Sometimes I wish my life was just a dream, but it is not. Okay I don’t remember this very clearly seeing as I was a young girl but my step-father, I am pretty sure he sexually abused me. I can remember when my mother would leave me home alone with him I would stay in my bedroom because being around him made me feel uncomfortable. when I was visiting my mother my stepfather asked me if he could tuck me in, ” I said “no,” He replied with “Why not, you used to always want me to when you were little.” I replied well I am 14 now. I have only started to remember this.

My brother also tried to sexually assault me on a few occasions. He is 2 years older then me and no longer lives at home.

Also one night my mother had to go to the hospital so I stayed at a family friends house. I remember waking up in the morning with blood on my night gown.

When I was 12 my father for a couple of months till he got a girlfriend had sexually abused me. I am happy that he has stopped but he would try and rub me down there and touch my breasts. Luckily for me he never put anything in there.

I am now 19  years old and I view my self as a victim not a survivor because I still cry my self to sleep sometimes.

gracebrownphoto:

ten photos from my series project unbreakable that remind me every day why i do this work and why i will never stop:

because it is our duty as humans to lessen the suffering of others, and if we can take a moment to bear witness to these words, we are able to carry the weight of them just a little bit.

—

project unbreakable is a series created in october 2011 featuring photos of sexual assault survivors holding quotes from their attacker, quotes from their friends/family regarding the abuse, or statements from themselves regarding the abuse.

I was sexually abused many times throughout the corse of middle school by my friend (we were both boys). I weighed only about 80 pounds when it happened, and my friend was about 180 pounds, so he was able to overpower me very easily. He convinced me that the abuse was only a game. He would hold me down on his bed and touch my anus. While he was doing it, he would say really disturbing things. He acted like he was joking, but it wasn’t funny at all to me. The assaults usually lasted  When tried to resist it, he laughed and said things like “the more you struggle, the more I like it.” He sometimes did it while his mom was home, and if I made any noise at all he would punch me hard and tell me to be quiet. Whenever he did it while nobody was home, I screamed and begged him to stop, but he just laughed and said “It’s no use. Nobody can hear your screams.” Afterwards he said that he was only joking, and that it’s not abuse because he wasn’t aroused, and I believed him. I wanted the abuse to stop, but I didn’t know how to tell someone because I didn’t want to end our friendship. I felt so much guilt. I felt like it was somehow my fault, or that I did something to provoke it. I also wasn’t able to identify it as abuse. I thought that it didn’t count as abuse, and that making a big deal out of it would be an insult to those who went through real abuse. I am 18 now, and I finally ended my silence just a few months ago. Up until then, I was still convinced that what I went through wasn’t abuse. I finally mentioned the abuse while I was in therapy. It felt great to get it off my chest. My therapist was very sympathetic. He helped me realize that it really was abuse that I went through. He also convinced me that it was not my fault at all. I still suffer from some anxiety and depression stemming from the abuse, but I am on a path towards recovery now, and I am feeling much better than I did before I talked about the abuse.

I never did say no. I did cry in front of him telling him I didn’t want to do it, begging him to understand. He was my boyfriend at the time. I feel it takes a monster to look into a crying girls eyes and say things to make her think even less of herself, just to get her to do something she didn’t want to.

It was never a sexually healthy relationship. He would get off, but if I wanted to get off I would have to do things sexually I didn’t want to. So I just stopped enjoying sex.

I became depressed and wanted to just sleep all the time, but he would pester me until we had sex, then I was allowed to fall asleep. He also would tell me about things like one night how a girl invited to please him all he had to do was sneak out of the house. He said he almost went because I had not had sex with him a lot that week and he thought we where falling apart.

He told me he loved me.

He also was suicidal, the only reason he was alive was because someone found him shortly after he inserted the knife into his chest. When we fought he went to the kitchen once, I found him standing over the knifes. He muttered something about how he was scared I was going to leave him, he could not live if I left him. I held him crying on the kitchen floor saying “its going to be ok, everything is going to be ok.” I didn’t realize at the time I was saying it to comfort myself rather then the person keeping me trap in a sexual abusive relationship. 

I had repressed everything so much I fairly much forgot the things I have seen and been through. 

I’ve always thought I had a voracious sexual apetite but now I see where it may have come from. I guess I forced myself to forget. 

- When I was 4 I used to know a boy over the road, my age, and together we would play board games. I would lie on my tummy with my legs splayed, as any 4 year old does and he started a ‘game’ where he would lie in between my legs and sniff my privates. This happened once a week for 1-2 years. I’m pretty sure thats all that happened. 

- When I was 10 my older brother stayed over the night in my room (at my request - he was visiting for the weekend). He had a girlfriend he had been together with for many years. I woke up in the middle of the night to my brother groping me, kissing me, touching me, (all the while saying his gf’s name) and freaked out instantly, crying, running out of the room. In doing so, I realise he was ‘sleep-groping’ if such a thing exists. My freakout woke him up and he says, {my name} you okay?. I woke Mum up and told her in a torrent of tears. We agreed to never tell him. I never have and I love him dearly. I would hate to tell him now, he is a wonderful husband and father, a decent man, and an upstanding citizen. I know he didn’t mean it, he was sleeping after all. But it still makes me feel sick that it happened and that somehow its my fault. 

- I dated a guy for 1.5 years (before I realised I was gay) who would ‘skullfuck’ me. Which is effectively holding my head in place while I’m giving him pleasure, and jamming his penis down my throat as though he were having sex with my head. It was awful. I told him if he kept doing it i would start biting - he would stop for a while then start it up again. He was stronger and I was in a vulnerable position. I stop giving head pretty quickly after that. 

- I was travelling in Chile and at the end of the night a really nice guy walked me home. We went the wrong way. I sat down for a while and he was being lovely. I went to kiss him on the cheek as thanks and he turned his face toward me. Started kissing me more. I kissed back, not wanting to put myself in a volatile and violent situation, alone, in a foreign country. Little did I realise, the same thing happens if you put up or a fight or don’t put up a fight. He would not let me go home alone after that. I kept trying to put him off politely, redirect him and it never worked. I never agreed to it. I didn’t want to do it. I still feel dirty. 

There are only a few examples. I could go on. The only reason I am even looking at these things myself and talking about them is because I met a beautiful woman who has a much more painful history. Seeing her grace, her forgiveness and her positivity has given me hope and courage. None of it was my fault. Nor is it shameful for me. 

These conversations need to be had. 

I wish that I could forget. I thought that I had “moved on” only to discover I feel like it was yesterday. The hurt is so deep that I can’t even locate it. Sometimes I just have this ache deep down inside. 

I thought that the reason I always shook and couldn’t calm down was because the orgasm was so intense. I didn’t know that feeling totally panicked was not normal. I didn’t understand how badly he was treating me. I had not idea that its not consensual if you beg not to, and end up giving up. The part I loved was when he would hold me and rub my back and smile. It felt so good. I miss it. My fear would very very slowly subside. But I don’t think it ever went away.

I told me next boyfriend that I was going to be a disappointment. He didn’t get what I meant, and I was too embarrassed to explain. But I wish that I felt like I had something to offer. I am too embarrassed to talk about sex, or explain the things that he did to me, but I wish I could. I spent so much time staring at the white wall to the right of the bed. Hours. If I disassociated, he would leave me there, because I bored him. So I just spent hours staring at the blank white wall. I don’t cry. The tears just won’t come out. I wish they would, but I can’t. Sometimes I do things to make myself cry, just so I can get out the pain, but it doesn’t work. 

I wish I could stand up for women who have been abused, or just identify as a victim, but I can’t. I am too scared. I don’t even want to think about it. But I want to talk about it all the time. 

There is a guy that I like. But the feeling like he is expecting something sexual from me, eventually, if we go out, is too much. It stresses me out and makes me want to not see him. Sometimes I hyperventilate and it makes me feel better. 

I really need a hug right now.

You were related to me and should have been a person I should have trusted. It didn’t matter to you that I was 5 when you first touched me. Nor did it matter to you that you threatened to kill me if I told a single person. I stopped you when I was 10 because it took me that long to gather my courage. From that point you feared me because you saw just how little I cared about our little secret. 

You are a coward. You will never break me!

(Poem I wrote from the point of view of an abused child, me)

My words are weightless,

Soft cries, burning cold tears,

Screaming,

Lies,

No, I said no,

But I carry no weight,

So you can lift me up,

And throw me,

Into the atmosphere.

My words are weighted,

I’ve said too much.

Lumbering,

Heavy tongue and stuttered words,

Drama queen,

Why are you being so dramatic?

I don’t know why,

But you know.

So you can pull me down,

And plant me,

In the earth again.

My words were unheard,

I was hungry,

So thirsty,

Love and attention,

You fed my appetite,

And you took my words,

And prepared them for me.

So you can push me into you,

And melt my skin,

Into yours.

My words were meaningless,

Bruised skin,

Cut lips,

Stop crying, you little bitch,

I saved you,

And you did,

I am grateful,

So you can take my words,

And bury them back,

Inside of my throat.

The one boy I was there for was late.
A party had begun without him.
He would be there soon.
A drink while I wait.

Alcohol kept being poured.
I didn’t refuse.
Half empty cups sat next to me.
My words began to slur.
We all laughed.

I was drunk.
I was not unconscious.
Subtle cues went by unnoticed.
My naive mind was tainted.
Snickering. Muffled words. Gestures.
They were all so nice the week before.
My guard was down.
I put trust in basic strangers.

I can remember the change.
The moment I noticed the fun was over…

Exiting the restroom.

The door was barely opened when I was greeted.
Snickering.
Eyes harboring a slight hostility.
I had seen those eyes before.
I was not a stranger to that look.
My heart skipped a beat but I refused to show fear.
I would just leave.

My mind was aware.
My body was not as compliant.
A little stumble.
An attempt at a quick recovery was not simple.
Four hands were offered.
I waved them away.
They took my arms anyway.

The stairs were five measly steps away.

My path to the stairs is blocked by six legs.
Four arms pull at me from a room off the hallway.
The arms holding mine force compliance.
My unsteady legs betray me.
Did I stumble from the alcohol or the fear quaking through me?

“I just want to leave.” The words escape.
Hot breath through laughter lands on my neck.
Another familiar feeling that invokes terror.

I pull against the arms.
A feeble, drunken attempt to move past five guys.
The struggle brings more laughter.

On a bed.
I continue to fight.
Tears falling.
The laughter is silent.
There is only the sound of skin and heavy breath.
I am pulled apart and pushed against.

The battle is lost.
A gasp escapes me.
*The first set of legs between mine is encouraged.
I will not gasp again.
There will be no more reaction.

My breath is shallow.
The struggle is gone.
It’s daylight still.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen during daylight.
My eyes stare at the light filtering through the blinds.
One slat is broken and the cord is all tangled.
My skin crawls from the disarray.
*Or is it the next set of legs that find their way between mine?

Pay attention to the filtering light.
Notice the slight crack running along the ceiling above the window.
*Another invasion of legs.
My cries are no longer silent.

Focus on my burning eyes.
Feel the pain in my wrists.
Don’t feel anything below.

*New legs.
He is bigger than the others.
He knows and cheers himself as I cry out.
The smell of him makes me gag.
I wish I could throw up but nothing.

*The last legs.
He is teased.
I choose to look at him.
His eyes appear scared.
I beg him to step away.
They chant for “cherry boy”.
He is stroking himself.
His eyes attempt to flirt and I look away.

He was the worst of all.
The fact I thought mercy might have been granted
The chanting.
The breathing and moaning.
He lingered. He touched.
He pushed through his fear and felt validated.

Ten legs left the room.
I was alone.
The door was closed.
My two legs were now alone.
My two arms no longer restrained.

When did I sit up?
When did I get dressed?
When did I go to the door?

I exit the house to their praise of thanks.
They thanked me?
My stomach turns.
Shame flows through me like a river.

I am sober.
I am numb.

The numbness will last for years.