I’m never lonely because I’m never alone. I start to feel lonely, but he won’t let me. There’s no such thing as being alone when he’s with me all the time. I’m not alone when I lie in bed at night. His fingers, his tongue, his nails, his skin is always on me just when I think I’m alone.

I was fifteen when I got drunk for the first time, a glorious, black-out drunk ‘party’ at my friend’s house. Her older sister, she knew college boys. I was going to drink with college boys. My friends parents were at some gala, they wouldn’t be home until two or three. These boys, they brought cheap gin, they brought vodka and weed and pipes and these big, cocky attitudes that showed that they were in college and they knew what they were doing. My friend and I drank with them and then took a bottle upstairs when they started smoking pot with her sister. It smelled and I didn’t want anything to do with it. My friend, she passed out upstairs, exhausted and drunk and sleepy. The smell of pot was fading, so I went back downstairs and drank the cheap gin with the boys and her sister. Then I started getting sick. I was tired, woozy and dizzy and done. I didn’t wanna drink anymore, I wanted to sleep. She and one of the boys helped me downstairs, put me on the couch and I fell asleep.

I had sat on that couch many times before. I had slept on it at sleepovers, played scrabble and Wii and truth or dare and kid games on it. I was comfortable, safe, not scared. But I should’ve been.

Sometime later, I woke up. I was tired, but I felt some weight pressing against me and I was terribly cold. I figured I had to throw up, that the pressure on my stomach was from the drinking. But it wasn’t. I opened my eyes and as they adjusted to the dim light, I saw why I was cold. I was losing my close at an alarming rate as the dark-haired boy, the one who had smirked at me from across the room as I drank, pulled my blue v-neck over my head. My arms wouldn’t move. I was stiff and frozen and drunk and the alcohol made my tongue heavy and awkward and unmovable. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to sleep. He started to pull off my jeans. I watched him, petrified, terrified, so afraid of what was happening. I started to hope that maybe he was just changing me into my pajamas. My hopes were squashed when he stuck his fingers in my underwear.

People say there are three responses to danger: flight, fight or freeze. I had frozen up until then, but the moment his grimy hand was stuck against my skin, I fought. I moved my liquor-heavy tongue and tried making as much noise as possible - but the music was on upstairs and they couldn’t hear me. I said no. I said no again. I said no, no, no, no. But he still hurt me and he hurt me and he hurt me. He didn’t care until I went for his face. My arms were uncomfortable and awkward, thick with alcohol and hard to move, but I swung them towards his face. With his cocky-older-college-boy-smirk, he hit me back. One hand in my underwear, the other punching my cheek. I whimpered, but I kept clawing at his face, biting and scratching. He removed his hand from my underwear and began ripping off my bra, not caring about the hooks or straps. Once it was gone, he got a sickly sweet look on his face. He was smiling, but I knew it wasn’t because something made him happy. It was because he was playing with my nipples, licking and biting and roughly grabbing. he squeezed my breasts and I yelped and swung at him again. This made him angry - I wasn’t complacent anymore and that’s what he wanted. It was all about him and he had to show me that. He took his fingernails and dug them into the soft skin between the skin of my breast and my nipples, tearing with his nails and ripping. My face was bleeding, and now he was taking fingernail sized chunks from my nipples. I was crying, makeup all over my face. Then off my underwear went. He stuck a finger in me and, incredibly displeased with my crying, decided to go on with it. I started watching the clock through my tears. I tried screaming again as he began to stick his penis in me. Then he stopped. I was relieved and thought maybe he felt badly. Instead, he leaned close to my face, smelling of pot and alcohol.

“Oh,” he whispered, his hot breath on my ear. “You’re dry.” Then he pulled back for a second, looked me in the eyes and smiled. “You must’ve been a virgin.”

For fifty-three minutes I watched the clock, crying and trying to hit and losing all hope that I had ever had in humanity. After fifty-three minutes, my friend’s sister came downstairs to check on me. She found blood between my legs, from my breasts and on my face. She found a boy on top of me while I cried and whimpered and squirmed. She freaked and told him to get out, told his friends to get out and that she was going to call the police. As he put on his shirt and the other two boys came downstairs, they told her that she wouldn’t call the police. She couldn’t. There was alcohol, underage kids and illegal drugs. There was no way she’d call the police without getting in trouble. They finally left, she locked the doors and windows until her parents came home a few hours later. But first she took my clothes, threw them away and stuck me in the shower to wash off the blood. She gave me new clothes and told me to go to bed, that we’d talk about it another day. I spent months waiting to talk to her about it - never telling my friend or anyone - but she refused. She told me it was in the past and to let it go.

I had a bite mark on my breast for two weeks. I have scars still on my breasts from him. I lost my virginity. I lost control over my body and mind. I have scars no one will ever see, internal ones that keep me scared. Boys have never protected me. Even two months ago, when I was sexually assaulted by a boy’s fingers, no one seemed to care. I have all these scars and memories and things that I carry with me all the time, but they’ve made me stronger. I’m not a victim anymore; I’m a survivor.

I thought he was my friend, until he blackmailed me. He knew something I had done that I couldn’t afford for other people to find out. He was the only witness to that dark moment, to the events of that morning, and I needed it to stay a secret. He knew too much about me and too many people who couldn’t know. But no one had to find out if I would do what he was asking…

So I agreed to his proposition. I agreed to let him see, as long as he would keep my past shame and his payment a secret. I agreed to buy his silence with a peep show. When really pushed, I told him I MIGHT let him touch my chest. That was ALL that I agreed to do.

The next morning, feeling uncomfortable and scared, I went to his apartment. I kept telling myself it was no big deal. A few brief minutes of nudity and this entire ordeal would be over. He would hold up his end of the bargain, and everything would return to normal. My secret would be safe, and no one would ever have to know. I was wrong.

I went into his room, stripped down, and stood awkwardly by his bed, trying to reveal as little of my body as possible when he walked in. He looked me up and down. Then, grabbing the arm I was using to cover my breasts, he pulled it down, making some comment about how I “didn’t need to hide” that I’m sure was supposed to be reassuring. This was followed by him doing the same thing to the hand that was covering my mound. It wasn’t a hurtful grasp, but it was one that told me I had no control. He told me to spin around, and then to get on the bed so he could “have a look”. I foolishly complied.

I lay down on the bed, legs bent and shut tightly, arms covering my chest, and waited, not knowing what was coming next. He climbed up next to me, fully clothed, and once again pulled away the arms that covered my chest, exposing my chest to his gaze. He sat there staring, practically drooling, and commenting on their size and shape, the color of my areolas, the size of my nipples. He took it all in, and then reached out and grabbed one. It was firm but gentle, mentally uncomfortable but physically almost enjoyable. And since I had kind of agreed to it, I didn’t stop him. I just stared at the ceiling as he fondled my breasts, rubbing them and occasionally tweaking a nipple.

Then suddenly the hands were gone and the bed was shifting as he moved lower on the bed. He moved to the end, just past my feet, facing my bent knees that I kept pressed together. He placed his hands on my knees and tried to push them apart, but I clamped them shut. “Come on” he said. “You agreed to it.”

So I relented. I was 15 years old. I didn’t know about things like coercion or active consent. All I knew is that he was right. I had agreed to let him see, and if I went back on my part of the deal, my secret would be out. So let my legs fall to the side. He sat there, face far too close to my most secret parts for comfort, staring. I could literally feel his breath on me, and I shifted in restless discomfort. His hands still rested on my knees, holding them apart. He inched closer, to the point where I could feel the hair of his beard on my inner thighs, almost touching an even more sacred place.

I rapidly shifted backwards, and then he was on me. I jerked my legs together, but that wasn’t a deterrent to him. I asked him to stop, said I wasn’t comfortable with this, that I hadn’t agreed to. He asked me why I would want him to stop, because I was wet so I obviously liked it. I was young and stupid. I didn’t know what I do now, that I can be horny as hell and dry as a desert or extremely wet and repulsed by sex. And I was already living life as a victim. I had been raped at 13 and used and abused by men ever since. In my mind, if I was wet like he said, I had no right to say no.

“I don’t know…” I mumbled. “I don’t want…”

So he kept going. Using hands and mouth and tongue, he continued to go at me. And I just lay there, unresponsive, staring up at a corner of the ceiling, desperately trying to pretend I was somewhere else, with someone else. I kept trying to convince myself I was okay with what was happening, that I didn’t feel so violated I wanted to die, that there wasn’t a big dark cloud of blackmail hanging over my head keeping me from saying no, that he hadn’t ignored my requests to stop, that he wouldn’t push this any further…

Every once in a while, he would climb on top of me to attack my breasts. He squeezed and grabbed and sucked and bit, and most of it was painful. He kept getting more and more rough with my body, violating me in more and more uncomfortable and even painful ways. He jammed pudgy fingers into me with far more force and in greater numbers than my body knew how to handle. He bit and squeezed and pulled harder, causing sore, swollen nipples. He grabbed clothes pins off of his nightstand, clamping one to each nipple, loving the way I cried out when he did it. He returned down below for a while, then came back up to remove the clothes pins. That hurt the most, because as the blood flow returned and they began to swell even more the clothes pins were immediately replaced by teeth.

I just kept staring at the roof, crying out when he put me through pain, which he did more and more as things went on. I think he got off on hearing me cry out. I sat there desperately trying to think of a way out. The only thing I could think of that might cause him to end his assault on my body was if I “came”. So for the first and only time in my life, I faked an orgasm.

And immediately he stopped. But before the relief could set in he was on top of me, his crotch just inches from my face, my arms pinned by his massive body. And he was unzipping his pants.

My eyes bulged out of my head, and I told him no, over and over, telling him I wasn’t okay with this, that I wasn’t comfortable with it, that I couldn’t do it. His response will echo in my mind forever. It is permanently etched in my memory, a scar that will never fade.

“Come on, just a little bit? You owe me.”

And at that moment I knew. His tone told me everything I needed to know. I had no choice. He was in complete control. If I didn’t give him what he wanted, he would ruin me. He would probably ruin me anyway. But I had no choice. I was stuck. I was alone in a house with a man who was vastly bigger and stronger than me, completely naked and pinned down. Even if I decided to try and bolt, I couldn’t. I was naked, stuck underneath his body, my clothes as far from the door as possible, and there was nowhere to go but outside. I lost my ability to choose when I walked in the door and let my clothes hit the floor.

Before I knew it my face had been shoved into his crotch, his member in my mouth. My senses were assaulted by a mixture of the foul odder of sweat and the scratching of stubble against my face. My saving grace was that there wasn’t enough of him to make me gag, or really to do anything with at all. I put no effort into it, letting him use my mouth while trying to inhale as little as possible, since I had no other options.

But as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. As I took in the breathable air and felt his weight shift. I had a glimmer of hope. I legitimately thought he had a change of heart and was about to let me go, and maybe even apologize. Instead he grabbed my arms, moved down my body, and forced my legs apart. He was going to try to have sex with me. I protested strongly, telling him I wasn’t okay with this, that it would mess up my head, that I couldn’t do it. My pleas were ignored, and he thrust towards my violated body…

And by the grace of God he failed at what he was trying to do. His oversized body and undersized member made it impossible for him to penetrate me. I practically went limp with relief. He tried a few more times before giving up and going back to violating my face until it was over. He rolled off, and I got up, dressed quickly, and hurriedly evacuated the apartment complex. When I was finally back in my neighborhood, I burst into tears.

This wasn’t the first time I was sexually abused. It wasn’t even the second. But it was the most traumatic. I had trusted him. I thought he was my friend, and he violated me in so many ways I could barely function. He robbed me of my right to choose, my right to say no, my right to control my own body. And afterwards everything got even worse. Not only did he tell everyone my original secret, but he also told them what he did to me. Except in his version, I wanted all of it, and he successfully managed to “become a man” that morning with me. He told it to everyone who would listen, all while expecting me to pretend that nothing was wrong. He was honestly shocked when, days later, after I had started processing my feelings, I made it clear that we couldn’t be friends like we were. He was my friend, and he violated me, and he doesn’t even think he did something wrong.

It’s been almost 2 years now, and only 2 of my guy friends and my boyfriend have heard what happened that day. My man has been absolutely amazing about all of this. It happened before we dated, and he was also friends with this guy. Heck, my abuser introduced us just days before these events occurred. When I told him what had happened, my boyfriend lost it. That very day, right before it happened, this “friend” of ours told my baby that he was about to go “become a man”, and afterwards gave him the edited (aka completely fictional) version of events. So the man I love with all my heart blames himself, because he feels like he could have stopped what happened to me. In reality, there was absolutely nothing he could have done. There was absolutely no way he could have known what was about to happen, and I tell him that frequently. He reciprocates by telling me the same, but I cannot help but blame myself. I still feel like it’s my fault, because I put myself in that situation and didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. And I know I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do.

I still see this guy every single day at school. That’s why I cannot wait for this year’s seniors to graduate. Once they’re gone, I will no longer have to see the face of the boy who betrayed my trust, blackmailed me, and then sexually assaulted me. I will no longer have to pray that I don’t see him, because I don’t want to spend my day fighting the overwhelming urge to vomit and cry that the sight of him causes. I will no longer have to grin and bare it as people talk about him with nothing but affection because they have no idea who he really is or what he is capable of. I will no longer have to live in fear of the flashbacks he causes. He will be gone, and I will be safe to live and breathe and feel once again. And then maybe, just maybe, I will be able to heal.

We post all the submissions we get (and I just went through and made sure all the recent submissions in our inbox have been posted), so it probably just didn’t go through when you submitted it. If it’s been a couple of weeks and your submission hasn’t been posted yet, that most likely means we didn’t receive it and you should submit again. Sorry! :(

We just haven’t gotten any submissions in a few days.

my mom laid me down in between her and him and they were talking and he started touching me but they kept talking so i walked out the room and he followed me and kept doing it. i asked my mom why she let this happen and she made him leave but he was back 2 weeks later and my mom said she loved him and it wasnt that bad anyway and i was exagerating so i told my counselor a few years later and she also said i was exagerating. he still comes over to my moms house and he still tries to touch me.

I was 5 i think, i don’t really remember. He was my brother, 3 years older, and i adored him. It happened at least once a week, i think. I blocked it out for so long, i tried to forget it all. I remember the last time so clearly. I was downstairs, and i heard footsteps. I told him to stop and got up to leave. He had put a paint bucket by the bottom of the stairs to stop the door opening. I went up to my room and into my bed. I was 11 when i realised it was wrong. I always felt so guilty, as it didn’t feel bad. But it was. He was 14 the last time. If i was 11 and knew it was wrong, how did he not? And why? Why did it ever happen? What happened to him to make him think that was ok?

I remember other times too. My neighbours and my brother and i were all friends and would play together all the time. I remember one night we were playing Mummy’s and Daddy’s. He was my age. How did this happen? I remember his little sister wanting to play too. What happened to them?

Their stepfather told me not to wear knickers to bed once when i was 6 or 7. I remember feeling really uncomfortable. Did he do something to them? Did he teach my brother these things?

We were all at our house once, i would have been 8 or 9, and i remember my stepdad came into my room while my neighbour was standing right next to my bed. I told him that i was giving him my pillow. I learnt to lie so fast. I am nearly 19, and i still can lie, so quickly. Why did he believe me? He must have known. It was obvious. When i started wearing make up at 14 you got so angry. Is it because you knew what could happen? I am so sure that you already knew it had.

My brother started smacking me on the bum when i was 14. He was 17. It only happened 3 times. The last time he did it, i turned around and said “do not do that, do not touch me”. I remember how empowered i felt. I stopped it, i ended it all.

My brother and i are sort of close, we talk a lot and spend time together. But those horrible things we never speak of. Does he ever think about it? Does he ever blame me? Does he blame himself? What happened to him? What happened to us all? Where did it start?

I was a sexual child from such a young age. When i started drinking i’d be desperate for male attention. I am 18 and have had 7 sexual partners, and i should only have had one. I’m in a relationship now, a real relationship, he should have been the first to touch me. He loves me so much. He is so kind and adores me. I have told him, vaguely, that i was sexually abused. I’ve told my best friends too. I tell them it was my neighbour. Not my brother. I don’t want to hurt him, or my family. 

I am ready to talk more openly. I still don’t think i can admit this full truth. But I AM NOT A VICTIM. I was a victim. And it wasn’t my fault. But i will not let this make me into someone that little girl should never have become. My self esteem was so low, seemingly since i realised that it was wrong, and i never knew. When i realised that my boyfriend actually loved me, i cried and asked myself why? HOW can he love me? It was my Mother who told me i had low self esteem. I deserve love. I deserve real love, who won’t hurt me, or steal from me.

I was so damaged, for so long. Now, i am finding all the pieces again. I take too many drugs. I cry too much. But i have so much love around me. And one day i will forgive him and forgive myself. 

I look back at that little girl, when i was 5, and i just want to hug her and hold her and give her the strength that i have now. She didn’t deserve that, he didn’t deserve that, no-one deserves that. 

I am not a victim. I am unbreakable.

If anyone can relate to my story please talk to me on this if you can. Or what you have done, or would do or think you can help me find the answers to my questions.

He was my “friend.” He knew I was lonely and didn’t have anyone at school I was close to, that I was desperate for attention. He spent months buying me lunch, taking me to the movies, until one day he invited me over to his house to “watch a movie.” I should have known what that meant in boy-speak. He told me it would feel good, that the girls he’d dated said it did. I never said yes, but I never outright said no. I felt like I couldn’t.

My sister vilifies the man who sexual abused her but she is close friends with my sexual abuser. While our family and friends helped her cope after talking about the abuse, her close friend sexually abused me because she did not have feelings for him. I was 15. I do not blame her. I just wish she would not smile and laugh when he comes up in conversation. One woman’s friend is another woman’s abuser.

Story Number 1

One night when I was about four, maybe five, I remember somebody coming into my room. I do not remember who. But I vividly remember the way the light from outside in the hall spilled into the room; a thin sliver, half illuminating things and helping it all seem like maybe it was still just a dream. I think it was autumn, or maybe spring. Either way, it was too dark to be summer, and too warm to be winter. The upstairs of my home was quiet and we were alone. And whoever this person was knew that.

The bed covers were gently pulled back from me and my nightdress settled around my middle. I was exposed. And suddenly this person was touching me. Fingers gently rubbing and caressing, slipping inside for just a fraction of a second. All the while I was being softly spoken to. Telling me what exactly I don’t know, but saying just enough to keep me quiet. That ‘everything is okay and this will help me sleep. But I must never tell anybody, it’s just our little secret. And it does feel kind of nice doesn’t it?’ And it does. It’s warm and pleasant. And this is somebody I love and trust absolutely, so why shouldn’t it all be fine?

I wasn’t hurt and I wasn’t scared but I was so confused. Physically, mentally and emotionally. I was left in bed to sleep, not really knowing what had just happened or what it meant, but knowing that I must never tell. And now with the knowledge of how to get that pleasant warm feeling again, just as long as I keep it a secret and never let anyone know or see.

The specifics of this incident, and I have no idea if it was the only time, have phased in and out of my conscious memory. When I remembered again at the age of nineteen I felt physically sick. I have never felt so filthy and guilty and scared. Scared of the people around me. Scared to be touched or have anyone too close. Although I often had problems being touched, especially at home. I remember one fight with my father and in his defence he said “it’s not like I’m molesting her.” Ouch.

If I was never hurt why should I care now? I actually feel guilty for being bothered by this. The main reason and the single worst thing about it though are the unanswered questions. Who was it? Why did they want to do it and how could they possibly think that it would be okay? Do they remember? Do they still do this to others? I have a little niece now and the idea that somebody could do something to hurt her terrifies me. But how can I protect her if I don’t know who I need to protect her from?

Here’s a zine that might help you: http://www.phillyspissed.net/sites/default/files/what%20to%20do%20when%20someone%20tells%20you.pdf