Shared Stories

I was raped by my housemate/best friend and his friend while they were on cocaine, in my own home

By an Anonymous Contributor

Justice is a word that I have been thinking about a lot since the incident.

In a TED Talk, Ione defines justice as “maintenance of things that are right”.

There are handful things that are right in this world.

Social Media can be a tool to amplify one’s voice, she says.

I don’t have to keep quiet.

It is ok to speak up.

I should not feel ashamed or guilty that,
I was raped by my housemate/best friend and his friend while they were on cocaine, in my own home, co-op in San Francisco.

One Thursday night, I had a guest from out of the country who was interested in learning about community housing, and creating organic communities. As I loved my intentional living community and wanted to share how awesome it was, I gave him the tour of the victorian house and introduced him to my housemates. As the night progressed and more housemates came home, my guest, housemates, their friends and I all ended up hanging out and chatting in the living room. Some people were drinking, there were two guys doing cocaine, me and my guest were sober. It was around 2am, I was extremely exhausted, but since my guest was engaged in conversations, learning about the community, I felt bad and stayed awake. Despite my attempt to stay up, at one point I dosed off, people decided to move the gathering into my housemate’s room, which was closest to the front door and noise didn’t carry over to the rest of the house. My guest ended up crashing on the couch in the living room since it was too late for him to walk back to his hotel. Since I was asleep, or more like half-asleep, I was carried by my guy housemate (later become one of the attackers) to his room with other people. There, three of my housemates, one guy housemate (attacker) on my right and a couple (guy and girl) housemates on my left sat up on the bed. I soon dosed off. (and apparently the couples did too). Then I woke up to someone kissing me, pressing his lips so hard against mine, trying to put his tongue in my month. I soon realized it was not the guy housemate, one of the couples, that I remembered was sitting next to me. Who could this be? What is going on? The moment I realized it was my other housemate’s friend P who was doing cocaine in the living room earlier that night, someone started undressing my pants from behind. It was my guy housemate who was doing cocaine with P earlier that night. I was sandwiched by two large men, both literally twice my size, while still in a hazy, foggy and sleepy state of mind. I was in shock that I could not make any noise. The housemate started to finger me and go down on me, while the other guy P shoved his penis inside my mouth. P screamed, “make me cum” repeatedly. I was in a shock, in a fear, and froze. P grabbed my head/hair and violently moved back and forth all the while his penis was inside my mouth. My housemate pressed my back onto the bed while he seized both of my legs while going down on me. My mouth was filled with his friend’s dick. He eventually came in my mouth. I spit out the cum on the bed sheet. He turned around, snorted more cocaine and then shoved his hand into my mouth. I tasted something very bitter. I figured it was the cocaine. My mouth felt disgusting with the cum, cocaine, and everything. All the while, the housemate was going down on me, fingering me and touching my breast. I felt like I was in a violent porn film that I never wished to be in part of. My housemate’s friend left the room after touching all over my body, leaving me and my housemate. Then my housemate started to undress himself and I felt his penis against my butt then vagina. N….No! I exclaimed, rolled out of the bed. I grabbed my clothes quickly put on my underwear and pants, got out of the room and went up to my room.

**After the incident, I was informed that the couple also fell asleep next to me. As they woke up in the middle of the night around 4am and went up to their room, leaving me behind, they saw the guy P doing cocaine on the couch in the same room.

I am #notguilty nor ashamed for what happened. I own the truth.

7 months later
When feeling like exiled from the community I belonged to, by being literally blocked out of the co-op’s FB community group.

As I try hard to convince myself that it is ok to walk away from bullshit.

As I try to wrap my head around what I have done to deserve this kind of treatment from the community I used to belong to and live in.

As I listen to my close friends that I should not burn bridges with people but at the same time should not be even friends with the people in the community.

As I feel that I am so connected to my professional community that will judge and shame me for what happened.

As I fear that there is a serious mental damage in my brain caused by the incident and aftermath of PTSD.

As I fear that some day I will run into my attackers, who tell their peers that they did nothing wrong.

I remain in solitude, questioining justice and faith.

-The following day after the incident, without knowing what is the right thing to do, I ended up calling the hospital, sexual assault dept. Police escorted me out of the house and drove me to the hospital. Some housemates found out what had happened, and rushed over to the hospital to see me. The word reached to the leader of the community (who happen to be a successful male founder of a large Silicon Valley startup, if that gives more legitimacy to his words), and learned about the incident from the attacker. The leader came home telling everybody “I would have done the same if I were him”.

The attacker moved out of his room and the house right after the incident.

I was in a state of shock, for the first time in my life, I was numb to my own emotions, physically felt a heavy block in my brain which seemed to intercept all my thinking process. In that state, housemates began telling me what they thought was right.

Naturally, I listened as I initially believed that my housemates had the best intention for me.

“How can you report him?”

“time will heal”
“You cannot make any noise when you have a dick inside your mouth?!”

“Why didn’t you make any noise?”

I felt belittled, I felt that I needed to prove to housemates, to highly intelligent individuals, startup founders, highly respected, regarded people I always had been intimidated to. I felt like I was shut down and judged as being over dramatic. There was no place for me to be. I felt crazy for saying that all I wanted was to feel safe. In order to seek safety, I needed to lower my voice in my own home so I don’t offend anyone.

The following Monday after the incident, on my way to the usual family dinner with my housemates, my legs shook so much that I sat on the staircase for a long time (about 10 min) before I could go down to the dining room. While we went around the room do our weekly “checking in,” updating each other on what’s going on in our lives, housemates who sat near me said, “you don’t have to speak if you wanted” when my turn came. Instead, I read a letter addressing my state of condition, confusion and needing of help. My eyes were swollen from uncontrollably crying, for the longest period- every single day, I would say 3 weeks straight.

It seemed like the PTSD would never end.

Now, fast forward 7 months later, I am trying to move on, live a normal quiet life, feeling exiled from the community I once loved. Trying to find a new life and friends in the same city. Repressing the memory, while trying to avoid contacts with people who are connected to the attackers.

I don’t hate, just wish I could still be in the loving environment like nothing had happened. Only to realize and feel a pain in my heart that NO, THEY DID NOT CARE DAMN ABOUT YOU FROM THE BEGINNING. THEY DIDN’T GIVE SHIT ABOUT YOU. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU ONLY BROKE HARMONY IN THE HOUSE. OR AT THE VERY LEAST IT EXPOSED TO THE THREATS AND DANGER TO THE COMMUNITY. THEY DON’T WANT TO ADMIT IT EVEN HAPPENED IN THE HOUSE.

How can we raise awareness that this can happen in any co-op. What I have experienced is not unique. Loving community exists everywhere. But when inconvenient incidents happen, why is it brutally difficult to bring justice to the community? When people care so much about social justice, rally and stand up for good cause, why can’t they even deal with their own housemate being raped?
All of the sudden, they turn away, keep silence, and block the victim out.

How can we make it right? How can we help bring justice rather than suppressing it and putting it behind by ignoring and literally blocking out and silencing the victim?

I WILL NOT CEASE FIGHTING FOR JUSTICE. I OWN THE TRUTH.
#notguilty

Shared Stories

I am 58 now, so I don’t recall how I knew, not to ever tell a soul, but I know that I didn’t ever tell — until now.

By an Anonymous Contributor

At age 8, it was my daily chore to fetch my 5 year old brother from school, at a church, one half block away. Diligently, I’d put down my school things and await my mother’s send-off, when it became time. Indeed, I grew to learn that “time” had arrived for much more than freely frolicking that half block, collecting little wildflowers on the way, daydreaming and imagining — much more than standing in the church yard looking up at the huge, stained glass windows in awe. It became, part of the process to expect to be summoned over by the man under a tree, in a wheelchair whom I came to recognize, who sold gum packets after school to children and their parents and caretakers, who saw it fit to fondle and molest me each day, while I waited for class to let out. It became the norm, a part of what was expected of me, like brushing my teeth and doing my homework, neither of which I understood nor welcomed, the need for. But, I am 58 now, so I don’t recall how I knew, not to ever tell a soul, but I know that I didn’t ever tell — until now.

Shared Stories

I just wanted to be alone. I still want to be alone.

By an Anonymous Contributor

I was 16, and it was a year ago. Though I still I remember it all. I remember dancing with my friends and going out to the car, it was dark and the music was loud. I was only coming out for a second to grab something, but then next thing I was grabbed, so tight I yelped. I was slammed into the car, pushed to the ground. He told me to shut up, told me to stay awake. His nails were ripping into skin, it was like I was covered in warm goo and unable to get away. His knee pushed into me with all his weight. I remember him touching me, laughing, covering my mouth making it nearly impossible to breath, I remember the blood and the pain and the fear. Him forcing himself on me. Me lying there after he ran away, I felt like nothing, sharp pain coming and going from everywhere around me. It felt like it dragged out for ever. One of my friend found me, she was saying my name but all I could feel, all I could remember was his hands on me and the taste of blood. I still see him, around corners and in my dreams. I still feel it. It’s been a year since this happened and no one talks about it, why would they? But I still feel it, I still see it. He’s still free, walking around, enjoying life. They had to sedate me at the hospital because I freaked out when the doctors started touching me. They got my statement and did the kit, but there was no “proof” it was him. The only thing that calmed me down was the nurse who was kind and gentle and treated my like a friend and not a patient. That ended soon. My mom took me out of the hospital the day she could. She was on the fast track to ignoring it and hoping it would go away. My friends started going away, I started making them go away. I just wanted to be alone. I still want to be alone. Being hugged, being “comforted” make me feel physically ill, when guys walk to close, when it’s anywhere near dark. I don’t know how to stop being like this. People don’t want to talk about this, and I think it’s making me crazy. It was such a big thing in my life, it still affects me but I can’t talk about it, it doesn’t always feel real. Thank you for letting me share my story, I hope things will get better. I’m not very certain about the future.

Shared Stories

Will I keep my mouth shut?

By an Anonymous Contributor

People say I am brave. People can’t see the pain in my heart. First time. 2006. I went to study with some guys from my university. I thought they were my friends. Happened, they weren’t. We cheered over one glass of vodka that knocked me out. Next thing I remember was that I was lying in the bed being molested by two of them. I was fighting back with nails and all but was passed out and just stop the fighting and left that place ashamed the following day. Their laughing and all the shame I felt for the following days in campus didn’t help either. Second time. 2007. I visited the doctor because I burnt my face with some dying. He went over my records and stopped by the gynecologist historical. He locked the door and got me naked. Put his finger inside me and I felt something was not right. He had the nerve to ask for my phone number before I left! Third time. 2015. I went to this barbecue. Flirted with this guy and agreed to have sex with him. The condom got stuck inside me and I asked him to stop. I cried. Please no! You’re hurting me…. next day I had to go to the hospital for the bleeding and pain. I never complained with the police about any of these incidents. I felt I allowed this to happen and the shame was enough on me but wanted to keep my family away from this. When is the next time? What will happen then? Will I keep my mouth shut? Who will be the next victim?

Shared Stories

It is more devastating to suppress your pain because of the fear of making it painful for others. Respect the ‘no’, no matter how muted it sounds.

By Rakshita Joshi

Child Sexual Abuse is one of the most heinous crimes against one‟s body and soul. As a child, I never realized that I was being victimized, stigmatized and traumatized and that these incidents would impact the intimacy of my relationships as I grow up. I grew up in horror and my silence, never questioned.

I was six year old, when I was sexually abused by a neighbor for almost three years. As I started resisting, I was sexually harassed by the same person for another six years. Lack of awareness about causes and consequences of abuse is more profound in a country like ours which strengthens the secrecy surrounding the abuse, as it did in my case. For a long time, I held myself responsible for it. I thought that I had an affair. In my adolescence, I received immense attention from the opposite gender across all ages. I craved for it, yet despised it. I was ashamed of myself. There were repeated incidents of sexual abuse by few others, unstable relationships with family and friends, especially with my parents. I had a distorted opinion about love, relationships and intimacy. Often, I felt suicidal. It is bewildering to acknowledge that I was vulnerable to substance abuse, addiction to pornography and promiscuity. The entire cycle of shame and guilt, rage and confusion and ambivalence made me self-destructive. I was extremely vulnerable and that resulted in another sexual assault. I was raped when I was sixteen. In an event that frightens us, our body‟s response would be to either fight, escape (flight) or freeze. I froze in extreme shock. I couldn‟t tell anyone.

I was partly raised by my aunt. I grew up with her from when I was an year old till I was ten. I had strong attachment with her, not with my parents and the abuse would occur when I‟d visit my parents during vacations. I always felt abandoned. I always felt that my brother was more important to them. Around the same time, she survived a major paralysis stroke and it left me paralysed. Isolation and loneliness was persistent. I had nobody to turn to. I was surrounded by people; aunts, uncles and cousins. Yet, I was alone. I never had a sense of belonging. I was vulnerable because I desired to be held, to be hugged and to be loved. I wanted attention. Little did I know that I was innocent. I was very scared to tell anybody. I felt dirty. I felt bad about myself. I felt I was a curse to my parents. In the whole process, I became my parent; a parentwho is extremely critical.

I was eighteen when I first recognized that I was a victim of child sexual abuse. It pained me and I felt helpless. My prolonged silence caused despair. I couldn‟t get any help. I still suffer from anxiety issues. I am still, to some extent, a mixed bag of self-conscious, emotionally sensitive and unstable personality and at the same time, an intelligent human with false pride. There is a deep fear, fueling an ego, changing the dynamics and perceptions of emotions. I‟m filled with contempt.

Even now happiness seems to be a crime; expectation, a burden; imagination, a horror. Often I think of ways in which I can end my life. I don‟t do it voluntarily but I do let my mind sway. I feel hopeless about something or the other. I spoke to every person I could. I wonder if I understand what support is or perhaps I fail to tell someone what I seek. The constant isolation

makes me wonder if I ever had any friends. I blamed myself for that. Everybody has a life and their own priorities. I have a career, parents who support; financially I am not so bad. But there is a void. And I try frantically to fill it but nothing seems compatible. I have a life which anybody might envy. But there is emptiness. I didn‟t feel it much before. After knowing the truth, revealing the truth, and caught in the dilemma whether to rebuke the person who caused it fuels a fear. I seemed more pleased with the elated ego and arrogance I often showed before. It is fearful to be humble, threatening to be truthful and easier to live a life of pretense with contemptuous interpretations of events which hurt.

Amidst the mess, it was a child’s dream that gave me hope; a reason to live, a reason to change. I clinged to my academics and that became my identity. Things seemed to settle down with time. I believed I was selfish but I tried to change. I tried to make everybody happy, yet miserably failed. I sought validation for my character and I believed the lies. I was in a seemingly happy relationship which lasted for three years. I had confided to him that I was sexually abused as a child. But it all blew up when I was, again, sexually assaulted by him. Yes, by the very person I loved and trusted the most! It didn‟t stop at that. I was more devastated when I saw neither guilt nor pain in him. Rather, he used the fact that I had been sexually abused as child to justify his act. He seemed very agitated and blamed me for the situation. Well, I was the one who didn‟t want to get engaged right away. I was assaulted when I cried to him and begged an apology for no mistake of mine. Families were aware of this and people had to be answered and he is a good story teller. While I battled with Post-Traumatic-Stress- Disorder, he was engaged and soon, he got married to someone else.

After this incident which occurred on 20th January 2016, I had only questions to guide me. My past cried out to be resolved. I decided to fight. I wanted to know the damage my past had done to me and I‟m still, fighting a long battle. I reached out to few people I thought would help but most turned away, indirectly. It hurt me more to hear that I ruined someone‟s life. It hurt me when my calls were not answered. It hurt me when I asked them to help me find a therapist and I didn‟t hear from them for months. It hurt me when they reply without compassion. It hurt me when I confronted my parents about it because they responded like it was my fault. Longing for intimacy and affection was my fault! But then, someone helped. I took my chances but found a good therapist. I took a leap of faith and I found a good friend.

I still find it hard to accept that it happened with me and I suffered in silence, suppressing all my pain, agony and humiliation. I was just a little girl, wanted to be held, wanting to be loved. But I will not give up. I will be there for that little girl if there is no one else. I promise to free her from the prison of guilt and shame. It was not her fault.

I pray for the strength to endure this journey, to fulfill the longing of her heart, deeply wounded yet deeply beautiful, to love boldly and pursue her desires passionately.

She walked alone
On stem and stone Ate the leaves Crawled without bone

Ugly they called her Uglier she felt
The leaves she ate
Looked uglier when she left

Alone and scared She built a nest Wound the threads Around herself

Wrapped in the shell She felt warm
She imagined a world That would never harm

Little did she know
That a seed would grow And the cocoon around her Was a hardened dough

The warmth soon turned Into a heat which burnt There was no air
But a soul which yearned

She put her strength
To break the tent
But the fear she had
Had weakened her strength

“Ugly” they would call her Uglier she would feel Blinded to hope,
She was not bereft of zeal

She flew now
From flower to flower Bathed in the sweetness That was unknown to her

“Beautiful” they called her

And beautiful she was
She was the caterpillar Now a beautiful butterfly…

Shared Stories

I stayed in the shower for the longest time ever, trying to scrub off the memory of how his hands felt on me

By an Anonymous Contributor

Why didn’t I call for help? Why didn’t I tell anyone? Why did I smile at him?

I was maybe about 9 or 10 years old, and out to the market with my grandmother. He had a makeshift stall selling cheap plasticware, and my grandmother was busy browsing the goods. He looked at me and smiled, and being a naturally friendly kid, I smiled back. My grandmother had walked a little ahead and I just stood around waiting for her, when he came up and grabbed my breast. My smile faded and I pushed him away, but I didn’t call for help or tell my grandmother. I looked around but all the other stall owners and customers seemed to be busy with their own wares, and nobody reacted. I knew that it was wrong, but I simply was too stunned to respond. I walked away closer to my grandmother, who simply walked a big circle around his wares back to where he was again. Having no choice I walked past him again, and he smiled at me again. Not wanting to be rude, I managed the smallest of smiles and as soon as my grandmother looked away he grabbed my breast and gave it a solid squeeze again. Again I pushed him away and I still did not shout for help. It would haunt me for the rest of my life as to why I didn’t just at least shout in outrage or tell anyone. I was just too ashamed, I felt that I should not have smiled at him, that I should not have gotten so near him again the second time, that I should have called him out after the first grope. I was even embarassed when I thought of how other stall owners might have seen me being defiled. I just wanted to go home.

When I got home I stayed in the shower for the longest time ever, trying to scrub off the memory of how his hands felt on me, and trying to forget. I felt violated but I did not know what to do. I didn’t want to let my family know because I knew I would be blamed for not shouting for help, and my childish mind imagined how I would write a letter to him next time educating him on how he had done a sinful thing, fantasising that he would repent after that.

I would never see him again, and I don’t even remember how he looks like anymore, but I will never forget the feel of his fingers around my breast and how helpless I was when I couldn’t pry his fingers away.

Shared Stories

He said he was sorry and thought that I wanted it.

By Andrea N. Smith 

I was 15 and at my boyfriend’s house. I wore a favourite sundress. We were in his room and he started to want sex. I said no repeatedly. He held me down, pinned my hands under is knees while he took my underwear off. When it was over I jumped up and got dressed. He said he was sorry and thought that I wanted it. He said I shouldn’t have worn such a short dress. I got rid of it when I got home. I fell pregnant and had to tell my mom. I didn’t tell her the truth, I just wanted it to go away and be over. She gave me such a hard time about wanting to end the pregnancy, which I did. My relationship with my mom was strained and she kept bringing up the pregnancy for years, making me relive that awfulness, but she didn’t know.

Shared Stories

You were my best friend’s dad.

By C.B.R. 
You were my best friend’s dad. You knew my family was a mess, knew that I was so starved for love. I thought you were going to be like the father I was missing. I didn’t realize that you had other plans. That you wanted something more. I didn’t realize that the hug wasn’t so innocent nor the kiss several months later. It was so nice to have someone to talk to, I didn’t know it wasn’t just innocent affection. I blocked it out the first time you attacked me, accepted the apology, tried to reformat. By the fourth time, you were so violent it scared me. You yelled just like my dad did when he was mad. You were just more of the same. It ended in pain and fury but not soon enough. And before I could come to terms with everything, you took your own life. I couldn’t even be mad at you because my friend’s heart was broken. And so was mine. So I hated myself for not hating you.

I’m grown up now, but not really. I’m still the child whose soul was broken. I’m still that little girl that just wants a father. I don’t know if you will ever know the damage you’ve done, but I still live with the aftermath every day. I hope that one day it will just be a vague memory of a hard time in my life. Today was not that day.

Shared Stories

I was told, “boys will be boys”

By S.H. 

It took me a really long time to realize that it wasn’t my fault. I was my own worst enemy; I thought I had asked for it. I invited him to my party, I had talked to him all night and probably the thing that made up my mind was that I slept with him before. Once, a few months previously.

That night was my 29th birthday. I decided to have a few friends over for a party at my flat I shared with two friends. Amongst the guests was the man who would become my attacker.

Time passed, music, and drinks, dancing. It was around 3am when I decided to call it a night and head to bed. There were still guests in the house but most were close friends and my housemates were still up. I sat for a while on my bed, enjoying some peace and quiet when he came into my room. I told him I was going to bed and to go back and join the others. He moved closer and closer, I turned my face from his and said no and he told me to “stop acting like I’m going to rape you”.

He left my room and I put on my pajamas and got into bed and it was then that he came back. I told him again to get out but he wouldn’t listen he lay down on my bed next to me. I don’t know why I didn’t shout or push him away. I got out of bed and ran to the living room and told my friends that someone needed to get him out of my room. He refused to leave, convinced that I wanted him to be there. Eventually two of my male friends got him out and I somehow managed to fall asleep. The next morning I woke up alone in bed. When I got up, I found him asleep on the couch. He hadn’t left.

The next day as I sat in my house on the day of my birthday waiting on my boyfriend picking me up, my attacker went to the pub and bragged that I had been “up for it” he said until he put his hands into my underwear then I told him to stop. I can either assume he is lying or that he came back when I was asleep.

It was what came after that was probably the most shocking part of this whole story. I never reported him to the police, I know what the likelihood of anything coming of it was and I didn’t want to put myself through it. I told my friends and they were shocked and disgusted and very supportive. But, from a few I was told, “boys will be boys” “that’s just what men do” and that for him, my attacker “oh, you know what he is like, that’s just what he does”.

I spent the coming months walking with my head down, avoiding social events just in case he was there. I was embarrassed, upset, guilty and felt stupid I had let this happen.

I spent the next two years getting over it, coming to terms with it but also coming to terms with the fact that slowly but surely some of my friends were beginning to speak to him again. This just confirmed to me that people either didn’t believe me or were happy to accept that this kind of behavior is just what women should expect.

Here I am, two years later, writing about this because this past weekend it has reared it’s head again. My attacker sought out a close friend of mines to ask him if I was involved with him, to watch out for me because I’m a slut and that my friend should only get with me if he wants to “know what his dick tastes like”.

My friend didn’t know my story, he does now. I’m devastated he has had to hear someone speak about me that way.

It took me a really long time, medication and counseling to realize that I am not guilty. He is guilty and he continues to ruin me.

Shared Stories

I am his younger brother.

By an Anonymous Contributor 

After hearing Ione’s TED talk I found the courage to talk about my personal experience behind this matter. It happened when I was 7 years old 15 years ago sitting with my older brother watching him playing video games. Suddenly he turns the video game off and commands me to do stuff to him and return does what he has done to me. I am his younger brother. I could have refused when he had told me to, but I was young and naive and did not know what was what, I wasn’t aware of what the nature of this was. I have been in silence for 15 years without anyone knowing this, somehow after the incident I did not speak or even recall what had happened until a few months ago I started remembering this. I hope this message reaches to everyone and to be cautious even with their close ones, including their siblings and those who have children to raise awareness in them at a young age.

Shared Stories

NO.

By an Anonymous Contributor 

No.
To the teacher who thought helping me in the highs and lows in the economy meant helping himself to feeling up past my knees.
No.
To the boy who reached for me like he would a glass of whiskey, as if inside, if he groped deep enough, he might find the answers to the questions his demons called after him at night.
No.
Sir, just because I taught your grandson how to hit tennis balls does not mean I want anything to do with yours. I don’t drink, anyways.
No.
To the one who always thought I owed him more. I’m sorry but my thoughts are worth much more than a pretty penny, so go ahead and pick that up, you still won’t get lucky. Not here.
No.
Look, boy, your height doesn’t make you a man. And proving you’re stronger than me does not make me want to stand my ground any less firmer. So loosen your grip and let me go.
No.
I don’t want a drink.
No.
To the stranger I almost fell for. There’s a reason I stopped dancing with you. You made me feel beautiful. But then the swaying got deeper, and your hands wouldn’t stop roaming. Your smile still plays in my head every time I hear that song, but it doesn’t make me feel beautiful anymore.
No.
To the one who made me feel like I had to apologize for just breathing, or for not wanting you to want me. I’m very much alive, despite your efforts to make me wish otherwise.
No.
I think I lost count of how many times you’ve asked if you can buy me a drink, dude. I won’t be sipping anything that makes me slur my words around you, so maybe I should spell this out for you,
N-O. No.
I know it takes two to tango, man. But I only two step, and you have two left feet anyways.
No.
I’ve had to learn over time that sitting on a couch and watching a movie is not an invitation to introduce your mouth to mine. Go lick stamps and Mail yourself a reminder that you are not entitled to peel back anything not addressed to you. Paper or clothing.
No.
Listen, I know you speak Spanish and that’s supposed to be romantic, I know you wanna talk about my dreams, but believe me when I say you’re not in them. I know my mother gave you my number, but I don’t want to be your secreta, señor.
No.
My eyes are up here.
No.
Just because I was your girlfriend does not mean all of me belonged to you, and saying that you love me while you try to remove my clothes doesn’t make me any more compliant or willing.
No.
To the one who hated my walls, did you ever think they were there for a reason? You said that if I didn’t bring them down you would stop fighting for me. That I was never going to be able to give you enough anyways. You’re right.
No.
I don’t want a drink.
No.
To the hipster. It was really easy to read your “Slave to Jesus Christ” wrist tattoo while you were pinning me down. I hope you like this poem. You inspired it, after all.
No.
To the teacher, it’s not mysterious to call your home a wolf’s den. It’s just creepy. I wonder how many innocent girls you have devoured there. I won’t be one of them.
No.
To the Coach who liked to park next to my car while I changed. You’re a pervert. I know why you really had to change schools.
No.
I don’t want a drink.
No.
To the ex, I found someone who finds something other to compliment than my ass. Or to embarrass me about other than my chest. Speaking of asses and embarrassments, you are one.
No.

Shared Stories

“I hear people joke about rape and talk about it as if it’s a laughing matter”

By an Anonymous Contributor

It’s very hard to talk about my experience because I haven’t felt like I am free to discuss it since it happened. Even though my loved ones care deeply for my wellbeing, they are hurting, too, which makes it hard to bring up. Because why would I want to bring up pain they feel as well?

Almost a year ago, it was a normal Friday night, and I had gone to a get together at a friends house. I was sixteen at the time, and we often hung out at this house. It was a comforting and happy home. Unfortunately, the neighborhood we were in was not a great area. We knew that there were high crime rates in this part of town, but we never thought anything would happen. I had been drinking, but I had sobered up by the time I needed to head home. I frequently took ubers home when I knew that I would be drinking, and in the past the uber drivers have had trouble finding the right building. So I thought that it would be smart to walk to the gas station that was a quater mile away, and get picked up there. My friends made a few comments about walking alone, but I dismissed them and said I’d be fine. When I got to the gas station, I was walking up to the front and a man, who was sitting along the side of the building, said something to me. I wasn’t sure what he said, but being naive, I stepped closer and he grabbed the backs of my legs. I tried to stay calm and relax, but when I tried to push away, I realized that I was not strong enough. Panic started to set it and he told me if I kissed him he’d let me go. I tried to explain that I was just trying to get home and to please let me go. He kept tightening his grab and sliding his hand up my dress. I finally agreed, because I just wanted to get home. He let me go and I tried to walk away quickly. There were so many people around the front and side of the building, and I was so terrified, so I just turned around and tried to walk around to the other side. This was a clear mistake, and many people question why I would ever do this, but I couldn’t think clearly, and I was just trying to get away. He followed behind me and grabbed me when I got to the other side. He then made me do things while his friend watched. I finally saw a chance to run away, and that’s what I did.

The police told me that I was lying, that I was a prostitute, and they asked my mom to look through my phone. People asked me why I didn’t scream, why I didn’t fight back, and it’s soemthing I’ve struggled with for a long time. I’ve replayed that night over and over again thinking of everything I should’ve done differently. It’s hard to explain to people that I was too scared to react. That I was too scared of him killing me to try anything. I find it really hard to not blame myself for it.

The guy was never found, the case was closed after about two months. I didn’t even want to go to the police in the first place, I just wanted to forget.

Often at school, I hear people joke about rape and talk about it as if it’s a laughing matter. It’s something I’ve had to accept and I’ve tried my hardest to not let it get to me. They don’t know what happened to me, and I know they’re just ignorant, but it’s painful to hear. I think this campaign is a wonderful idea, and I really hope that awareness is spread. I hope that people start to take this issue seriously.

It’s been 11 months since this happened, and I’ve really struggled with being alone, thank you for giving me a place to share my story.

Shared Stories

He is the Predator I was just the Gullible Prey

By an Anonymous Contributor 

I was 14, I am now 15 and I regret a lot of things in my life – here is one. I was sitting at home and I got a message from someone on my phone. I answered it not knowing who it was all I knew is it was someone online. We talked I found out it was a male who lived near by and he thought I was hot. I was flattered then he started threatening me saying a whole bunch of things, I got scared. I did what he asked trying to avoid the threats from becoming reality but after the first picture was sent I realized I was played. But I couldn’t refuse more, otherwise I would be exposed. Eventually it became routine go to school go home do homework send nudes carry on for a while go on video chat show my body carry on and go to bed. Then one day he asked my address I didn’t really think of who I was texting so I answered. I immediately realized what I had done. That’s when I started staying up late and sneaking out just so he could make me give him oral and he would do what he wanted I never let him do vaginal sex but everything else I had to let happen. Eventually I had a reality check and said no more. I blocked him the threats never became reality and life was normal again. But then someone found out about it and made me go to the police and thats when I realised how old he really was. More than a decade older than me and married. I never got full justice because the things I had said over text made it all sound consensual. He has very little prison time and that makes me upset and I know I messed up but I’m not guilty completely. He is the predator I was just the gullible prey.

Shared Stories

“The nurses and doctors laughed at me…telling me it could be worse”

By Genevieve Armstrong

Two years ago, on June 21st, 2014 I came home from a long day of work on a Saturday night. I sat with my dad and decides to pick up Thai food for us at a restaurant maybe 6 blocks up the street. I changed my clothes and was on my way. On the walk back, I remember feeling happy, confident, walking tall with my head up like nothing would get me down. 3 blocks away from my home, I felt someone push me to the ground. My first reaction was a jogger had carelessly knocked me over. This was until I was on the ground, being repeatedly punched. Hard, forceful strikes to my head, over and over. The only thing I could do was scream for help and protect my head, struggling to kick. As I screamed, a pair of hands began ripping my clothes off, tearing at my underwear. I was wearing spanx, and my attacker(s?) could not get them off until a couple of minutes in. I continued to scream, thinking I was going to die being raped and beaten. I urinated on myself and a moment later it was over. I remember lying there for a moment before dragging myself up. I was covered in blood, one eye swollen shut, struggling to look for my phone to call the police. I frantically ran into the street, waving cars down. No one helped me. Men looked me in the eyes as I screamed and cried, pleading for help, then drove around me. The nurses and doctors laughed at me, or telling me it could be worse. I was bloodied, and humiliated. My case was one of many known as “The North Park Attacks”, as 6-7 other women had been attacked (all of which but myself and one other had been knocked out immediately). The criticism, judgment, blame, and jokes over my attack was everywhere online. I felt constant humiliation, shame, and overall rage that this is the way myself the other women in the case were being treated. I began going to rallies, sharing my story. Making my social media pages a platform to discuss and give other survivors an ear to listen. Over the next two years I learned to turn my pain into power and make sure survivors always have someone who cares. My attacker, a man who claims he was alone in my attack and the others, was caught the following September of my assault. In April of 2016, he finally plead guilty. April 7th, a “victims” (survivor’s) impact statement and sentencing was held in court. His family made excuses, cried, and stared me down as I spoke. I looked directly at the man who beat me, tore off my clothing, and tried to rape me while he cried. I will never forget telling him, “I see right through your crocodile tears, and when you die I will spit on your grave” before taking my seat. Today when I watched Ione Wells story, I felt a power. I felt the sisterhood and connection of survival. I felt inspired. Thank you, Ione. I see the pain you have turned into power and hope one day I will be able to make an organization like this one. You are truly an inspiration and motivation for me to continue to use my voice.

Shared Stories

I Need To Feel No Guilt

By an Anonymous Contributor to the campaign 

“I can’t wait for sex tonight.” Five words written down on a scrap of paper, harmless on their own, together they terrified me.
I was 6, he was almost 9, my brother. My wonderful funny, annoying, loveable brother. We shared a room as most children do, we’d talk at night when we should have been sleeping. Then it changed. He began asking me to climb into his bed, or he’d get into mine once my mum had left the room. It was never penetrative, but it was wrong and I didn’t understand what was happening. He’d ask me to touch him, so I did, which makes me feel sick. If I didn’t do as he asked he’d say that he would tell mum and dad, so I had to. I wish I’d been stronger, but at 6 are you really strong? It lasted for a few years until eventually we were put in separate rooms. My mothers reasoning for this was that I’d be getting my period soon….This still confuses me…Did she know?

He would come into my room. I somehow made him stop, but he started bullying me massively. For years, until I left for art college, he would tell me intimate details of his conquests and try and make me read his sex diaries. I still love him, he is my family, but I hate him for what he did to me.
My family life was hard, I had no one I could confide in. My mother had my father to deal with, a verbally aggressive alcoholic with bi-polar, she didn’t need my problems on her shoulders as well.
At 11, I broke my own arm to stop my father from coming to watch me at a fun run with my school for fear of him being drunk. Self harm became my release. At 13 I became an angst ridden teenager. Hanging out with all the wrong people. Then at 15, I was drunk at a club and I was raped. I didn’t know him, my “friends” did. Being used yet again for someone elses pleasure. But “I deserved it, it’s what I’m here for” – to be used, I don’t matter to anyone, I’ll get over it, shove it right the way into the deepest darkest corner of my mind, joke and drink my way through my later teenage years, meet the love of my life at 20 but wait a whole 16 years before telling him what happened. I can’t tell him about my brother, I just can’t.

I had a breakdown last year. It all came out. I couldn’t live with my demon anymore. My counselling, with an amazing charity CRASAC, has been an absolute life saver. My counsellor has given me hope, I have my last session next week, I’m scared to have the thoughts growing bigger again. I need to be strong, I need to not blame myself, I need to feel no guilt, but it is oh so hard.

I think I can survive this.

Shared Stories

Why did you ruin our friendship?

By an Anonymous Contributor

Why? Why did you do it? Why did you ruin our friendship? Or was it never a friendship on the first place – is this just what you wanted? After 7 years of ignoring, distracting and self blaming, I am starting to now believe that I did nothing wrong. For 3 years we’d been friends, 3 years you’d slept over after a night out, I completely trusted you. There was never anything sexual when you slept over, it was just convenience so you didnt have to drive home. So why on that night was it different?

I had a few drinks and took some medication that night. The two together made me completely out of it. Vulnerable, but I trusted I was in safe company. It’s why I have blamed myself, I shouldn’t have combined the the medication with a few drinks. I got myself in that state. I excused your behaviour believing that if i’d been able to say ‘no’ you would have stopped. I used to feel guilty for not being able to take control of the situation, everything was just a big misunderstanding. I now believe silence is not consent. Not saying ‘no’ does not mean yes. I would never have consented to what you did that night. It hurt. Sometimes i’m glad I don’t fully remember what happened, sometimes that scares me. Part of me wants to ask you ‘did you rape me?’. I dont think i’d believe your answer, so there is probably no point. I never heard from again since that night, maybe you were to embarrassed since you knew you were wrong or maybe you just got what you wanted.

I am now on the road to acceptance and recovery. I will no longer blame myself for your stupidity and ignorance. I will no longer blame myself for your decisions and actions. I will move passed this and have a happy life.

Shared Stories

“But what if your words aren’t listened to?”

By Kate Wyver

You’ve always believed that words have superpowers. They can bring out the strongest emotions and form the most elaborate stories. They can create new worlds, make people laugh, help you fall in love and spread empathy and understanding.

But what if your words aren’t listened to? What if you say stop but he doesn’t hear, so you say it again but this time he chooses not to? What if he thinks he knows what you mean and he thinks you mean the opposite?

If that one syllable can be misunderstood, mistaken or ignored – if someone can put their orgasm before your consent – then what’s the point of using any words at all?

The law acknowledges that it takes a few seconds for a man to gather his wits and pull out or away, but this is longer than a few seconds.

You tell him to stop because it’s too loud and you don’t want your family to hear and you tell him again and you mean it and you’re more nervous now and he’s not stopping and you’re not turned on anymore and as your body reacts to your brain it’s not exactly painful but it’s not feeling good and he’s not listening and it’s like when you’re on your phone and someone’s talking to you but you don’t really hear them because you’re too engrossed in the conversation and it’s not an excuse and you can see from his face that it’s going to end soon so you stop saying no and you give up and you look to your wall by your right side where there’s a bunch of photos of you and your friends from school and you’re all smiling and you wait and you’re silent and he doesn’t even notice and he finishes and he’s triumphant and he has no idea.

It’s maybe only a minute but for that minute you don’t want to be there, and you told him that by saying no. He gets louder when you want silence and now he’s gone and you can’t deal with the silence so you distract yourself by putting on a scary TV show to scare yourself in a different way.

That night you send him a message. He should have stopped when you said stop. You curl up in your sheets and hug the teddy who has been with you since you were two. You get out of bed and drink a lot of water and brush your teeth until the taste of him is gone.

He gets your message in the morning. He hadn’t realised what he’s done and begins to apologise so much you think his fingers will weave an enormous sculpture of the word sorry and his mouth will turn into a stitching patterned in the same shape. You thank him for accepting it and not being defensive. He says he would never do that. But then he says he only continued because he thought you wanted to. He didn’t think you meant it when you said no.

You keep wanting a shower.

When you ask directly, he admits he wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t told him. He doesn’t really realise it’s wrong until you point it out. He says he wants to cry. You tell him it’s okay. You find yourself comforting your – no surely, can you call him that? He’s still your friend, isn’t he? But he did it so surely that makes him-?

You’re fine. You’re not scarred for life. You tell him that. You try to joke. But as you say that you wonder if maybe you are just a little bit. If you’ll be more hesitant about going home with someone from a club, or be more wary of Tinder, or if you’ll ever be able to trust a boyfriend so completely that you know they’d never do that, that they wouldn’t be with you like that without your consent. That they would stop if you asked them to. You wonder if you should give a contract to every boy you ever consider messing around with, make them sign an oath that they will never do that. Insert a chip into their neck that automatically pulls them back to the opposite wall as soon as you say the word stop.

You would say it’s a conversation we don’t have enough, but we do. Everyone knows it’s wrong. And of course he thinks it’s wrong too, it’s just that he didn’t see that he was doing it. He was ‘lost in the moment’. And you talk to a friend and ask if that counts as rape and the friend says yes and you google it over and over on incognito and the time from you saying no to him finishing was only maybe a minute so surely it’s not that bad, you think, but that minute has been playing on your mind and made you feel like you need to hold yourself together slightly in case you fall apart. You hide how much it affects you so as to save him from more concern. To be fair, you’ve just accused him of something pretty hefty, so he’s got thoughts of his own to deal with. You carry on talking and after he’s apologised a lot more you start to talk and joke as normal. Your approach to most things is sarcasm, and gradually it re-emerges, but it’s hard to forget that one minute and carry on joking.

You’re constantly being told off for being too PC, for jumping on everyone’s comments in case they could seem the slightest bit derogatory. And you can’t tell if you’re overreacting, because you both wanted to have sex and up until that moment it was completely consensual, and it wasn’t as if he hurt you or treated you abusively. He just put his own desire over everything for a minute. Is a minute really that bad? And you need to write it down in order to make sense of it. Because you kissed him after and you meant that kiss and you like him and he’s not the type of person to do that at all, and you’d never expect him to hurt you or anyone else, and neither would he, and he’s horrified that he did it, once you told him. He’s probably more scarred from the realisation than you are. And he’d never do it again. But he still did it.

You don’t want to tell your best friend or your mum because you were one who went searching and you’re worried they’ll say you kind of brought it on yourself, by putting yourself in that position. But you also realise how dangerous that view is. That is only a step away from saying a girl shouldn’t drink because if she gets raped it’s kind of her own fault for not being aware or sensible enough.

And you carry on talking and joking but you still feel uncomfortable and you tell him you don’t want to have sex with him again and he understands and apologises again. Then you tell him you want space because his continuing to message you with kindness and smiley faces feels uneasy. Because however nice he’s been to you for the rest of the time you’ve known him, you don’t want to be reminded of that one minute. But he doesn’t seem to understand that’s the reason and sends another smiley face, expecting to hear from you soon.

You’ve just been through an intensely sad break up and you told yourself when getting involved this time – nothing serious, it was just fun and not stressful – that you wouldn’t let yourself get hurt. You thought that meant not getting too many feelings. You thought that meant restricting yourself in some way.

Maybe it’s not that big a deal. Maybe you’re overreacting. Maybe you should just forget about it and not let it affect you. Or maybe you can do without guys for a while, until you’re ready to trust someone else with your body and then maybe your heart and maybe even your Nativity DVD’s, because you really don’t fancy any of them getting hurt again anytime soon.

He sends you another message. ‘Are you just not wanting to have someone at all?’ At first you think: Yeah. Yeah that’s what you want, for a while at least.

But then, on second thoughts: You have plenty of people in your life already.

Writing it down helps. Words may not have had much impact in that moment, that minute, but maybe in the aftermath they really do have healing superpowers.

Shared Stories

“Let’s actually get together, start talking about it and start helping”

By an Anonymous Contributor

I have re-written this article several times.

First, I kept deleting it and writing it out again because I didn’t want the memory on my computer. I didn’t want someone to find it. I didn’t want to speak out and be the voice the 1 in 3 other girls who have been sexually assaulted on university campuses in the UK.

I decided to tell my story because of a recent scandal at my university; a student published a short story called ‘Nights at the Disco’ about a boy who spends his nights taking drugs and finding drunk women to take advantage of in clubs. A girl found it and reported it to the university on the grounds that the story was so similar to real events, it could be at best harrowing and at worst true. The university demanded the story be taken down because it brought the institution into disrepute- not because it was insensitive. But it was only after reading the victim’s statement from the Brock Turner sexual assault case that I had the confidence to actually get this published.

After I was sexually assaulted in my own bed, I googled “what to do if you’ve been raped”. The websites that came up suggested help lines and not washing but going straight to the doctor so that the perpetrator could be caught and swabs could be used as evidence in court.

My case has not gone to court. I chose not to. As the victim of the Brock Turner case so eloquently explained, taking a rape or sexual assault case to court is extremely harrowing. You have to repeat what happened to you every day so that you remember it clearly and your character is completely questioned. I don’t need my character questioned. I have spent enough time blaming myself, thinking it was my fault; that it wasn’t rape; I wasn’t forceful enough; I am over-reacting.

I was not and I am not overreacting. I now know, although there are still moments when I am unsure, that my reaction is valid. This was my reaction:

In August, I was sexually assaulted by my ex-boyfriend. We had both been drinking. I don’t quite know why that’s relevant but apparently it is (c.f. Brock Turner’s statements). I had not drunk as much as him. I was pretty sober. This does not make his actions excusable. If he had mugged someone when he was drunk, it would still be considered a crime. This was still a crime.

He convinced me that I wasn’t safe going home alone and that he needed to accompany me. On the way back he was verbally abusive, telling me he wasn’t a rapist and that I wasn’t so desirable that he couldn’t resist me. This was all mixed in with compliments about me being special but not that special. So that’s nice isn’t it? Except it’s not because I didn’t feel worthwhile at all. I just felt guilty for not giving him what he wanted when he complimented me, as though his words indebted me to him in some way. He ended up in my house. What happened happened and the next day he apologised. By text. He wouldn’t speak to me on the phone but he sent me a text to say he was sorry. I didn’t really understand why he needed to be sorry; I hadn’t computed what had happened. So I convinced him to speak to me on the phone and I said I was fine: what he did was bad but I was fine and maybe now we could be friends.

I was not fine. I am still not fine. And we are definitely not friends.

That day, at work, I had my first ever panic attack. I couldn’t breathe suddenly- I had to force myself to breathe, to do something my body has been doing on its own for nineteen years. The next day, I had another one. Then I started crying on the tube home out of the blue. I told my friends that I had nearly had sex with my ex-boyfriend again. Actually, I tried to tell them the full story without labelling it as sexual assault to see their reactions. They didn’t really know what to say, they just asked me if I was ok with it and I said I thought this was good; maybe it was better to have things out in the open.

It took me a week to understand what had happened and why I was having panic attacks and crying. By then, this boy had gone on holiday. I felt out of control. I felt like I had no control over what happened to my body. So I messaged him to say I wasn’t ok. I thought maybe he would apologise properly and I would be fine and we could move on but I was wrong.

At first he said he was profusely sorry and he asked how he could help. I suggested he tell his mother. This is where people tend to question me: why get parents involved? That’s such a hard thing to have to tell your mother. The truth is, I didn’t know what to suggest. I just wanted someone with more experience involved. Now I realize that people find his mother’s involvement unfair because it makes him feel guilty. It is the same mindset that pities Brock Turner. Why should this young boy have his “life ruined” for “twenty minutes of action”? To some extent, I understand that. I don’t think people’s lives should be ruined because of mistakes but the fact is that my life has been heavily impacted by what happened. The perpetrator of the crime has continued a normal life and insulted me since, calling my behavior “vile” when I brought his mother into it.

A big part of the guilt I felt and still feel (although less so now) was the guilt and pain I could cause this boy and his family by labelling him a rapist. The severity of the punishment for rape if the defendant is found guilty deterred me from reporting my own experience. I think that’s a deterrent for a lot of women and men. They don’t want to be bitter or cause more pain- I, at least, didn’t and don’t.

It is a very difficult circumstance when you know the distress you feel can deeply hurt others. Especially people you care about. I cared about this boy, I didn’t want to ‘ruin his life’- I still don’t want to. I don’t think it would be productive or helpful to anyone. That’s something that I haven’t really found talked about much- the responsibility you can feel after you’ve been assaulted. Hearing a relative or a good friend has been sexually assaulted is confusing and distressing. I’ve experienced it on both sides and each time I have felt uncomfortable, I haven’t known the right way to have the conversation. How do you comfort someone who’s been assaulted? How do you comfort someone who’s friend’s been assaulted? It’s scary on either side.

I am still not over what happened to me. I try not to let it but it has taken over my life. I think about it all the time. To say daily is an understatement. It defines the way I see the world now. For the first few months I suffered panic attacks and depression, yes, but I still have more complex issues and lower self-esteem than ever before. My relationship with food has changed for the worse. I used to love it; eat when I was hungry and enjoy it. Now I binge. I try not to drink too much anymore but in the months following the event I did. I drank far too much. I was desperate not to be a downer and to appear fun. It wasn’t fun. I was not having fun; I was trying to hide how sad I was and not bring sadness into the room. My interaction with men also changed. Rationally, I know it shouldn’t have but it has. I don’t trust romance now. I don’t get excited at the idea of it for me. For others I do but not for me.

The night I found out this boy had a new girlfriend was particularly bad one. I went upstairs and sobbed in a room at a party. And I don’t mean quiet sobbing, I mean uncontrollable sobs of fear, anxiety and impotence. My friend- who’s birthday it was- had to console me while I repeated “it’s going to happen again”. I ended up throwing up on myself. I don’t even think that was alcohol. I think that was fear. I know this is bad behavior. I know you shouldn’t cry at a birthday party. You should know that I don’t do that much and that I am mortified. Just as I am embarrassed at all the other inappropriate times I have cried this year. You should also know that I can’t really control it. I have tried very hard to and if I could, I would.

So how is this relevant to the recent controversy over ‘Nights at the Disco’ and the issue of free speech? To be honest, reading that particular story did not make me feel more distressed than other things have but I know it has made others feel uncomfortable. The way the university dealt with it was wrong, yes. The way universities deal with sexual assault is, frankly, wrong. There is very little counselling and aid available and the aid that is available has a waiting list. When you are in that vulnerable a position, you do not want to wait four to eight weeks. It should be made as easy as possible to get help. The help should come to you.

Ideally, rape would also be something we can talk about openly without embarrassment. That does not mean no trigger warnings. I don’t think they’re tools for militant political correctness, they’re informative of the content. The fact is that there is a rape-culture at universities in this country that we are, for some reason, choosing to ignore even though this article is by no means the first of its kind. The issue isn’t just rape. The issue is the way women are still blamed for sexual encounters whilst men are congratulated.. I know it’s been said before but it’s still going on so I’m saying it again.

The “oppressed party” in ‘The Night’s at the Disco’ scandal is not the censored writer, it is the victims of sexual assault whose very real cases and reports are being ignored for the sake of the university’s reputation. The university is openly trying to cover up the issue instead of dealing with the fact that sexual assault and rape has become almost normalised by its commonness on campuses and yet is barely being combatted or talked about.

This is a societal problem. I’m not innocent- I have seen unsettling situations and not intervened because I didn’t want to be rude. Ridiculous. We need to change the way we look at sex, the way we educate children about it. I’m not in a position to know exactly how sex should be addressed but I do know that the way we are addressing at the moment is damaging.

So this is my attempt to slightly change that. The Brock Turner statement is what motivated me to share my story. Hearing someone else say that they had felt similarly to how I felt reassured me that I wasn’t being mad and dramatic so I’m hoping this might do the same for someone else. You are not being crazy or dramatic or selfish or whatever else might be thrown at you. If you have been made to feel uncomfortable or damaged by a sexual encounter; be it with a stranger, and acquaintance or someone close to you, you are not alone and you are definitely not to blame. There are millions of women and men who have felt like you feel and who want to help you. So let’s actually get together, start talking about it and start helping.

Shared Stories

“A Not Guilty verdict a double blow”

Submitted by an Anonymous Contributor

ANGEL EYES…Yesterday I felt sick, today overwhelmed, tomorrow I may never recover. You see, I too was abused as a little girl, likewise my closest friend, my only friend. We suffered in silence, we needed each other, it was our secret, no-one knew. Over the years it was not mentioned much, but the psychological effects of that abuse was clear to see. We have lost our childhood, our youth, adult years… even today you catch your breath once in a while get back to reality today – my life is not so good. I was a witness for my friend, she took a giant leap of faith and jumped, past all the obstacles, she was believed the CPS approved, marching forward to hope and a conviction, but devastatingly the defendant – you guessed it – a resounding no. I went blank, got very emotional when mentioning the sexual act that I lost all concentration. Normally I am OK, I now blame myself, and a not guilty verdict a double blow, another cross to bear, they lied on oath, now proof came forward too late, case closed, a paedophile walking the streets yet again. This wasnt a robbery, ,or a fight even though I dont discredit how serious but sexual abuse of any kind affects a life permanently if it was down to money all the money in the world can’t bring the dead back to life but I know a man who can and I have to trust him. I made a mistake in court I said a wrong thing not thinking straight and to fearful to speak up my friend. I never wanted to pursue court, I encouraged her, I will carry that burden the rest of my life, my friend devastated but oh so brave. She said we may have lost the battle but not the war, yes so true. If I could get the law passed that in child historic cases to allow the defendant to give evidence, first victim last, I believe a fairer trial would happen. Everything is stacked up for the abuser, he has the advantage already and you only have to sound convincing enough to be believed… not necessarily fact. So yes I’m trying, no sleep, eaten much but not backing down, there is hope for the living. I have written to the prime minister, I hate injustice and if I can help people like you and me im not going to stop until we get justice xxx

Shared Stories

A Letter To You Both

A letter to you both… By an Anonymous Contributor 

8 years ago you walked into a friendly local pub and saw me; what you saw was a 16 year old girl who on the face of it was a confident, outgoing person, enjoying the social life that came with living in a pub. I was old before my time; life changes had made me grow up quicker than others my age. I didn’t like people knowing how low my self esteem was, I didn’t want them to know that I was always the target of fat jokes even though I was only a size 12-14 so I put a brave face on. To the outside world, the girl you saw was me.

You must have noticed the vulnerability though; I think you saw how I reacted when you would give me a compliment. To have someone a couple of years older than me saying I looked nice…I had never had that before. You noticed that and you kept it in your mind.

Over the course of a few months you worked on becoming my friend; you would regularly pop in to the pub and chat with me, you would text me, message me online and always be a smiling face for me to see. You started flirting with me and of course I flirted back…I was 16 and enjoying the attention. But I never thought it would go further than that. You were just a guy in the pub who I thought was nice.

I remember the night you invited me out; you said we could go for a drive along the coast and have a chat. I knew you pretty well at this point so I jumped at the chance. I knew my mum wouldn’t approve though, so I told her I was going out with a female friend of mine. She wouldn’t want me going out with someone older than me.

When I got in the car your friend was there, but I knew him too so I didn’t mind. It was just friends going out after all. You offered me a bottle of vodka and straight away I started feeling on edge; I was sure the bottle had been opened. I took a sip and said that my lips were sore; any excuse so that I didn’t have to drink it.

Then you started driving, along the coast like you said we would. But you pulled over in a car park. I was naïve and thought it was just to get out and have a walk along the beach. But that’s when you did it.

You locked the door and your friend jumped over to sit in the back with me. He started touching my leg, and put my hand on his. I moved it away but he kept on asking me to touch him. He was rubbing my leg, kissing my neck and grabbing my breasts. I asked you to let me out but all I heard was “go on suck it for me” as your friend got his penis out. I told you both that it wasn’t funny and kept on asking you to let me out.

Eventually you did, and as I started the long walk home I saw you drive away. I can’t explain how I felt at this moment; I suppose I felt stupid. Why would an older guy be interested in me?

A little while later you text me; “please let me give you a lift home, I don’t like the thought of you walking, it was his idea, I promise, I am really sorry”. Text after text read the same thing. I agreed. You picked me up and started to drive me home, which I was grateful for. It was a long walk and I was freezing cold.

But then you pulled over again, into another car park. You locked the doors. You did exactly the same thing, but you were different about it…you knew what to say. You were telling me how much you liked me, how bad you felt about what your friend had done, how you wanted to be more than friends. But then you were just the same…you started touching me, putting my hands on you and asking me the same question as before. I told you to let me out and I remember you laughing…telling me to lighten up.

I got out after what felt like a lifetime and started walking home. This time I couldn’t stop crying; I text my friend and asked him to come and meet me but he was busy. I cried the whole way home until I got to my front door. I remember walking through the pub and straight up the stairs to my house. I ran a bath and sat in it for at least an hour just scrubbing myself. I felt so…dirty. I told my mum I was just tired and needed an early night, and cried myself to sleep in my room.

It wasn’t until I went into school and told my friend what had happened that I thought about telling someone. She told me I had to report it to the police and walked me to the station straight from school that day. The police drove me back to my house and sat me down with my stepdad. They had to tell him what I had told them; I can’t imagine what that was like for him. Knowing it had happened days before but not being able to do anything as I hadn’t told him. But it wasn’t telling him that worried me, it was my mum. They called her back from work and went through it all again with her. They took my phone, laptop and my clothes. I was totally cut off.

But I am not writing this to tell you what happened; you know exactly what went on. I am writing to tell you what you really did to me.

No you didn’t rape me. I was not hurt physically in anyway; no bruises or cuts. No black eyes. No scars. Except for the emotional ones.

I felt nothing but guilt and blame since that day. I should have told my mum where I was going, I shouldn’t have flirted with you, I shouldn’t have gone out with you, I shouldn’t have got back in the car for a second time.

It was my fault. The police did nothing as they didn’t have enough evidence so obviously they saw the messages we had been exchanging and saw that I was flirting back and thought I was asking for it? Thought I wanted to have sex with you?

Fast forward 7 years and there I was. Sitting in a counsellor’s room asking them for help. I had no self-confidence, I had difficulty in trusting people and I was suffering from extreme anxiety. I thought all of this was because my dad died; I saw a counsellor before and they told me I was hyper aware of mortality, which is why I was feeling so anxious. I thought the low self-esteem was only because I was in a relationship with someone who didn’t find me attractive. I thought the trust issue was because I had been burned by friends so many times.

I remember sitting there feeling stupid. I had lost my dad 5 years before and had managed to somewhat move on from that. I had battled with depression and anxiety and had got to the stage where I was managing it. I returned to university after a year off and I was doing it…I was succeeding. Yet I still felt crap. How can I move on from my dad dying, but not from what you did?

I didn’t want to be seen as a victim. That sounds weak. I had gone through so much that I no longer felt weak and vulnerable, I felt stronger than before. But something was still holding me back; that something was you two.

You are the reason that I had no confidence, the reason I ballooned to a size 22, the reason I feel anxious when I see men in the street, the reason I couldn’t move forward.

But my counsellor taught me how to see things differently; no matter what I did, what I said to you, you NEVER had the right to do that to me. It didn’t matter if I lied to my mum about where I was going; we have all done that at some point…that still didn’t make it acceptable. And NO I am not a victim; I am a survivor. Victims don’t need to be weak…they can be strong.

There is no way that I am over what happened; the emotional scars you left are still there. I sometimes feel like I am fighting a losing battle. But every time I think about you I feel something deep inside…I feel pity. How sad you must have been to prey on a 16 year old girl because you couldn’t get someone your own age to have sex with you. How pathetic it is that you had to physically lock me in the car to stand a chance of getting any action. How ridiculously boring your lives must have been that you sat and thought of this together; down to the finest details of the alcohol that you got for me.

I don’t know what you are doing now or where you are…but if you have a daughter, think how hard it would be for her to tell you this story. The story of how two men took advantage of her, locked her in a car, wouldn’t let her out and sexually assaulted her. I had to tell my two big brothers who live 300 miles away, my uncles found out and so did my friends. They told me they would fix things…they would find you and they would hurt you. But that wouldn’t make it any easier for me. Looking back now, honestly, I wish they did. It wouldn’t have made me feel any better at the time, but it would have made you hurt…just like I did and I still am.

But at the end of it all I am not a victim. I have learnt from what has happened and I am now helping other people who have mental health issues. I have empathy and understanding that I never had before.

You have no power over me anymore.

It’s time to let you go.

Goodbye, and good riddance to you both.