I grew up in a small family with a father, mother, and older brother. While growing up, my brother was my partner in crime and we were always getting ourselves into trouble. I always remember climbing up to the biggest hill behind our house in town and both quickly jumping into our little red rider wagon and shooting down the hill using the handle as our steering wheel- we were always up to things like that. I have a millions memories with my older brother, but the one that haunts me the most was the day he molested me. I was 9 years old. My brother walked me home after school like any other day and since school got out around 3 p.m. in our town, which is a very small town, we were old enough to stay home alone for just those 2 hours before my mom got home from work. I remember going to my room after school and my brother following me and closing the door behind him. I remember hearing “You better not tell mom or dad”, “You’ll get in trouble if you do”, and “I just want to show you what I learned in class” “Don’t be a little girl about it”. I was 9 years old, and I believed his every word. I was scared, but mostly confused. I didn’t know exactly what he was doing but I knew it was wrong. He was supposed to be my big brother, my protector. I remember being naked on my own twin sized bed with my favorite bright pink comforter and him laying his body on top of me and touching me. I remember starting to cry and eventually him getting off of me and telling me he was done. I stayed in my room until my mom got home. I remember trying to decide if I was going to tell my parents that night or not and all I could do was think about what my brother had threatened me with and even at 9 years old, I thought my parents wouldn’t believe me. Because we were brother and sister, we tattled on one another on a daily basis and I thought my parents would think I was just making it up to get him in trouble. The next day after school, I was scared to go home because I thought it was going to happen again. So instead of going inside the house, I played on our jungle gym in the backyard until one of my parents got off work- I probably did this for a week straight. Luckily, he never did this to me again and eventually I began to feel safe again.

My mind did some pretty unique things from age 9 until about age 17. I honestly could not remember a lot of those specific details until I was about age 17 in high school and it seems like I remember a little more and more as time goes by. My mind was able to practically erase what had happened to me growing up I guess in order to “survive” it. Even though, my mind could erase what had happened, I realize now that my body was showing so many signs of pain at such a young age.
At age 12, I was getting stomach ulcers. It was like clockwork for me; every morning around 10 a.m. before 6^th grade gym class I would throw up. I remember the doctors would always ask me what was causing so much stress at 12 years old. I had no answers for them and neither did my parents.
At age 14, I remember having my first suicidal thought, starting to feel extremely sad about everything, and making two attempts to actually kill myself. I did not know why I was so sad and thought this way, but I did an amazing job hiding it amongst my teachers and classmates.

At age 17, I remember having a speaker come to my high school to talk about sexual violence and other teen issues- it was like an instant trigger for me and I had all of these bad memories of that day quickly coming back to me. That was a hard year because I remember trying to deal with it, not knowing how to deal with it, whether to tell my parents now or later, being so upset and resenting my parents, and ultimately feeling even more depressed than before. Later on that year, I ended up telling my four best friends and my boyfriend what had happened to me and I started to feel a little bit better about it. I still had not told my parents or had that conversation with my brother.  

I came to Kearney in 2010 and became a social work major. My triggers were becoming even worse through every social work class I took it seemed like. I started to rethink my major or whether I would be able to get through this. But I stuck with it and extremely glad I did.

When I was 20 years old, in April 2012, I got a text around midnight. It said “I’m sorry I was never the big brother I was supposed to be and I am sorry for what I did to you”. I cried reading it over and over again in disbelief. I felt so angry because it took him 11 years to tell me he was sorry. I know most survivors do not get an apology their entire life, but I was still so angry. One month later, I told my mom what had happened. It’s like I needed that apology from my brother in order to get the courage to tell my parents. It was the kind of closure that I needed. At age 20, I was still dealing with the issue of whether or not my parents would believe me or not, but with my brother’s apology it helped me so much. Both of my parents were extremely supportive and were upset I never told them sooner, but they really did understand why I had a hard time telling them. Since then, I have found myself counseling and have been getting better day by day.

I decided to write this tonight because it’s “National Sibling Day” and as I was scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, I looked at so many photos of my friends with their siblings and felt so happy for them and jealous that I had no photo to share. I have been wanting to type up my story for some time now, but I just felt like tonight was a good night.

I currently have no contact with my older brother and I really haven’t since I was 17 or so, other than seeing him at family gatherings, and I’m okay with that for now. I don’t know if our relationship will always be this way or if I will be able to ultimately forgive him and let him back into my life.

I was 19 when I met my future husband. He was 15 years older than I was and he took care of me. He took me out to dinner, bought me nice things and treated me like a princess. I moved into his house soon after we met and suddenly he had control of my life. I gave him my paychecks, he gave me an “allowance.” I asked permission to go visit my family. He told me what clothes to wear and which friends I could talk to. I was young and I believed he did this all out of love.

I woke up every morning at 5am so that I could work my 6-2 shift. He would get angry at me for falling asleep on the sofa at night before he was ready to go to bed. I was tired and our sexual relations changed. He started demanding sex and I would give in. Some nights I would wake up and he was having sex with me. After a time, I would try to tell him no. He would come back with all that he had done for me. He said I owed him. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be living on the streets. And I believed I did owe him. I believed he did all of this out of love.

Years went by, we had two children. I stopped working to take care of them. Things got worse. He became even more controlling. He drank a lot. He was mean to me and he was mean to our children. And every time I would try to leave, he would pull me back in. I owed him and turned into WE owed him. Everything he did was for the children and me. He gave me my beautiful children. I still believed he did all of this out of love.

I couldn’t have sex with him anymore. The idea of him and I being together made me sick to my stomach. One time I tried to get him to stop. I told him to stop. I stuck my thumb in his eye socket. He didn’t stop, even though I was crying. And when he was done, he told me to stop crying because I owed him. And I believed that. I thought he loved me.

I went back to college and started volunteering at a domestic violence and sexual assault center. I was sitting with a few other women during the training, listening to the presenter talk about rape. I was shocked to realize that I had been raped and that I didn’t OWE him anything.

One night after he had been drinking, he told me that I didn’t love him enough. If I loved him enough I would want to have sex and I would do what he wanted me to do. The next day I made plans to leave him. I went to the center I had volunteered at and found out what I needed to do to get the boys and I out. It took a couple weeks to get things in place. He thought I wouldn’t go through with it and he left me alone for a while. When I was moving the last box out of his house, he asked if I wanted to “have a quickie.” I told him I would never let him touch me again. And I haven’t.

It’s been over a year since I left. I am still repulsed by the thought of what he did to me. I still struggle with the guilt and the shame and the thoughts that I “let” it happen to me. But I have learned that I am not a victim and I am able to work through these feelings. I am not defined by rape.

I’ve always wondered what my life would be like if it hadn’t happened to me.  Would my childhood have been less scary?  Less awkward?  Less lonely?  Would I have been less likely to fall in love with an abuser?  I will never know because it did happen to me – I was molested as a child.  I cannot recall a lot of details about what happened – like how many times or what exactly took place.  My mind has done an amazing job of protecting me from those literally unthinkable acts.  I do know that it was my grandfather who molested me.  I do know it happened when I was a young child – maybe around 5-6 years of age.  I know it happened in he and my grandma’s bedroom and in the semi-truck he drove for a local business.  I remember him telling me how pretty I was all the time and that he loved my long hair.  I also remember him telling me I couldn’t tell anyone else what we did together – especially Mom, Dad or Grandma.  I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.  And for over 13 years, I didn’t say a word.  Mostly because I didn’t even remember that it had happened.  My mind had blocked everything out that had anything to do with being molested.  All I knew growing up was that I felt very, very uncomfortable around him.  He would pinch my butt when I would walk by, and I would feel absolutely mortified and want to run away and cry.  I would avoid any situation that had to do with being alone with him, having to hug him or be in a close proximity to him where he could touch me.  When my brothers and I would stay the night at their house, I would always want to sleep between my brothers so I was safe.  I never knew why I felt that way.. It just became normal to have that anxiety when he was around.  I never felt anxious or nervous with my other grandfather or any other men for that matter – just him.  When I was in third grade, I cut my long “beautiful” hair off so it was barely below my chin.  I also remember several instances where I got “in trouble” for dressing in ways that I shouldn’t; I would wear clothes the right way to school but take off an undershirt or unbutton a shirt more than necessary once i got to school.  I knew I shouldn’t act that way because my mother had told me it wasn’t okay, but I felt a strange urge to feel “sexy.”  Not until years later did I realize why I acted that way. 

Throughout junior high, I suffered from serious depression.  From an outsider’s perspective, I didn’t really have anything to be too depressed about.  I was a straight-A student.  I was one of the best players on our volleyball team.  I had many friends.  My parents were happily married and loving and supportive.  I didn’t always get along with my two brothers – but who does?  For some reason, unbeknownst to me at the time, I really struggled with being happy and having self confidence.  It went on for several years.  I tried to take my own life 3 different times.  Thankfully, for two of those instances, my younger brother and some of my good friends were there to help me through the episodes.  The third time was a close call, and it wasn’t until I thought I was actually going to lose my life that I realized I didn’t want to die.  Things started to turn around after that, and I really felt happy for the first time in several years.

I started high school in August of 2003.  I quickly fell for a cute junior at our school, we will call him Andy.  We hung out for the first time at the Homecoming dance that fall.  It wasn’t long until we were hanging out almost every day.  I got scared at how fast everything was going, and I gave Andy a note telling him I didn’t want to see him anymore and that I wanted him to stay away from me.  The next thing I knew, he had me literally backed into a corner telling me how disrespectful it was to tell him something like that in a note.  He told me that I was all wrong about him and that he just really liked me, and that’s why he acted like he did.  I quickly forgave him, and things seemed to be really great. 

About six months into our relationship, Andy started to get controlling and possessive.  I wasn’t allowed to hang out with my friends any longer because they were “stupid” and he didn’t like them.  He slowly pulled me away from them.  Before I knew it, I was only around other people when I was at school.  Once I got a job, he would drive by while I was working and even check my phone to see if I had been talking to any guys.  It all came on so gradually that I didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late.  I was completely isolated.  He started calling me stupid and fat a lot.  I am about 5’3” and weighed around 100 pounds at the time, but he insisted that I start working out and getting rid of my tummy.  It went on from there – telling me that no one else would ever love me, that I was a dumb b-tch when I would question him or ask someone else for help instead of him.  He would get mad and throw things at me or go outside and beat things with a baseball bat because was so angry.  It went on for 2 1/2 years.  I knew it was only a matter of time before I was on the receiving end of that anger.

In February of 2006 I decided I had to leave Andy.  I knew I couldn’t handle it any longer.  I tried to leave him 5 different times.  Each time, he would tell me he was going to kill himself or disappear and never come back.  Even though he put me through so much hell, I still loved him, and he knew that.  I couldn’t let him hurt himself, so I kept going back.  Thankfully, I had a few wonderful friends in my life that helped me stay strong and leave him.  We had a huge fight.  He told me that he had been the one to love me when I was ugly and had nothing going for me and that I was such a b-tch for leaving him now that he’d made me into someone beautiful and successful.  He told me I was going to be just a piece of meat to any other guy and that I was a whore.  It didn’t hurt anymore to hear those things.  It actually empowered me to stand up to him and leave.  He stalked me for a while, even blocking his number and threatening me and my new boyfriend.  I didn’t care any longer.  I was finally free. 

I fell quickly for a sweet and caring guy in May of 2006.  We will call him Mark.  He was around when I was with Andy, so he knew what I had been through, and he was very supportive of some of the emotional issues I had.  Mark and I were happy.. I almost didn’t recognize that feeling after being miserable for so long.  We were together all through my senior year of high school.  He was older, so he had his own place.   Once I graduated, I would stay at his place quite a bit.  In June of 2007, something set off a trip wire in my brain, connecting feelings and situations that I did not even know existed.  All Mark did was kiss me on the neck, and it was then that I realized that I had been molested.  Somehow I just knew.  It all finally clicked.  I was terrified.  We had to go over to my grandparents’ house the next week for our usual 4^th of July celebration.  I was sick to my stomach trying to figure out how I was going to go over there and not say anything.  I don’t know how I did it, other than having him by my side.  I made it through everything okay.  I survived that day. 

Time went on.  I went to college.  I finally got help for my depression, even if it was a temporary one; I was put on anti-depressants.  They seemed to help me cope with all of the changes going on in my life.  Mark and I dated until October of 2008.  He helped me through so many struggles, and I did the same for him.  In the end, it just came down to the fact that I knew he wasn’t the right one.  The scariest thing for me once we split up was knowing that he knew my horrible secret.  He could ruin my life if he really wanted to.  I don’t know if he ever told anyone about what happened to me.  I’d like to think that he didn’t, but things got pretty ugly for a while.  At that point, I did not have the courage to tell anyone else in my life about what happened.

I told myself that I wasn’t going to date anyone for at least 6 months.  I needed to move on, find myself and have some fun.  Little did I know that in November of 2008 I would meet the man that would eventually become my husband.  He is the perfect complement to me – a very even keel person to offset my ever-changing emotions.  After he and I had been together for about a year, I told him everything that I had been through with my grandfather and Andy.  I was worried it would scare him away, but I was literally aching to get it out of me.  It was slowly poisoning me.  He didn’t really know how to handle it at the time, but he was there for me.  In March of 2010, my grandfather passed away from cancer.  I was torn between the love I felt for him as a grandfather and the anger and hurt I felt towards him for putting me through hell.  Time passed.  Our lives moved on.  In August of 2011, my grandmother passed away, and we had to start going through their house.  We found so many old pictures and videos, along with junk and long-lost mementos.  I could barely walk into the room where he molested me over 17 years before without having a panic attack.  I was so worried that my family would find some sort of evidence of what happened that I would literally hold my breath until we were out of there.  Nothing was ever found, but part of me wished that something would turn up so I would be forced to tell my story. 

Over the past 4 1/2 years, my husband has helped me work through so many of my issues.  Some have all but gone away, and others have gotten worse.  He’s been my rock through every set back I’ve had, and my personal cheer leader with every success.  I could not imagine my life without him.  I have recently decided that I need to seek help for the issues stemming from my childhood and adolescence.  My first step was going to watch Tasia speak at UNK.  My husband sat by my side holding my hand through it all.  I was so inspired by her strength, that it pushed me to write my story and submit it here.  I pray that one day I can be as strong as her and tell others about my story.  For now, I’ll settle for the strength that I have to get through each day with my head held high.  Each day that goes by is another day that he did not win against me, another day that further proves that I am truly a survivor. 

My story is similar to others. I was raped by someone I thought I knew very well. Someone I once trusted. I’m going to call him Chad.

Chad and I used to date in high school. We were a “power” couple. Both of us were very active in school activities and we had an active social life. He was a year older than I was, which meant he graduated before me. The summer after he graduated we broke up. He wanted to experience college without already being in a relationship. But we didn’t speak to each other for a long time.

February of my freshman year of college was the first time we spoke to each other since our break up. We got caught up with each other and how we were doing and we made plans to meet up and have coffee. I knew that I was going to go back to our home town the first weekend of March and asked him if he would be okay with me stopping by. He had no problem with it and said that I could.

When I got to his dorm it was like time had never passed and we were the same people we were in high school without the romance. We laughed and told stories about our college experiences and what we were going to do for our future. I was sitting on a mushroom chair that was brown and sitting at the foot of his bed and he was sitting on his bed next to me. After we finished up with a video game he asked me if I still had any feelings for him and put his hand on my thigh. I told him no and that I was seeing someone and that I only came to see him because I thought of him as a friend now. He took my hand and said that he was still in love with me and that he was wrong for letting me go, that he wanted me back in his life the way it used to be. I kept telling him that I didn’t love him anymore and that I was sorry that it hurt him, but I had moved on.

That’s when he kissed me. I pushed him off and told him he couldn’t do that. The next hour and twelve minutes he “showed” me what he couldn’t do to me anymore. I fought for as long as I was able to and for a while I thought I was going to get away and not have this horrible and terrible thing happen to me, but after I hit him over his head with a lap top I was done. He bound me and it was over.

When he was done he gave me my clothes back, but they were torn and had blood on them. He gave me a pill and didn’t let me leave until I did. I got up to go and he grabbed my arm so tightly that I seriously thought it was going to fall off. He told me that if I told anyone about this he was going to come after me and kill me. I believed him. I ran to my car, changed and drove away. I had my car fixed and tuned up and then I drove three hours back to school and locked myself in my dorm.

The two months after I suffered from depression and denial. But in May of that year Chad did something to remind me what kind of power he still had over me and put my personal information on a website. I had to change my phone number and e-mail.

That’s when I got him. I said enough was enough and I pressed charges. I still didn’t want to tell anyone about the rape so he went to jail for slander and sexual harassment, but he can’t have power over me anymore.

Now, two years later, through all the suffering, I have survived and I survive a little more each day.

I still don’t know exactly what happened to me.  And that’s the hardest part.  The not knowing.  The questioning.  Do I really know that he raped me?  Or was I a willing participant like he says?  I doubt my memories as if they were something I imagined.  But maybe I’m trying to protect myself from the truth.  A truth that is so painful it can take the breath right out of me when I think about it.

It was 4 1/2 years ago.  I was two weeks away from going away to college.  It was a night like any other that summer.  Binge drinking with my best friends.  Friends I trusted and loved.  I got so drunk I blacked out and was acting crazy.  My girlfriends I came with dressed me in gym shorts and put me to bed.  They left me because I was with my best guy friends and why wouldn’t I be safe.

Later that night I woke up to my guy friend walking into the bedroom I was sleeping in.  I think I remembering kissing him.  Everything I remember is so blurry. The next thing I remember is him on top of me, apologizing as he continued to rape me.

Did I make this up? Was it consenual?  The truth feels so far lost.  I am constantly doubting my version of the truth.

A few days after college started I got extremely intoxicated and tried to take my life.  Thank God I didn’t suceed.  But I still wrestle with my demons from that night.  I spent 3 years in therapy and managed to talk about every other issue in my life and avoided talking about being sexually assaulted.  This is my first step at being brave like Tasia.  As I type this my palms are sweaty and my heart is racing.

I hope by sharing my story I can learn to let go of the need to find the truth of what happened to me and move towards healing.  I’m trying to accept that whatever I may have said or done that night I was in no condition to consent to sex.  It wasn’t my fault.  I am a survivor.

I remember being called to our school guidance office over the PA system. “ Sarah Smith please come to the guidance office, Sarah Smith please come to guidance office!” I was in my fourth period study hall working on a religion essay due in my Biblical Studies class the following day. I sat in my chair for a moment to gather my thoughts, and then gingerly packed my books, bible, and pencil into my backpack.

I could feel the butterflies in my stomach, the nausea seeping up my esophagus, and my feet heavy in step. I held my hands together that I had stuffed into the front pocket of my gray Nike hoodie, as I slowly made my way to the guidance office.

Knock, knock, knock, knock echoed in the dreary hallway as I knocked on the office door for Mrs. Jones, my high school guidance counselor. “Hey Sarah come on in,” Mrs. Jones said as she turned her back away from me, and swished in her ugly blue wind breaker to her desk chair. “Have a seat my dear,” Mrs. Jones gestured towards the nearby yellow couch.

As I sat down, I soon realized that we were not alone in the office. To my right, in the blue overstuffed chair sat another lady, with bouncy brown hair, and dress slacks up to her belly button. She held a binder on one leg that said Bethany Christian Services on the side and quite a few pamphlets on the other. “Bethany Christian Services,” I thought to myself, Isn’t that the adoption agency we prayed for in church last Sunday? Panic starts to set in as I start to wonder if my best friend, Katie, had snitched.

“Sarah,”’started Mrs. Jones“this is Jane Doe with Bethany Christian Services, she is a pregnancy counselor.”

“Sarah, it’s nice to meet you. I am so excited that Margo called me in here today to speak with you!” Jane broke in mid sentence to Mrs. Smiths introduction.

“Actually, Jane, Sarah doesn’t know why you are here today.” Mrs. Jones quickly explained, interrupting Jane.

“Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” I exclaimed, feeling annoyed and confused all at the same time. I didn’t understand why I was sitting in my guidance counselor’s office with the counselor, and another lady I had only heard about during church. What was she doing here? What did they want for me? I really need to work on my biblical essay for class tomorrow; I really don’t want to be here right now. I wish I would have never told Katie, that way I could have just been left alone in my thoughts until I decided what to do.

“Well, somebody, who would like to remain anonymous, came to me and shared some rather disturbing news,” explained Mrs. Jones. ” I would like to give you the opportunity to tell me before I tell you what was said. Do you have anything that you would like to share with us?”

Disturbing news? Is this about me being raped? Is this about me being pregnant? I thought to myself. I can’t believe Katie betrayed the pact we made as best friends. I might have told an adult eventually, when I thought I was ready.

“N-n-n-n o” I stammer feeling light headed. I can feel the color wash from my face, and my palms start to sweat. A feeling of anxiety washes over me as I start to chew on my words.

“Are you sure?” prodded my guidance counselor. Of course I’m sure! I wanted to yell. I don’t want to tell anyone. I wanted to hide in my little hole, in the little center of my universe until hell freezes over and not tell anybody ever again. Still pointedly mad at Katie.

“Anything you tell us will not leave this room unless we think you may be in danger,” added Jane. I already am in danger. Don’t you know the statistics on teen pregnancy? Do you know that I don’t even know who the baby’s father is? I am becoming a statistic. That’s dangerous if you ask me.

Tears start to stream down my face as I think about my life over the course of the last two months. I think about the decisions I have made, and the expectations that I had for myself that are now broken. I think of the feeling of hatred of a man who thought he was entitled to something he could not have. I hate the feeling of not being able to escape my own thoughts, something that I most desperately longed for. I replay the scenes over and over again, longing to stop the reality of what had happened from looping on auto play in my head.

I thought back to the boring Saturday night where I was trolling around in a Yahoo chat room. The conversation started with the usual chat room banter (male or female? How old are you? Where are you from?). I soon found out through out the conversation that the nineteen year old girl I was speaking with happened to be a cousin of my dad’s.

A few weeks after meeting my cousin online I came home from a horrible Friday at school and immediately turned on the computer to find solace in the comfort of my online friends. At least they won’t make fun of me because I can’t jump a hurdle in gym class, I thought. After being online for a few minutes, I received an instant message from my cousin asking about my day. I relished in the fact that I had someone else to lick the wounds of my day with me. I told her about being made fun of for not being able to hurdle in gym, as well as, the typical teenage fight I had with my mom earlier that week. She invited me to come spend the weekend with her, she even said she would come and pick me up.

After much pleading with my mom, she relented after firmly stating “You can go but no drinking, boys or anything else naughty!” I reassured my mom that I would be just fine.

An hour later I was riding shot gun down highway 33 in my cousins purple matchbox car on my way to what was supposed to be a fun girl’s weekend. We had made plans that we would paint our nails, watch girl movies, and maybe enjoy a few sips of wine.

A short time later we arrived at my cousin’s apartment, where I soon noticed she was not your average nineteen year old. Her whole apartment was decorated with Carebears. Her refrigerator contained mostly alcohol and very little food.

“You can help yourself to anything you want in the fridge,” she shouted from her bedroom, The guys will be here any minute.” Feeling pressured to seem like I was mature and adult like, I grabbed the first bottle of alcohol I saw. “Uh, okay,” I responded while twisting a cap off a Mike’s Hard Lemonade, panicking inside about some unknown guys coming over. I had promised my mom no guys. What happened to the girl’s weekend? I thought to myself as I grabbed another Mike’s Hard Lemonade a few minutes later.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. I remember waking to a shadowed figure above me. The shadowed figure pinned me down to the carpeted floor. As I was starting to regain my senses, the shadowy figure had already taken my jeans off of me. I heard my underwear rip, as I began to fight back.

“No! NO!” I shouted, trying to kick him. I tried so hard to get away. I pleaded and screamed for him to stop. When he didn’t stop, I tried to scream for help, but nobody came. The only help that came was from myself, as the memories of what happened next have been blocked.

The next morning I woke up, feeling dizzy and intoxicated from last nights events. I scrambled to find my duffel bag where I had packed extra clothes, my toiletries and undergarments. I let myself into the bathroom trying to scrub away the disgust that I felt from the night before. Soon after I took a shower that day, I got dressed, and I woke up my cousin demanding that she bring me home.

It was during the car ride home that I realized that my life had changed. It was honestly in the core of my being that I knew something significant had happened to me. I had gotten drunk for the first time. My virginity had been stolen. I had been raped. I also knew that I was definitely not on birth control. I didn’t need to be; after all I was a good girl, right? Sometimes, I even wonder if it was at that exact moment that I knew I was pregnant, or if it was just a romanticized yet gruesome thought that I had. As we traveled up on and down the highways that connected my cousin’s apartment to home, I repeatedly thought how could this happen to me? Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Yet at the same time I felt no emotion at all, I was numb to the world around me. I watched the snow covered yellow road lines out of my side window, trying to keep my stomach from falling out of my mouth. My cousin tried to ask me if I was ok, and all I could say was “You said there would be no guys. I thought this was going to be a girl’s weekend to get my mind off of school.”

That weekend, I learned not to make permanent decisions on temporary feelings.

Exactly one month and three days later, I found myself in my guidance counselor’s office telling my story through tearful sobs, and being prepped to give my child up for adoption. After all, abortion is an abomination to God, and who would want to take care of a rapist’s child the rest of their life? In the end abortion was never an option, and something deep down told me that adoption was not an option either.

It was at that moment I had made the decision to be a single teenage mother, to my son, Jack. This decision, would be a decision that would navigate my life choices from then on out. Jack has been a blessing, and I love him very much. It was through Jack that I have found my true strength.

                It’s been over a year that I decided that I needed to finally share my story. I honestly have no real excuse as to why it’s taken me so long to finally sit down and type, and truth be told, although I thought I was ready to publicly acknowledge what had happened to me, maybe I wasn’t ready to sit and relive what I’ve been through. But today, as I was sitting in my chair with my daughter, rocking her to sleep, I heard a Taylor Swift song, and a lyric from the song hit a nerve, and I just started crying. The lyric “’Cus when you’re fifteen, somebody tells you they love you, you’re gonna believe it” kept repeating over and over in my head. There’s a lot of truth to that line, whether you’re fifteen or not. All your life you hear people tell you that they love you, and when you’re a child, you accept it, you believe it, and you yearn for that love that’s always been verbalized to you. For me, it came to be a phrase that left me cold.

                  I was born in Mexico to a teenage couple. Although this is not uncommon at all in Mexico, my parent’s story was not your typical story. My biological father was a monster, abusing my mother in any and every way possible. He was an incredibly disturbed individual, and in the end, wound up taking his life. I was two years old at the time, and have no recollection of my biological father, and for that I am thankful. The man I call daddy is my stepdad. He has raised me since the age of 4, and I have only love and respect for that man. When my parents decided to get married and move to the United States to better their lives and mine, I was sent to live with my maternal grandmother in California while my parents found employment and housing. It was while I was there, that my nightmare began. My grandmother loved me, and doted on me. She had three children still at home as well, two aunts who are over 12 years older than I, one uncle who was 10 years older than I, and an uncle who was 1 year younger than I. At first, it was fun, like being on vacation. They took me to Disneyland, the beach, and we did all sorts of fun things. And then my grandmother started letting her children babysit.

                The first time that my 14 year old uncle decided that we would “play games” I was almost five years old. It kills me to still remember this, but as much as I’ve tried to remove it, the memory will always be there. He was the only one home, and asked me if he knew how much he loved me. I said yes, and he proceeded to tell me that if I really loved him, I would play a game with him. When I said okay, he said the first thing that we would play was “lick the ice cream cone.” Once he showed me with the “ice cream cone” was to have been, I said no, and threatened to tell my grandmother. He grabbed the back of my head, and told me that I would do it or he would hurt me and tell grandma that I had been bad. I did what I was told, and that was not enough. He touched me through my clothing, and when I cried even more, he said that I wasn’t being good and that I needed to be punished. It was then that he removed my pretty pink Mickey Mouse skirt and panties, and sodomized me. I remember how scared I was, how much pain I was in, and the way when he was finished he cleaned me up, gave me a hug, and told me he loved me. I was terrified to be left alone with him, and would cry each time he’d come near me. When my grandmother asked him why I was afraid of him, he told her it was because I didn’t behave when he babysat me and so he sat me in time out the entire time. He said I was spoiled and that “a little punishment would only help me behave.” My grandmother believed him. She never asked me why I was so scared, and so she continued to leave me with him.

                The abuse continued, and it was months later when I was finally able to tell someone. I was being watched by my aunt, my abuser’s oldest sister, when she asked me why I locked myself in the bathroom whenever my uncle was around. I finally broke down and told her everything. She hugged me, told me that she would tell him to stop, and that she loved me. I believed her. Later that day, she told me that if I wanted her help, I would have to do something for her. I said okay, and that’s when she took me to her bedroom, and removed her clothing. She told me that she wanted me to show her everything that my uncle had done to me. I asked her to please let me leave because I had already told her everything. She insisted that I had to show her, or else she would let my uncle keep hurting me. I didn’t want to, and cried the entire time. She never did touch me, and afterwards she hugged me and said she would keep her promise. I didn’t believe her anymore. I didn’t believe anyone.

                I wanted to run away, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, even when my mom would call to check on me, I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to be left alone. My grandmother became concerned, and when she finally asked me what was wrong, I was too scared to talk. When I finally choked out what had been happening for the past two years to me, she was furious. I thought for sure she would help me, she didn’t try to talk to me, never spoke a word until she returned into the room with a garden hose. She took that garden hose and she beat me, over and over again until I blacked out. The entire time she was beating me with that hose, she was screaming at me to take back all the lies I had just told. When I woke up, I was badly hurt, and was instructed to tell the doctors at the clinic that I had fallen down two flights of stairs. Nobody ever questioned what had happened, and I went home with my grandmother. She told me she loved me that day, but that I was never to repeat the horrible lies I had told her to anyone else ever again.

                A few months later, my mom finally drove to California from Nebraska to pick me up. As it turns out, she had been trying to get me back for nearly a year and a half, but my grandmother kept hiding me from her. She never contacted the police because she didn’t want to bring that kind of disgrace to my grandmother. I still remember the night my mother knocked on my grandmother’s door after finally tracking her down. My grandmother refused to let my mother take me, and my mother wound up finally contacting the police. I remember all the flashing lights, I remember looking at my mother’s face after so long…it was truly a dream for me, to see my mother after so long and to know that I’d never have to live in that kind of fear ever again. But the abuse didn’t end there. While my parents had found a place to live and were employed, they didn’t have the slightest clue how to handle an emotionally introverted six year old that lived in her own world. I was labeled as “weird” by my stepdad’s family, and eventually they told him that he was no longer welcome at their family gatherings if he would insist upon bringing my mother, and her “devil child” with her. I was called every name in the book, and it was because I rarely spoke, I didn’t play as a child would, and instead would sit around and stare at walls or keep my head down. As I grew older, I read every book I could get my hands on in order to escape the outside world.

                My parents did their best to try to understand me, and when they couldn’t, they simply gave up. I began to have nightmares almost nightly and would wake up screaming and shaking. I didn’t want to be touched or comforted and I shrieked every time I heard the words “I love you.” My mom tried and tried her best to get me to reveal what had happened to me. She tried talking to me, she tried persuading me, and eventually she tried physical punishments, such as using a belt to stop the behaviors.  I wouldn’t break. Instead, I became even more closed off and bitter, adding my parents to the list of people that I could no longer trust.

               Eventually, I began to adjust and would talk and play, and once my siblings were born, I was as “normal” as a regular child, at least on the outside. Internally, I was angry. I was scared. I was leery of anyone and everyone, especially when they would approach my younger siblings and I. I wouldn’t let any babysitters be left alone with my siblings. Even now as an adult, I’m fiercely protective of my sisters and brother. One night, my dad’s cousin came over to baby sit us. He played with all four of us in the living room, let me help put my siblings to bed, and let me stay up to watch cartoons. He then asked me to give him a back massage. I was 11. I told him I didn’t know how. He said he’d show me. From there he told me he’d give me one too, and wound up fondling me. At that point, I just remember staring at him, and then looking down. I didn’t say a single word. By then I was numb. It was like I’d grown to accept that this is what was supposed to happen. Nothing surprised me anymore. Afterwards, he told me not to tell, and I still wouldn’t say a word. I went to the room I shared with my sister, and locked the door. I remember sitting on the other side of the door and waiting until my parents got home to unlock it.

               The next time my dad’s cousin came to visit, he stayed away from me, but gave me a hug and told me he loved me, as he did my sisters and brother. I remember getting in trouble because I refused to return his hug, and refused to say a word. My parents had arguments later on about me and how “they thought I would be past this stage by now.” It wasn’t until I was nearly in high school that I told my parents what had happened in California. Naturally my aunt, my uncle, and my grandmother denied everything, and said I was lying. But for once in my life, someone believed me. My mother did everything she could to help me, and told me I would never need to be afraid again. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what my dad’s cousin had done for fear that she would stop believing me. It was only recently, in my twenties, that I’ve revealed what happened with him, and all the details stemming from my years of abuse.

               My mother, God bless her, felt like she had failed to protect me. But she hadn’t. How could she have protected me from something that she didn’t know was happening or had happened? I spent years hating my mother and father for what I felt at the time was their fault for leaving me with these people who had no remorse for the actions that they’d done.  Eventually, after much needed help, I was able to realize that this wasn’t their fault. It took even longer for me to learn that what had happened wasn’t my fault either. I grew up feeling “dirty” feeling like an outcast and sure that if anyone ever found out “what I’d done” (or really what had been done to me) that no one would ever want me. That no one would ever truly love me. At one point, I didn’t want a thing to do with love, because all the “love” that I’d ever known or remembered came at a price and hurt. I didn’t value myself.

               When I was 17 I met someone who told me he loved me, and would never hurt me. I believed him and moved in with him 6 months later. The problem was, I wasn’t high on his priority list. He loved drugs. He loved booze. He loved sex. Not me. But to me, it was natural. It felt like I deserved to be with someone like him. After all, if he didn’t love me, who would? I certainly didn’t love myself enough to see what I was doing was punishing myself for my past. I went from being on the honor roll and getting into a private nursing school, to withdrawing from my first semester of nursing classes to support both of us and our habits. It took me five years, and a huge blessing from God in the form of his leaving me because he was “too young to be tied down” to finally begin to heal myself. At first, I was inconsolable and was worse off with alcohol and drug usage than I’d ever been in my life. At 21, I knew every drug dealer within a 1 hour radius by first name and had them on speed dial. I was drinking way too much, was avoiding my family, and had been cutting myself since the age of 17. I was slowly destroying my life.

               And then I ran into my husband one snowy morning at the gas station. I had known him for nearly 6 years, but had never really gotten to know him. We talked that morning for nearly a half hour, and it resulted in an invitation to “hang out sometime.”  Over the next few months, I saw him sporadically, and then gradually more and more. When he kissed me, I had an overwhelming sense of guilt. I thought for sure if he knew who I really was or what I’d done, that he wouldn’t want anything to do with me.  I decided that day that I would tell him the truth about me, what I’d done, and who I was. When I began to tell him my story, he didn’t say a single word. His brow furrowed, his eyes seemed to dig holes through my very soul, and when he finally opened his mouth to speak, I was sure he’d tell me to leave him alone.

               Instead, he held me, and whispered to me how sorry he was for what I’d been through. It was the first time I’d ever told anyone besides my mother and my abusers what had happened to me.  I was in a state of shock. This wonderful man now knew everything about me, and he didn’t care. He still wanted me around. He swore that day to never hurt me and to always protect me from the world. To this day, nearly 5 years later, he has been true to his word. He has held me through nightmares, went with me when I sought counseling to help me cope with my past in a healthy way, and has shown me what a truly powerful and wonderful thing the word love can really be. It’s taken me over half of my life to reach this point, but I know that if my story can help someone come forward, to seek help, and to know that they are not alone, then it has been a journey that has made a difference to at least one other person.

               Today, I’m a 25 year old mother of two beautiful children with one little miracle on the way. I’m married to the most humble, loving, and caring man I know, and am set to graduate Nursing school in May. And while I don’t have contact with my extended family on either side, I am so blessed to say that I have an incredibly strong relationship with my parents and siblings.  A little over a year and a half ago, I heard about the Teal Lotus Project. I couldn’t believe that someone else from our small town had been through something so horrific. After contacting Tasia, and giving her a little bit of my story, I knew that I wanted to help, I wanted to do something. It was Tasia who inspired me to seek more help, because even though I’d told myself that I was “over it”, I was still having nightmares, and when it came to my children, I trusted no one but myself or my husband to watch them. A year and a half later, my heart and mind are in a better place, and I feel incredibly blessed to finally have the opportunity to share my story with a clear head.

                I pray that with my story I give someone hope, someone courage to step forward and seek help for themselves. Love shouldn’t hurt. Regardless of who that love is from. And no matter what happened, it wasn’t your fault. What happened to you doesn’t define you. You define you.  It’s taken me far too many years to realize that. Let someone help you. Sometimes all it takes is a little help and inspiration to choose the path towards peace and healing.

I have so many thoughts in my head they all want to come out all at once. First of all I was not popular in high school, my parents didn’t have a “name”. my mom was pretty hardcore with rules and was constantly on my case with grades, friends, calling me names, yelling but never hitting me. I remember going to school just being bullied so much I would wish for God to take me away. I was called names and made fun of so bad that you really start to think that you are worthless and that why would you have any friends looking so ugly, dumb, slutty. So one day I had enough and cut myself for the first time and I remember thinking wow I feel better. The more I was bullied the more I cut, arms, legs. My behavior was out of control by my sophmore yr. I starting drinking and cutting. I had so much rage that was uncontrollable. I wonder how kids can think they are cool when they hurt other ppl. I remember waking up one day thinking this isn’t normal, I need to talk to someone who can help. I told someone who led me in the right direction. I had to admit to my parents that they were part of my problems. I had counselling telling me to count to 10 and go to a happy place. REALLY! I changed schools and Thank GOD for peace. I’m not saying I still didn’t have some issuses and that my cutting stopped. But I was much happier. Finally, I went to college in another state and I was “away” from all the drama. I would soon find out NOPE. I dated a guy that I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. He would prove to be the worst thing that could have happened to me. Let me say he never was mean, abusive, nothing. Then “we” had decided a yr into our relationship to take a mini break. I had went out with a girlfriend to a club and I wld always put my apt key in my car and lock it because it had key pad. I got home 1 night and found him sitting in my apt, drunk as hell. He yelled and yelled and then I yelled. I can remember that night as if it happened yesterday. He snapped and holy crap I new this night would change my life. He grabbed me and pinned me down so I couldn’t move, all I could do was scream and bite him. I bit him as hard as could on his arms, hands, chest. I remember thinking God I take back those comments I had made a long time ago, don’t take me now. He would let go and I tried to run, grab the phone, he would drag me back again and again. I grabbed a plunger from the bathroom and hit him, he laughed and I am trying to stay alive and you are laughing. I got thrown on the bed and was praying please no! Fortunatley, he hit me, almost broke my nose, 2 blacken eyes, welts, bruises, and finger marks around my neck, and I sobbing cuz I had nothing left. Finally around 6 am he passed out. I tried to clean up my face and pull myself together and called my mom and told her. They made the 14 hr drive that day. I didn’t go back until my parents arrived and I had to have my younger brother stay with me for days. Needless to say I started cutting cuz I had no way to deal with my emtions properly and the so called Counselor from high school didn’t help. My mom new at that moment I needed more help, real help! I saw C at the mall everytime I worked, he tried to call and blame me. I asked my neighbors didnt you hear me. They told me it was none of there business. I had a half beaten body for college graduation and moved home to NE right after I graduated. C would call my parents looking for me, I thought 1 day he will come for me. Wow, I found my now husband again shortly after coming back and was scared as hell. It took him a very long time to prove to me that we could disagree but there were no fights, names. I went to a real counselor for a very long time, and I still need to sit with D every now and then. My husband does no my story and I have been so lucky that he is nothing like C. A couple months ago I got a friend request from C and I was so angry and burst into tears and prayed no, not again. I blocked him and his whole family. Part of me can’t forgive C or the ppl that made my high school days hell but as a person to heal and move on I have to let it go. WOW, here is my story. I hope to tell my story to others.