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I’m New Here

The scars of child sexual abuse last a lifetime.

This is her brave story:

Hi, The Band. I’m not too sure where to start, so I’ll start here.

My uncle’s friend was a police officer. He had a daughter and we played together often; we were like a family all hanging out together.

One night, when I was I was 9 years old, I slept over at his home…everything changed..

Suddenly, I was in his bedroom, the room was dark, and he was on top of me. I started to feel him going in and out of me (sorry I’m not yet able to be specific).

It hurt so much.

I couldn’t do anything.

I couldn’t scream.

Wasn’t I supposed to do what he told me to?

I did. I turned when he told me to, I did all he told me to, and I did nothing to stop it. I just squeezed the sheets tight and hoped for it to be over. But it kept happening, like there was no end.

Finally it was over, or so I thought. Because even now that I’m 22, I still relive it over and over again.

I have PTSD with severe anxiety, seems like there’s no end to this nightmare.

Last year made it worse – my friend sexually assaulted me, I choose not to call it “rape” as it makes it seem so much worse.

I don’t know what to do or think; sometimes I don’t know how to live – I cut my wrist sometimes. Each time I promise that I won’t do it again, but it’s almost addictive especially at my low points. I don’t trust men, especially police officers – it’s ironic how those who are supposed protect us are the ones who hurt us.

I just need someone who can understand what I’m going through, someone who’ve been there, someone I can talk to, and won’t think that I’m too messed up.

I need help.

The Rest Of My Life

Anyone who claims the teen years are the “best of your life” is lying.

This is his struggle:

I was born in 1998, and until fourth grade, I was the big kid everyone knew and liked; I was popular and well-respected. No one bullied me. That all changed in fifth grade when I moved to Arlington, WA and started over at a new school.

My first – and worst – mistake was mistaking a jackwagon of a “friend” (who’s not much of one now) for a girl I liked.

You see where this is going – I was called “gay” and “bisexual” until the end of seventh grade when people forgot about it.

In the summer before eighth grade, I had my first real girlfriend. Over that summer, she sexually abused me, and I was traumatized.

After I ended it with her, I was scared of girls, until I met my previous girlfriend whom I dated for seven months. She was too scared to tell me when I was doing something that made her uncomfortable, so she left me. She broke my heart when she told that I made her feel like a “slut.”

It killed me to hear that.

After that, I screwed up, continued texting her, tried to be around her. That was a colossally bad idea. Things got so much worse.

People who’d been my friends turned on me because I’d hurt her, even though I wasn’t aware I’d been hurting her. Only few people tried to comfort me, trying to help my broken heart.

One day after a long track practice, I was finally getting over her, and a few buddies were fooling around, relaxing and telling stories. We were chatting about cars, girls, and fishing and I brought up some stupid (yet true) things about my ex-girlfriend. One of those guys told her.

After a month, I texted her, asking who’d told her what I’d said. She confirmed it was one of the guys from my track team. I lost control and punched him in the mouth – not because he’d told her, but because he’d lied to me; telling me he hadn’t told her.

Her parents showed up at a fourth of July parade and stopped to pet my dog. I looked in her Mom’s eyes and shook her Dad’s hand. My ex hid her face behind her hair.

I learned that her new boyfriend is one of my most trusted (well, WAS trusted) and close friends. I have ADD, an unusual form of OCD, which means that it’s far harder for me to get over things. Something a normal person forgets about in, say a week, takes me months. Since what I’m trying to get over is heartbreak, it takes more than months to work through.

I was sentenced to eight hours of community service for juvenile assault. I’m finding ways to express myself – music, friends, and cars.

I’m now helping a friend who was sexually abused get back on her feet, and spending more time with my girlfriend. Wish me (and my friend) luck, The Band!

Thanks for reading, The Band.

Do you have any advice for me?

You Were My Friend

You had been my friend for 13 long years when you raped me.

You were my best friend’s husband, my son’s god-father.

You were someone I always trusted and could count on.

That one fateful night we were hanging out at Downtown Disney and I got drunk I told you I didn’t want any more, but you kept buying shots.  Looking back now, I see this was your plan. I passed out on the way home, only to wake up with you on top of me. I tried to push you off, screaming NO and fighting to push you off me, but you just covered my mouth and told me to shut the fuck up and that you knew I wanted it too.

I passed out again.

The next thing I knew, I woke up in the morning next to my husband. I knew what had happened the night before. I heard your wife out in the kitchen with your kids and my son.

I tried to forget, tried to pretend nothing happened. I tried to go on with my life, but my marriage fell apart for various reasons.

Years have gone by. Six to be exact.

Then I get a phone call from your wife. She is crying and upset. She fills me in on the past year, that you guys were having problems. Then she drops the bomb – you had killed yourself.

Now I feel like I can’t tell anyone what happened.  To tell your wife, one of my closest friends, would ruin her and tear apart our friendship.  It has been too long to tell anyone else.  So now I must live with this.

You have forever changed me.  I can’t trust people anymore, even those closest to me. I am glad you are gone. As selfish as it is, I am glad you are not a constant reminder of that bad moment in my life.

Having A Rough Time

Duck is my husband. He is the rock in my life. He keeps me tethered to the earth when my mind might otherwise let me float away. But there are some negative things in our relationship. Some negative things in our lives. Things that are starting to break me down. Break his hold on me. I’m starting to get lost in my head again .

When I was a teenager, I was in a severely abusive relationship. He emotionally, physically, and sexually ripped me apart. He destroyed my physical well-being, my sense of self, and my sense of personal safety. He took away my strength. He took away everything I had.

I got out of there. It took years of leaving and returning, but I finally escaped when I was 18 after a near-death experience at his hands. I don’t talk about the years of my life that he stole. I try not to remember them. I try not to think about the fear he put into me. The fear that I thought would never go away.

My Duck, my wonderful wonderful Duck, made me feel safe again. My Duck is teaching me that I have value in the world.

But my life isn’t letting me feel that anymore. Duck’s mother lives with us. She’s going senile. And as she loses her grip on reality, she’s getting mean. Really mean. She uses a tone of voice when she talks to us that is the same as the Abuser used. She calls me names. Makes me feel insignificant.

How do I keep my fragile sense of self from breaking when I’m surrounded by the same sounds as broke me in the first place?

Worth

I feel so fucking ugly and dirty and slutty.

I don’t understand it. I know I am none of those things. But the idea is stuck in there.

All those times, all those fucking awful times we “made love”….can I ever allow a man to touch me again? I didn’t know how profound the impact would be until I try to sleep and everything I try so hard to forget comes rushing back and I want to fucking scream. I want the world to know what a fucked up person you are and all the fucked up things you did because it WASN’T right.

I need to vent because I can’t say these things out loud yet. I want someone to be there, but I’m too ashamed to verbalize a word.

Because in those years together, you degraded me into a sexual plaything that would react to your desires and run to please you. In those times, you liked me or so I thought.

How could you…

force me to let you inside?

push my face into the wall?

force me to suck on you, shoving into me until I threw up?

cum on me wherever you wanted?

rip my hair out?

pound into me so hard I screamed and cried and begged?

hurt me like this while other people are in the house and can hear?

leave your mark on me?

trap me in the bathroom to “get ready” for you?

invite another man into our bed to assist you?

call me those awful names?

humiliate me with pictures?

force me to sleep with strangers?

make me feel like I was doing this out of love for you?

put my sexual health at risk but not your own?

come home from work and bend me over wherever you pleased?

digitally assault me while in the presence of others?

How dare you…

make me feel like the only touches I deserve from men need to be rough and sexual?

make me feel like this is all I’m worth?