t remember how many times it happened.
My name is Joanne. For five years I have been victim of domestic violence. He tried many times to choke me. He said hurtful things like after him noone would ever want to be with me. But for five years
I remember sitting in the shower, and not being able to cry, I was so in shock over what had happened. It didn’t even occur to me right away what that was. I just wanted to keep showering. I wanted the water to be hot enough that it would wash my skin off, so I could be someone else. I envisioned my skin washing off like paint and running down the drain, I wanted to be someone else. Someone who could never ever be in that position. I wanted to be someone who could remember what happened.
September 1997 “Man, she’s through!” “I can’t get my d*ck in her for sh*t!” “We doing this jungle style!” “I don’t need my d*ck sucked tonight.” “Hold her leg!” Dialogue of the rapists – I was extremely intoxicated with some
I woke up naked, confused, and with a blaring headache. Next to me is this guy, naked as well. I check my phone, it's 5 a.m. I get up and leave. I call a friend, because I'm alone and scared. He said, "you know how you get when you drink. I doubt it was for
Having a “friend” turn into an aggressive monster forcing you to do incredibly intimate things while you beg him not to is terrifying. When I woke up, I noticed the clothes I had been wearing were on the floor and I burst into tears because I knew that I didn’t wake up from a nightmare I could forget, instead I woke up to a horrible reality.
The room is dark and cool, it smells like hot metal and the air is dry.</br>
A lullaby of ominous whispers consumes my subconscious, if I try to eavesdrop they fall silent.</br>
Slivers of lavender light dance on sharp edges of images you don't want in your head.</br>
Images you couldn't, shouldn't, don't imagine.</br>