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Also posted in Share Your Story: Installment Two: The Party I am now fast-forwarding, (or rewinding, depending on how old I was in your minds upon completing reading of the first installment) to when I was seventeen years old as I bring to you all, installment 2 of my story. This is the full, uncensored version of what was shared back in 2007. One would think that as time goes on, you’re likely to forget some details. While that may be the case for some, I WISH that was true for me. Time has gone on, but in some ways, remained stationary – frozen, almost – and I still remember the details of that night as if it were only yesterday. And for the last nearly twenty-three years, it HAS been ‘yesterday.’ While I know a lot of work has been put into my healing efforts, the memory of the work isn’t as strong as the memory of the actual event. It’s stayed fresh, although I do have to admit that time HAS made it sting less. In this newer version of my story, I’ve decided not to talk about the ‘fluff stuff;’ by this, I mean the benign, unimportant events leading up to what happened on the night of October 4th, 1996. The pre-story of having gone to a classmate’s house, my lying to my father, telling him that I was going to be working on a school paper, my thinking this was a good way to jump-start my social status. Why not talk about these things? Because they’re not important, now. Originally, I perhaps felt partially to blame for what happened. It was a classic case of, ‘well, if I hadn’t been there, this wouldn’t have happened.’ Perhaps I was waiting for someone to say to me, ‘yes, that’s exactly why this happened. You were in a place you did not belong, and at a time that you shouldn’t have been there.’ Believe it or not, there WAS the occasional question of ‘why?’ but I have come to realize that there simply is not an answer good enough to justify what happened. I could search for the rest of my life and I’d still never find one. There IS one very important detail that you should know about me, though, before I delve deeper into this part of my story. If you’ve read through my first installment, you know that I was born deaf. This is something I don’t like bringing attention to – unless circumstances make it that I have to. I don’t share this with many people unless, well, I think there will be a reason they need to know. Don’t get me wrong – there’s nothing wrong with it. It just plays a COLOSSAL role in who I am. While it doesn’t define me, it also does. And this, as much as I HATE to admit – is a HUGE contributor to what happened that night. Whenever I think back on my trauma, it also ALWAYS comes back to this. As a matter of fact, it plays such a role in BOTH of my traumas, although I cannot remember one of them. I guess the running joke on this is – even from the very beginning, I didn’t want to hear it…it being drama, bullshit, and whatever else makes me momentarily (and rarely) appreciate my lack of hearing. My mother and father wanted me to speak, so they were quick to alienate me from the deaf community and (my mother mostly) moved Heaven and Earth to ensure that I functioned as a ‘normal’ hearing person. And, to be ‘normal’ was always something I had to work extra hard at – with certain limitations that were beyond my control, I had to overcompensate, all under the impression that this was what was ‘wrong’ with me and that it was never something I could fix. This was simply the hand I’d been dealt. And now – back to the story. To summarize, I was 17 and was at a house party. It wasn’t a frat house – it was simply someone’s home – off campus. I’d gone with an acquaintance from one of my classes – thinking this was what the stereotypical college kids did with friends on a Friday night. To call her a friend is inaccurate, for she never once had my best interests at heart and likely invited me to accompany her to this party so that she could delay working on the research paper we were assigned to complete together. She probably still, to this day, thinks I’m angry with her for forcing me to find another way home at the end of the night. I’d only seen her a small handful of times afterwards – once when I finally picked up my car, which was parked near her house – and a few times in class. I made very small talk and avoided her at all costs. We’d never spoken of what happened; which was my choice. She was the enemy. I wanted her out of sight and out of mind – and thankfully, I got my wish – we were fortunate to not share any more classes after that semester. And for a long, long time, possibly YEARS, I WAS angry with her. I even blamed her. It was, after all, because of her – the whole thing was her fault, simply because she was having too good a time to leave when I wanted to. For years, hers was the face that popped up into my mind when thinking back to that night. No, it wasn’t the ONLY face, but it was still a face that shouldn’t have been as much a focus as it was. HIS face is the one I see now. The only one I see when I think back to that night. There is no longer any blame for her. While I still unfondly remember her face, I’ve mentally connected the image of it to a ‘type’ of person that I’ve vowed to NEVER trust again. That’s the face I see when people around me are acting recklessly, in a manner that reminds me of the behavior of those around me at that party on that night. Although nearly 23 years have elapsed, I still remember. It’s funny, isn’t it? How we can recall with ease the moments BEFORE trauma, but draw blanks when it comes to the actual event? I cannot bring myself to forget their oblivious, stoned, drunk-off-their-asses expressions as I followed the man who would forever change my life through smoke-infused hallways. The obnoxious laughing, the booming music, the glazed-over looks, the tongues hanging out, the god-awful SMELL of weed. All of these things added to my overall discomfort of the whole scene and I wanted nothing more than to go home. This is where I will issue a trigger warning for those who are still reading. I am going to be sharing some things that I’ve never written before. If you’re not in a good frame of mind, please close this and bookmark it for another day. I totally wish it were possible to turn this night on and off in my brain – and there are times I have succeeded in doing so. But instead of an on/off switch, there’s a dimmer – sometimes it’s bright, sometimes it can be reduced into the background so that I can carry on as normal, whatever that means. The very purpose of this update is for me to be able to shine a brighter light on some of those things that I’ve kicked into the shadows for as long as I can remember, in hopes that they’d not find their way back into the light. We all know how well that works, right? So – trigger warning now in effect, for several details and for rape. The first thing I noticed about my attacker was how incredibly good-looking he was. Sporting thick jet-black hair, broad shoulders, a dimple, a complexion hinting that he was of either Spanish or Italian descent, ‘Eddie’ was undeniably handsome. I’d later learn that even the most physically beautiful people are truly capable of evil, of ugliness. For the moment, though, I remember having to remind myself that I had a boyfriend that I’d been seeing for two years prior to this night. I had my boyfriend in mind when I politely declined when Eddie, after overhearing my drunk acquaintance tell me that she was not ready to leave, offered me a ride home. There were a couple reasons, really, for my passing on the ride home – one – I didn’t see a drink in his hand, but I didn’t know if he’d been drinking before he approached me, and two – I didn’t think any girl should be in a car with a guy who wasn’t her boyfriend. Things might happen! I suppose, in hindsight, knowing that Eddie turned out to be the predator I was unaware he was at the moment, that was likely his original plan – for something to happen. Instead, I asked him if he could make a phone call for me – something that I’d asked several strangers to do for me in the past. I had someone from the campus office call my father for me when I’d left the lights on and now the car wouldn’t start. Someone to call my mother when my wallet was stolen. And in this case, for Eddie to call one of my other friends to see if she could possibly come pick me up from this disastrous party. He seemed slightly taken aback by my request, but agreed to make the call. “Come with me,” he said, “I know where it will be a little bit quieter.” We weaved through a crowd of other partygoers, went up a flight of stairs and eventually got into a bedroom, where he locked the door behind him. I’d gone in first, wanting to believe nothing more that this man was going to help me to get home. I am sure there were other phones in the house – he insisted that being in one of the rooms farthest from the speakers downstairs would be best and he’d be able to hear. There was the phone on a night table, next to the bed. It was black, the buttons glowed. The bed was along the east wall, there was a small adjoining half-bathroom straight ahead. Along the west wall, there was a window, a desk and a chair. There was a small area rug and there was a pair of 20 or 30-pound barbells rested on the floor next to the bathroom door. If this was a bedroom belonging to a teenage or college-aged boy, it was by far one of the cleanest I’d ever seen. The computer sitting atop the desk was on, but had been left idle for a good while – the screen-saver was activated and there was this bouncing, morphing shape…it would first be a ball, then a square, then spiky, then something else, all the while changing colors – before returning into the original ball shape. Background was black – it was the first thing I saw when entering the room and little did I know it would become an unpleasant reminder. I didn’t know what the definition of a trigger was, until this became my first one. It was a very popular screen-saver in the late 90’s, too, so it was every-freaking-where. At libraries, at doctor’s offices, on computer screens at electronics stores… Eddie went straight toward the phone. He sat on the bed close to the night table and patted the seat next to him. I sat, but not too close. He picked up the phone and asked me what number I wanted to call. I gave him the first name of one friend of mine that didn’t go to school with me, but lived somewhat close to my Dad’s house. I figured she’d likely let me crash at her house, and then perhaps she could bring me back to pick up my car in the morning, so that I wouldn’t have to tell my father the truth. I was also admittedly trying to think of another ‘cover story’ to tell my father – I certainly didn’t want him to know I was in this predicament. I recited her phone number from memory. He dialed. “It’s busy,” he said after a few seconds with the receiver to his ear. I had no reason not to believe him – this friend of mine was one of those who’d have her phone surgically attached to her ear if it were possible. He asked if I wanted to wait a few minutes and then try again. All I could think of was how much I wanted to go home, versus going back out into the insanity outside these four walls, so I nodded in agreement. He hung up the receiver. That’s when the questions began. At first, they were innocent. It was when I learned his name and his age. Eddie, 25. Twenty. Five. My initial thought was that this was the house of someone he knew. He claimed that he was a friend of a friend, and he didn’t live in the area. He was just ‘passing through’ and heard that there was a party and came down. He asked where I was going to school and what I was majoring in. I told him. He told me he was in between jobs at the moment. He then asked if I had a boyfriend. Let’s call my boyfriend Matt, for anonymity purposes. I confirmed. Eddie became genuinely interested in my relationship with Matt. Those questions started out innocently, as well, before becoming much less so. He asked how long we’d been together, if Matt went to the same school as I did – and then, boom – there was the question of whether Matt and I had ‘fucked’ yet. In those words. I could feel my face turn beet-red. I cannot believe, looking back, how much SHAME that question made me feel. Not because it was overly inappropriate for a pretty much stranger to ask me this, but because the truth was, I was a virgin. I’d never experienced sex. Matt was a virgin, too. Like me, he hailed from a strictly Catholic family, and pre-marital sex being forbidden and sinful was something his parents instilled into Matt and his siblings. My family was of the same belief, but this was never something impressed on at home. My sisters were barely 10 and 7; and my mother hadn’t had this ‘talk’ with me, yet. Perhaps she knew, she herself hadn’t been married when she’d first had sex – maybe this was one thing she didn’t want to be hypocritical on. Matt was a typical 17-year-old boy with raging hormones and we’d only gotten as far as kissing, roaming hands over the clothes and occasionally down the pants, but whenever it became dangerously close to becoming an ‘all the way’ situation, Matt would slam onto the brakes and it’d be over. Personally, I was ready to experience it all – and to lose my virginity to him – but respected that he was not yet ready for that step. We’d talked about marriage and how our wedding night would be absolutely amazing – but that, like many other things, was just a dream. An illusion. And it would never become a reality. When I didn’t answer Eddie’s question, he proceeded with, “Do you like it when he fucks you? What’s your favorite position?” There were other questions, too, and I could feel my face flush even more with each one. I felt increasingly embarrassed, and I HATED the fact it was because here was this handsome, likely experienced twenty-five year old man asking me about sexual encounters that I didn’t have. What the hell would he think of me if I were to tell him that the closest I’d had to sex was Matt’s hand down the front of my underwear for all of 0.4 seconds before he’d put the kibosh on the whole thing? It didn’t occur to me, not at 17, that there was more cause for alarm to be derived from that line of questioning, especially by someone that much older than I. Instead of scrambling for an answer to a question I didn’t wish to entertain, I asked Eddie if he could please try my friend’s number again. He picked up the phone again and asked me to repeat the number. I gave it to him, but this time, watched his fingers carefully. Back then, there was no need to dial the area code first, and I saw him dial SIX numbers, instead of the standard seven-digit telephone number. His finger did not fully press down on the number 4. He skipped right over it and went to number 8. I saw it with my own eyes. My heart jumped into my throat as realization sank in – he’d been lying to me. Playing me. This whole time, he’d been manipulating the situation. If the mental danger flags weren’t waving before, they were, now. My heart sank when he hung up the receiver again, turned to me and said, “it’s still busy,” thus confirming my suspicions that I might be in trouble. I suppose for a split second, I hoped he’d realize he didn’t fully press the number 4 and try redialing – but he did not. He’d already hung up the phone, and was again focused on me, probably expecting I’d answer his question now that we had more ‘waiting’ time. My heart began racing. The panic was setting in. If we had the option to ‘press pause’ during significant moments in our lifetimes, so that we could re-evaluate and to give more thought on how to proceed, this would have been my first pause of the night. Maybe I’d have answered his questions – if I’d known what would alternatively happen, perhaps I’d have been better off answering and buying time by doing so. Maybe someone would have knocked on the door. Maybe this, maybe that… I’m not even sure how I managed to croak a weak, ‘thanks for trying,’ as I stood up and moved for the door. I’d just managed to reach for the knob when it all went into motion. First, I felt his hand firmly clasp around my arm, just above my elbow. Then, before I could scream, I felt myself being flung. My body quickly hurled toward the bed that we’d just been sitting on, and then bounced off. I landed hard onto my back, hitting the back of my head on the floor. It took a moment to process what had just happened, plus I’d had the wind knocked out of me. I couldn’t move quickly enough. By the time the stun had worn off and I’d managed to pull myself into a sitting position with my back against the side of the bed, he was standing above me with his pants and zipper open. Still, I remained in that place in-between shock and paralysis. I’d always been taught there was a cause and an effect to everything. All I could think at the moment was, what I’d possibly done to make him transform from the man who was going to help me, into this angry, violent monster that I now needed help getting away from. Was this a punishment for finding someone other than Matt attractive? Was that considered to be cheating and this was the price I’d pay? Was it a consequence for having lied to my father and told him I was working on a school project that night? I MUST have done something wrong! Everything was seemingly in slow-motion from this point on. One of his hands was now behind my neck, and from there, he reached up and clenched a fistful of my hair in between his fingers, pulling backwards. His other hand was on his now-exposed penis. I’d never seen one up close before. I’d FELT Matt’s, even touched it once. I’d seen photos. I’d seen the ‘adult section’ at the video store (when they still had them, back in the day before digital streaming was a thing!) and those video cassette jackets were NOT censored in the least bit. Although I had very little sexual experience, I somehow knew what he wanted me to do, and again, panic took over. I pressed my lips together as tightly as I could, trying to shake my head every time he moved himself closer. With each time I moved, his grip onto my hair tightened. Eventually, he roughly yanked again, forcing open my mouth when I gasped in pain. He wasted no time and maintained his hold onto my hair as he forced his organ into my mouth. Every time I tried to move my head in desperate attempts to evade him, he’d jerk me into position again. I began to gag as he violated my mouth and throat, and in the process, felt my teeth eventually sink into the shaft of his penis. I WISH I could say this was done on purpose, but it was completely, 100% an accident. Regardless, he released my hair, quickly withdrew, and angrily struck me in the mouth, knocking me back onto the floor. I immediately tasted blood in my mouth, as my lower lip was punctured on the inside by a tooth when he’d hit me. I hadn’t noticed the tears until that moment. Maybe they’d started forming when I was gagging. Maybe fear had caused them. Maybe it was the pain – in my back, my throbbing head, my mouth, my throat. Either way, the tears were now rolling down my face and I could no longer hold them back. It was also the moment I chose to plead with him, as hysterical as I was becoming. When a normal hearing person with normal speech is upset, they sometimes become difficult to understand. When a DEAF person with ‘different’ speech becomes hysterical, all hopes of being clear and understood are pretty much out the window. I’m not even sure what I said, as I was in no condition to choose or plan out my words. But I know I begged him to stop, I pleaded with him to let me go. It’s likely I said more, but my thoughts were racing and I had no idea what matched what was coming out of my mouth at the moment, and what didn’t. I stayed on the floor as I sobbed and spoke to him. I was terrified that getting up would mean he’d hurt me more or strike me again. He stood over me, holding himself in one hand, rubbing where I’d bitten him. When he was satisfied that I’d not permanently damaged his penis, he smirked, got down onto his knees, and lowered himself on top of me, straddling me just above my waist. I could not move, for his knees were pinning my arms to my sides. I continued to shake in fear, to cry, to beg, to appeal to any part of him that was kind. I know now that there was no part of him where such kindness existed, especially when he brought his face close to mine and began to mimic my sobs. He spoke with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, to emphasize on what I probably looked (and sounded) like to him. To clearly state to me that he saw me as a special-needs person who somehow deserved to suffer simply because they were different. There was no doubt in my mind then, that he’d taken pleasure in hurting others before me, or even after me. Although I somehow came to this conclusion at this moment, I’d not revisit this particular thought until many years later. I shut down. I stopped begging. Just so he’d stop mocking. He did. He kept on speaking to me, though. I didn’t catch all of it. But I was called some very nasty names, names that fully supported my theory that he viewed me as completely helpless. I cried silently. Eventually, he began to lower himself, slowly releasing my arms in the process. I waited until they were free, and then attempted to push him off of me. My fighting seemed to excite him even more. In one swift movement, he lifted himself off of me and roughly flipped me over to my stomach. In that split second while he was no longer on top of me, I attempted to crawl away, but now, he was in a position that better served to his advantage. He shoved me forward, and I stumbled and landed face-down onto the floor. And quickly, his lower body was between my legs, he was using his legs to hold mine apart, and the heaviness of his torso was keeping me from further being able to try to escape. I couldn’t see his face at this point. I saw only the bedroom door in front of me and called out for help. I screamed. My arms flailed; I used the palm of my hands to bang the floor, but these were likely camouflaged as stray musical beats and vibrations, as I could feel from underneath me, that the music was blasting loud enough to wake the dead. I kicked my legs against the floor, too, but that, too, was ineffective and went unnoticed to anyone who was not in the room with us. He managed to gain control of both of my arms and momentarily held them above my head. Then, using one hand, he continued to hold them there, by pinning my wrists to the floor. He brought his face close to mine, and using his other hand, began to roam. He first ran it over my breasts, (more so along the sides, whatever parts were accessible with all of his weight being on top of me) and then began to hike up the skirt I was wearing. Next, his fingers were inside of the elastic of my underwear, and I felt them being pushed to the side. “No.” I remember saying it. I did say it. There was also a ‘please’ in there, but he ignored me. I said it several times, each subsequent ‘no’ becoming quieter as I began to realize that I’d lost this battle. I was trapped. He replaced his probing fingers with his penis, and again, there was a sharp, searing pain. It was like nothing I’d felt before. A combination of burning, friction and pressure. More of my tears rolled, but I went silent and limp. There were no more remaining ‘no’s;’ I saw no point in it, anymore. There was no desire to fight any further – hadn’t I been fighting all along, just to try and prevent this moment? A moment I never thought would happen to me – a moment I’d only heard about on the news or seen on television shows or movies. It was too late, now. He was inside of me. His grip on my wrists eventually loosened, as soon as he’d realized that I was defeated and resigned. And I was. I let my cheek rest on the cold, hard floor, feeling right away my tears transfer onto the wood below. While he moved my body with his, I stared at the screen saver, that was still bouncing, still morphing. I counted the beats that I could feel beneath my body. I noted the time on the clock and saw that I’d only been in this bedroom for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. That’s all it took. I could tell that I was in a house that was cleaned regularly – with my face rested against the floor, I could smell the unmistakable scent of Pine-Sol. This would become yet another trigger – the Pine-Sol. I paid attention to everything except what was happening to me. I stared only at the things I’d chosen to focus on, even when he brought his face close to mine and told me how much I liked it. I’d caught that through the corner of my eye and wanted to scream back, no, I didn’t like it. But I feared that I’d receive the worst possible response to anything I could do or say, so I held my tongue. He’d added some other choice words in there, too. Even when he licked my face, even when he would become more rough in hopes of soliciting a reaction or even a cry from me. Even when the necklace he wore (it was a thick chain) hit me in the face with every thrust. Before tonight, I’d not know what dissociation was – but sure as shit, I did it that night. I felt my eyes glaze over as I left my body, and I encased myself within my surroundings, the music, the vibrations, the computer, the barbells on the floor, the flashing colon between the hour and minutes on the digital clock. On ANYTHING except what was happening to my body at the moment. For the moment, I only existed outside of the body I no longer would recognize as my own. I also remember thinking momentarily, what if these were the last things I’d see? What if this was it for me? What if he planned to kill me when he was finished? Would I ever see my family again? Would I ever turn 18? I didn’t want this stupid screen-saver to be the last thing I saw, my last memory. I remember letting my eyes slowly close as I scrambled for thoughts of good times, the smiling faces of the people I loved. It provided a measure of comfort during a time where my life was uncertain, although in a miniscule way. He eventually slowed, stopped, and withdrew. I opened my eyes only when I felt his weight shift from my body. Still, I didn’t dare move. Moving had always gotten me into more trouble. Instead, I remained stationary on the floor, even after he’d gotten up. I assume he took a moment to zip up his pants, because I only watched his feet. I didn’t want to see his face again. It was a passing thought that if we’d made eye contact, he’d speak to me. He likely had more horrible things to say. I didn’t want to be put in a position where I’d have to respond, so I avoided looking above his feet – which was easy, being on the floor. They eventually moved for the door, which was perhaps six feet away from where I lay. I saw it open, then close again. I was now alone in this bedroom – once a symbol of hope, and now a museum of unpleasant memories. Everything hurt. My head was throbbing. My stomach was in knots and was churning. My heart was racing. And down there, there was burning. I could tell I was bleeding. I could feel it. Still, I stayed on the floor and continued to stare at the same few things I’d stared at before. First the computer, then the barbells, then the clock…back to the computer for a few seconds, over to the barbells…. Oh, God, what if he came back? What if he wasn’t finished? The thought that he might not be finished was enough for more tears to fall before I began to slowly shift my thoughts over to how I was going to get out of this place. More than anything, I wanted to go home. I wanted to be in my own bed. I wanted my DAD. I don’t know that I wanted him to know what had just happened – I was still undecided on whether he would be mad at me or he’d criticize me for lying to him. Never once did I consider he would tell me it wasn’t my fault, because all I could think of at the moment was how much it was. I think, more so, I wanted to see my father’s face. I wanted to crawl into his lap like I used to when I was five, and watch a Mets game with him. I wanted to see him cheer when one of the Mets got a hit. I wanted to see him grumble when the relief pitcher turned out to be a bad idea. I knew though, most of all, I wanted to be anywhere but here. I moved my arms for the first time in several moments and using them for support, picked my head and upper torso up slightly to check the door. Eddie had locked it behind him, the lock was in its vertical position, same as it had been when he was in the room with me. Whether that was a plot to buy time so that he could make a clean getaway was only a consideration for a moment – I’d certainly been laying there long enough and was more concerned with how I was going to be leaving. If anyone were going to help me, to rescue me, they’d have done so already. No one even knew I was there. I could feel that the music was still blaring downstairs. Everyone was still having the time of their lives, while mine had just been hanging by a frayed thread – or at least that’s how it felt. The pain in my stomach had turned into complete nausea. Remembering there was a small bathroom behind me, I hurriedly scurried toward it and made a beeline for the toilet. I collapsed next to it, bent my neck over the side, and threw up. It was mostly liquid and whatever of my dinner (several hours earlier) wasn’t digested. When the contents of my stomach had been emptied and I was no longer heaving, I looked down. My skirt was still hiked up, and there were blood smears on my legs, mostly in my inner thigh area. My underwear was still on, as when he was finished with me, it had snapped back into place. I could feel they were wet, likely with blood. I sat there for several minutes longer. At least, it FELT like several minutes. In reality, it probably was not very long at all – but still. NOTHING made me feel dirtier than what was on my legs, what was in my underwear, what was probably still on the floor where I’d been lying. Again, I felt my heart begin to pound. Everything felt wrong. I felt as if I didn’t belong. As if I were intruding. There was not only the mess left on me, there was also the mess I’d made in a complete stranger’s bedroom. Completely disregarding the fact that a very serious crime had been committed here, I immediately felt the need to clean it, wipe it away. Erase myself from having ever been in that room. The words played over and over in my head, this is entirely my fault, I lied to my parents, I knew there was going to be drinking at this party, yet I came…I willingly walked into this room with a guy that I felt attracted to, although only momentarily. Maybe deep down, I’d wanted this, maybe I’d considered, even if only for a few seconds, that I was ready for a sexual experience – being Matt’s girlfriend was not a bad thing, but it was indeed frustrating at times, not being able to explore what sex was. Maybe I’d realized that, even if it were only for a very brief moment. I was a horrible person. That HAD to be it. I stood for the first time since I’d been thrown down. My legs shook as the skirt, that had been hiked up, finally dropped back down. I felt weak and used the sink to steady myself. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror hanging above the sink and saw that there were also blood smears on my left cheek, and around my mouth area, from the split lip. It was no longer bleeding, but had certainly puffed up. That was first. I turned on the water and washed my face thoroughly. I washed away the blood, the tears, the snot. His saliva. I cupped my hand underneath the faucet and rinsed my mouth out, wanting him out of there, too. When I finally understood that no amount of rinsing could remove those feelings of shame and disgust, I stopped. Almost as if some cosmic force was trying to let me know what my next step was - because I sure as shit couldn’t think straight - I felt a gush. Almost like a period gush, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t from that. Even periods, with the added cramping, did not hurt as much as I hurt at that moment. I hiked my skirt up again, pulled my panties down and quickly sat on the toilet. Once I was seated, I lifted my ankles out of the leg openings and picked my underwear up. I wasn’t ready to look at them, yet, so I held them in my trembling hand while I sat silently for a few minutes. I knew that to look would confirm whatever pain I was feeling. The pain was in the same area I’d cramp in when I did have my period. Just far worse than any I’d ever had in my life. I shook more as I became overwhelmed with my first flashback – if you could call it that, given it’d happened just minutes earlier. He’d repeatedly torn into me, paying no mind to the pain he was causing me with each angry push. Somehow that thought turned into, ‘maybe if I’d asked him to stop, he would have?’ The adult me now knows that he absolutely would not have shown me any mercy, but the 17-year-old version of me couldn’t see past that fact that she’d stopped pleading with him, thus she’d allowed him to do what he’d done. Stopping the fight was the equivalent of giving in, and to do so was giving consent. I’d soon mustered enough courage to look at the garment I held in my hand. The back and sides were clean, but as I’d suspected, there was blood in the crotch area. There was absolutely no way that I was putting these back on. There was a small trash can in a corner across from where the toilet was positioned. I found the cardboard core of an empty roll of toilet paper, and using my finger, pushed my soiled underwear into the open space in the center. I then plugged both ends with small pieces of tissue to keep the panties hidden, and tucked the roll back toward the bottom of the trash barrel. I was sure there was also some blood in the toilet, something I’d confirm during the next stage of my clean-up. Dirty. I felt SO dirty. I reached over to the sink next to me, turned the water back on and dampened wad after wad of toilet paper and cleaned myself up as best as I could before flushing my ‘sins’ away forever. When I was as satisfied as I could be with my cleaning, I stood, grabbed another handful of toilet paper and wet it. I exited the bathroom and walked over to the spot where I’d been raped. There were some droplets and smears of blood on the floor. Not wanting to see them anymore, wanting them gone along with the evidence I’d just cleaned off of myself, I immediately took the wet wad of toilet paper to the floor, wiping furiously at each spot and smear, until I was convinced that there were no further traces of me and that nobody would ever know what happened here. When finished, I returned to the bathroom to flush the bloody wad of toilet paper. I then ensured there was no remaining traces of my blood on the toilet seat, in the toilet bowl, in the trash, on the floor or the sink, before leaving the bathroom. I realized then that I had nothing on underneath my skirt. Almost immediately, I felt exposed and overly vulnerable. I needed something to wear, something to protect what was right now, the one part of my body I wanted hidden by several layers of clothing. Inpenetrable steel would have been a lovely, although unrealistic alternative, but I needed something there before I could safely re-introduce myself to the world beyond these four walls. Realizing again that I was in a bedroom, I made my way over to a dresser and opened the top drawer, where I found a pair of boxer shorts. They were faded and looked old and unlikely to be missed, so I took them and slipped into them. I did feel badly about doing that, too – stealing was added to the mental list of things I’d done wrong that night. I made one final trip to the bathroom where I grabbed another large wad of toilet paper, and stuffed it into the boxer shorts, between my legs, with the intention of it acting as a makeshift maxi pad. I stood in the middle of the room for what seemed like an eternity. I stared at the door, mostly. What if he was still here? What if he was standing right outside? What if he was waiting for me? Would I even see that ‘acquaintance’ of mine? It’s awfully hard to put into words the impasse I was at during this particular moment. I no longer wanted to be in this room, but what was out there was proving to be just as threatening and terrifying. What if I was in fact, safer in here? I‘m not sure what drove me. Perhaps it as the feeling of suffocation that was starting to set in. Maybe another part of me took over – a part of me that knew that I’d likely be standing in that room for several more hours if I didn’t move now. I felt my fingers turn the lock, and then my hand wrap around the cool-to-the-touch silver knob. I then was greeted with the heavy smell of pot once I’d let myself out into the hallway. There were other people in the hallway, there was a lot of smoke, there was the same loud music playing and the place was jumping. There had been no lapse in their world – only mine. I knew from memory that the front door was only a few feet from the bottom of the stairs and that in just moments, I’d be out of this house. I descended the stairs in a daze, refusing to look in any direction other than straight ahead. I think, deep down, I told myself that if I continued to look straight ahead, I would be less likely to find him, less likely to see his smirk, his amused smile. As soon as I stepped out the front door, I was met with a cool, relieving breeze. I am unsure of which was more relieving – the fresh air, or finally being out of that house where the smell of pot was overwhelming. I walked as quickly as my shaky legs would allow me to – I took step after step, knowing each carried me further away from the nightmare I’d just endured. I will admit that I’d hoped that the further I became from that house, the less hold it would have over me. My plan for the moment was to go home and forget about it. All of it. I’d not tell anybody. Not my Dad. Not my Mom. Not Matt…especially not Matt! Once I got to it, I’d crawl into bed and sleep. For days, if I needed to. Until I felt better, then I’d move on with my life as if nothing had happened. I know that plan is laughable, but for the moment, it was pure gold. But I had to get home, first. I thought as I walked. How the fuck was I going to get home? My car was at that stupid bit*h’s house! Still, I kept walking. If only I could remember where she lived and what streets she took to get us to the party? Maybe I could walk there? But my keys were inside her house. My purse, too. My wallet. My book bag. Everything. It was either inside her house or in my car. EVEN if I could remember where she lived and was able to get myself there by foot, I didn’t want to have to knock on her door. What if she’d gotten home already? Would I be able to refrain from punching her in the face when she answered the door? What if her mother answered the door? No. That wouldn’t work… Kept walking, still. I could feel that there was more bleeding, but still needed to be further away. I needed more distance to be put between myself and that horrible place. I kept looking behind me, to make sure he wasn’t there. What if he’d seen me leave and was following me? I needed to be states away. My legs couldn’t get me that far, and that quickly. No fucking way was I going back to that house or stopping to knock on someone’s door. That was completely out of the question. I needed to move forward, not backwards, and to ask another stranger for help was, to me, moving backwards. I walked for several minutes more, pondering my options. There weren’t many. And the burning between my legs was back and intensifying with each additional step I took. I could tell the tissues I had stuffed into the boxers were already becoming saturated. I needed a bathroom so that I could clean myself again. I’d arrived at a busy street. It was late at night, so traffic was light, but there were still cars passing by. Across the street, there sat a small diner. It was one of those storefront diners, you could see through the front windows that there were booths lined up along the length of the window, there was a counter. And there was likely a bathroom, too, as any establishment that served food must also have a bathroom… My first thought when walking in was that they’d likely not allow me to use their bathroom if I wasn’t a paying customer. As it was pretty late in the evening, there was only one customer there - an elderly man sitting in one of the booths farthest away from the front door, his companionship being a lone cup of coffee and a newspaper. A plump, kindly-looking waitress stood behind the counter and greeted me with a smile. I leaned against the counter, exhausted, and asked her for a glass of water (as I was of the impression that you couldn’t use the bathroom unless you were a customer, and although I didn’t have any money on me, I NEEDED the bathroom and needed to, at least, LOOK like a paying customer!) and then after a pause, if I could use the ladies’ room. Without hesitation, she pointed in the direction of the bathroom. It was just past where the old man was sitting, and he briefly looked up from his newspaper as I walked past him and disappeared into the rest room. There was more blood, and several more flushes. I sat for a little bit longer, as my legs were weary and sore – I’d walked as fast as they were capable of carrying me. It hit me that I was still unsure of how I’d be getting home. It was looking more and more like I’d have to call my father – or have someone call him FOR me. The lady at the counter worked at the diner. Name tag and all. (What was it? Susan? I want to say it was Susan…) Could I trust her to make a call to my father? I probably could trust a business employee but I’d have to build up the NERVE to ask, first. I needed to think some more. When I’d replaced the wad of toilet paper, I stood and walked back over to the counter, where Susan was patiently waiting. Right away, she produced a glass of water and a menu, I guess, just in case I WAS a paying customer. In hindsight, she probably wouldn’t have cared if I was or wasn’t – she was soft, kind-looking and I believe, deep down, she knew something was wrong. She was careful not to touch me when she handed me the water and the menu. Perhaps it was the body language that spoke for me – back OFF. Or was it something else? My hands had been shaking on and off for the last hour – perhaps they were still unsteady? Maybe my lip was swollen? Had it begun to bleed again? I hadn’t looked in the mirror on my way out of the bathroom…what if there was blood on my skirt? I’d not seen any when I cleaned up at the house, but what if there was some there, now? I remember gently touching my lip with a finger and running my tongue along the inside of my mouth to check. I wrapped both of my hands around the tall glass of water, needing them to be still. The concern of there being blood on my skirt was the biggest at the moment, especially now that I was sitting down. What if I’d bled through? Susan waited until I’d taken a sip of water through the straw before leaning in. I felt myself tense up but didn’t move. I was terrified of people right now. Even the old man, probably harmless, sitting in the booth on the way to the bathroom. Even he scared me. I didn’t want to be seen; I didn’t want to be smiled at. I didn’t want to exist. Eye contact was a dangerous thought – I felt as if ONE look at my eyes would reveal everything that had happened, every shameful detail - and I wanted to NOT be in the spotlight. I wanted to be invisible – or at least completely unseen for the time being. Still, I knew that if it was likely I’d have to suck it up and ask for help for the second time that night, I’d better at least LOOK at her. Slowly, I raised my eyes and met the lips of the waitress, who spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “There is a cab on his way here,” She said, “the driver is a relative of mine and he’s trustworthy.” I’m not sure how I managed, but I thanked her. She said, ‘you’re welcome,’ and, I suspect that in addition to her good timing, she also had a touch of ESP, because she must have sensed that I needed a moment. She left me to sit in silence and walked over to the old man with a coffee carafe. My hands were getting cold from being wrapped around the glass, so I gently pushed my drink over to the side and picked up the menu. I knew I wasn’t planning on getting anything to eat, but there was still that desire to ‘blend in.’ To look as if I belonged, as if I was ‘fine.’ To put SOMETHING into my hands. It was either the menu or the nearby salt and pepper shakers. I knew I wasn’t ‘fine’ or even okay, and that I wouldn’t be for a while. Still, I held the menu in my hands, feeling them begin to tremble again. I looked only at the calligraphic writing for another indeterminate amount of time. I don’t even think I remembered how to read at the moment – the words stared back at me and would blur every few seconds. My head was pounding, and I felt sick to my stomach. Yet, the kind words of Susan the waitress, replayed in my mind. A cab…on the way. She’d called a cab. I didn’t have to ask her to – she’d done it on her own. She’d saved me the trouble of having to muster up enough courage to admit that I needed help. I wanted to cry, this was one of the first things to have gone right that night! When I felt a breeze from the front door being opened, I looked up only briefly to see a man walk in. He had on a Yankees hat, jeans, and a black leather jacket. He stood at the opposite end of the counter for a moment, as one would if they were waiting to be served. Susan, who had disappeared into the kitchen a few moments earlier, re-emerged with a tray of desserts to put out on display in one of the see-through counters that was noticeably low on muffins and cakes and other desserts that I normally would have found appetizing. There was a brief exchange between Susan and the man, following a quick kiss hello. They spoke softly while Susan grabbed the nearby carafe and poured him a coffee ‘to go.’ He then took his coffee and left the diner. I watched as Susan opened the dessert display case from her side of the counter and she put the tray onto one of the shelves. She then began to make her way over to me. Again, I tensed up and my heart began to race. I felt safe for the moment, but at the same time, still wary of impending danger. I wouldn’t be completely safe until this night was over and I was in my room, in my Dad’s house, in clean pajamas, with my own pillow and blanket. “My brother-in-law is here. His car is right out front. He will take you wherever you want to go. All you need to do is give him an address.” I turned my head and looked out the diner’s front window. The man with the Yankee hat was sitting in the drivers’ seat of a black sedan, with the name and number of a local cab company printed on the side. The lights were on in the car as well as the headlights. He was sipping from the coffee cup Susan had given him. I wasn’t sure about this. Susan had indeed been helpful and had taken the initiative to call the cab for me, but she’d not asked me what I wanted her to do. Perhaps I’d not have been able to verbalize, nor would I have been too comfortable having her explain to my father that I needed a ride home and why. Maybe the cab would have ended up being something I’d asked for. I just hadn’t had the time to entertain the idea of getting into another stranger’s car – even if it meant that it would be bringing me to safety. How was I to know, though? What if this guy was a crazy, too? But then again, if I didn’t get into the cab, how WAS I getting home? How much longer would it be before I would figure out what the plan was? I was aching badly in places I didn’t even know existed, my head was continuing to pound, and my legs felt rubbery and sore. It was an opportunity I had to take. I stood, slowly, knowing that it was my best option. I thanked Susan again and made for the front door. “Take care,” was what she said. That was the last I saw of Susan, at least physically. I’d see her several more times in memories of that night and of the difference she’d made. I’d regret never having the nerve to go back to that diner to see if it was even still standing and of course, if she was still working there, so that I could say the words to her that I couldn’t say 23 years ago. I got into the back seat of Susan’s brother-in-law’s cab. He put his coffee into the cup holder in between his seats, turned his head and asked, ‘where to, honey?’ Where to? To the house of my acquaintance to pick up my car? I did have her address confined to memory from when I’d MapQuested it earlier. Yes, back then, GPS’s didn’t exist, at least, I don’t think so. So MapQuest or written directions were the way to go. But could I actually drive my car, feeling the way I did? Or was I more likely to die in a fiery crash on the Sunrise Highway because everything was blurring on me? To the hospital? The thought of painkillers was a good one. There HAD to be something they could give me that would numb my entire body. But, wouldn’t they have to call my parents? I wasn’t 18 yet. I didn’t have any insurance or even any ID on me. They’d likely call the cops. And then THEY would call my parents. And then my parents would know. And, so would Matt, eventually. My mother never could keep her mouth shut, so naturally, that would mean the whole world would know, after what had happened was broadcast on the six o’clock news. Then my parents would be SURELY be angry with me… The driver was patient. He waited quietly for me to mentally scroll through my choices of places he could bring me, and only pulled out of the diner’s parking lot as soon as I supplied him with the instructions, “Exit 43 off the Sunrise. I’ll direct you from there.” I was going home. I’d figure out the car later. After I’d showered, slept, and the pain had subsided. When I was able to form a conscious thought. When every damn part of my body wasn’t shaking or throbbing or otherwise uncomfortable. The ride lasted about thirty minutes – and that’s only because it was late and there was very little traffic on the road. After he had taken the exit and I’d told him which turns to take, we arrived at my Dad’s house. All of the lights were off. My Dad had likely gone to sleep hours earlier. I realized then that I didn’t even have my house key. I knew though, that my father kept a spare key underneath a large rock on the side of the house – it wasn’t a decorative rock, just one of those stray rocks that nobody knew served an additional purpose than to just exist. I knew my father kept a pouch of grocery money in one of the drawers in the kitchen – I hoped there was enough in there to give the driver. As soon as we were in the driveway, I told him to wait while I went in to get him some money. “No,” he said to me. “Susan already took care of it. You just get yourself inside, okay, honey?” I tried to ignore the ‘honey’ – I knew he wasn’t being fresh or inappropriate. He was genuinely a gentleman – and had gotten me home, he hadn’t tried to engage me in conversation, he’d driven responsibly. For all of that, I was eternally grateful. I just didn’t like the ‘honey.’ Especially not tonight. I shook it off, though, for I was finally home now – and nothing mattered more than that. “Are you sure?” “Go on.” I thanked him, (and mentally thanked Susan, again) and got out of the car. As soon as he’d driven away, I made my way over to the side of the house, where I prayed no one had moved the concealed key. I REALLY didn’t want to knock on the door and alert my father to anything – I just wanted to quietly go inside and get OUT of these clothes…clothes that usually were comfortable and that I actually liked – now were tainted. I never wanted to see that skirt again. I wanted the boxer shorts I’d been wearing wadded up and discarded. I wanted the smell of weed off of my shirt, out of my hair, out of my nostrils, where all of the unpleasant smells of that night continued to linger. I located the key despite it being dark outside, thanking God that it hadn’t been disturbed, and let myself into my father’s house. I disabled the security system, and quietly made my way into my room, where I wasted NO time. I grabbed clothes from my dresser drawers and made a beeline for the bathroom one door down. Finally. Fucking FINALLY. I stripped as soon as I’d locked myself into the bathroom and stepped into the shower, switching on the faucet. I don’t know how long I was standing there – it could very easily have been forty-five minutes before the water went from hot to cold. Still, I stood there for yet another period in which time seemed endless, letting the stream of water wash away any residual traces of blood – and him- that had dried up in between my inner thighs and on my legs. I washed myself thoroughly with a soapy, even though it burned to do so. The bleeding had slowed significantly by now, but I still avoided looking at the blood-streaked water before it disappeared down the drain, along with any evidence that might have remained. I know what you’re all likely thinking at this point. No, I thought nothing about reporting what had happened. By now, I’d decided that I was NOT going that route. The shame was far too great, and I truly felt at this point, that the events of the last few hours had been entirely my fault. My parents would tell me the same thing. They’d call the cops. The cops would ask me about him and really, what would I say? I didn’t know anything about him, just that his name was Eddie. I didn’t know his last name or where he lived. They’d never find him. And I didn’t want to get into it. I wanted to forget it. ALL of it. I wanted it buried. The thought of people knowing about this – TERRIFIED me. What would they think if me? I suppose you could call me chicken – but my excuse stands – being seventeen and still ‘a kid’ DEFINITELY hinders sensible thinking. That shower was also the first time I cried since it had happened. I know I’d cried during, but in between Eddie’s leaving me and my arrival home, it had been unsafe to cry, to show weakness and vulnerability. Look at where it had gotten me in the first place, after all. I’m not sure what that night taught me as far as showing emotion, but to this day, I still have trouble crying in front of others – most particularly when talking about this one event. As I finally felt safe and alone and that the spotlight had been removed for the time being, I stood there in the shower, bawling, and at one point, sank to the floor of the tub and sobbed silently and until my tears had run out. It would be the most I’d cry about this for several years. When the water had become too cold to bear, I got out, dried off, put my pajamas on and gathered all of the clothes I’d been wearing that night. Into a plastic bag they went, until the bag was eventually discarded days later. After ‘squaring away’ those clothes, I’d crawled into my bed, and that was where I’d spend most of the weekend. I didn’t want to get up, or to move. It took a little time for me to fall asleep and it was almost dawn when I’d finally succumbed to it. My father had poked his head into my room a few hours later, and had asked why I was home – where was my car? He hadn’t expected me home until later that day. I told him that I’d gotten sick with a stomach flu and that my classmate had driven me home – I’d have to pick my car up when I was feeling better. He didn’t ask any more questions – and while part of me was disappointed that my own father hadn’t even been able to pick up on the fact that something was wrong, another part of me was glad. Maybe, just maybe I could keep this secret. It was, after all, mine, and mine only to hold, to carry, to hide whenever necessary. This installment is dedicated to the woman who just wanted to fit in. The woman who wanted to have a good time. The woman who wanted to try new things. The woman who was put in a bad position by stretching the truth. The woman who found him attractive at first. The woman who allowed herself to trust a stranger, a friend, a family member. The woman who stopped fighting because she couldn’t anymore. The woman who was rendered defenseless and powerless. The woman who was too afraid to report it to the authorities. The woman who did what she needed in order to survive. The woman who is to blame for none of it. - Capulet

It's june already.. my birthday just around the corner.. i don't know what to do.. how to deal with my trauma... i was raped a week after my birthday.. my trauma already come out and haunted my days.. i don't have anyone to talk to.. imsomnia .. depression.. I don't wanna talk to my family.. they don't even believe me.. how will i cope with this situations.... 😭😭😭 Lately i can't sleep.. i feel worthless.. useless.. i hate my self... i can't do this.. Anyways.. i don't have others choice .. i need to struggle.. no one will help me.. only me.. myself.. To everyone that on the same situation with me.. u guys can do it.. even no one trust us.. keep fighting . And never give up.. how hard it is... P/s trying to help myself.. 💔💔

When I posted my story I wasn't prepared for the response I had so I appreciate every one of you that reads this. I feel less alone. So now I want to open up more to everyone. The first So most people know when you say no to someone who wants sex or say stop i don't want this it's considered rape. Well not me. My ex BF raped me I said no. I said stop. He didn't listen. If he would have done it with a condom maybe i would have been okay with it i don't know. I missed my period that month and went a few weeks thinking i was pregnant. I also suffered really severe stomach pains. Where was he then. Nowhere to be seen. My fiancee and i had just started seeing each other and he was ready to step up and be the father if i was pregnant. To make matters worse my ex wanted me to abort and when i said i wouldn't, he wanted me to put the baby up for adoption, when i said no to that he wanted the child to have his name if it was a boy or his grandmas if it was a girl. The good news I wasn't pregnant. But I was raped. I am just coming around to this fact. I remember him saying something about a girl trying to get him for SA before. He basically didn't care about that fact since nothing really became of it So now I have decisions to make. Do I want to report it? If I report it and it goes to court the defense can rip me to shreds if i end up having to testify. On the other side I don't want him to get away with it again.... I feel like he just kept me around as his little fucktoy. Everytime we hung out he wanted to play. But i'm more than just a play toy right? Struggles thats all i have left to say.

I can't stop it. I can't stop making myself bleed. It's getting worse, it's running down my legs just like when I was child. I don't know why I do it. But I keep doing it I need to stop. It's already so damaged It's so fucked up. I'm so fucked up.

I'm not sure which to believe, first. The fact that I received an email from the University that I applied to transfer into this coming fall - at 12:02am in the morning. Someone was apparently in the office VERY late, despite this coming week being Spring Break... Or.... .....that I've been accepted for the Fall 2019 term and will be working toward my Bachelor's of Science in Social Work. I've previously made this goal of mine known - but until a few nights ago, it was simply that - just a goal. I knew that there were going to be additional processes behind it. There were going to be more steps to take in order to make this goal a reality and I am now another step closer - I've decided not to apply anywhere else as my first choice has accepted me. I'll be submitting the 'hold my place' fee (an amount that's going to be somewhat painful to throw anywhere other than toward this year's heating bill) later this week and I've spoken to my VR counselor asking her for an appointment as soon as she's able. In the meantime, I'll be shifting focus onto applying for the state grants, for financial aid, and all the other required, headache-inducing, FUN stuff that's needing to be done prior to registration for classes. I remember feeling this way, before. 23 years ago, when I held my first college acceptance letter in my hand. I'm going to college. I'm in that final stretch of road that lays between being a kid and being someone with a job, a title, a purpose. Little did I know that almost immediately following my entrance into college the first time around, that path would crack and split off into multiple additional directions that I didn't anticipate ever having to take. It was no longer a straight line for me. In order to get to where I needed to be, there were now unexpected detours that although I would have LOVED to step over whatever obstacle obstructing my path from A to B, I felt forced into having to take the longer, more unfamiliar route. Much can be said for changed plans and shattered aspirations but it's always worse when you don't see it coming. And in an instant - everything that I knew about myself was now gone. Everything I wanted to do - also gone. My dreams? Some remained, but they were now cloudy; and this thick murkiness enveloped them all - sort of a message to the 17-year-old me that in order to see these dreams clearly again, I was going to have to wait for the fog to clear, first. Yeah, trauma IS that powerful. My assault did not happen on campus. It did, however, happen four weeks in - when there was still that 'I'm in college,' disbelief. My toe had been dipped; but there was still much to get used to. People to figure out. Lots to discover, including who I was - something that would only become seemingly impossible as time went on. See, when I started college in 1996, I didn't really have a plan. I wanted to do something with writing. I thought being a playwright or scriptwriter would be ideal for me, the thought of writing for the stage and screen was an exciting one. At this point in my life, I had become very shy, very withdrawn. Perhaps that's one of the 'deaf things' my mother likes to throw forward as a possible reason for any of my 'odd behavior.' On that note, yes, there existed little thoughts that I'd learned to not spend time with. The thoughts were present but were not considered for rethinking. Just as soon as one would pop up at a random opportune moment, it would disappear just as quickly. I remained oblivious (if simply not remembering counts) to the possibility of previous trauma and the aftereffects until I was seventeen. Until trauma looked me directly in the eye, there was that thought that lingered deep within that there was something wrong with me - based on the behaviors I remember having as a child. As these thoughts had been forced (by myself, mostly) to sit dormant in the furthest recesses of my mind, I had been plodding along, just taking it day by day. No one brought any of it up, so in turn, I did not, either. Any concern surrounding my odd behavior had been dismissed so long ago at this point, and I'd effectively been led to believe that it was my overactive imagination that birthed these thoughts - nothing more, nothing less. Either way, I was a watcher, not a participator. I watched people from afar, took mental notes of their personalities, they'd sometimes inspire the creation of a fictional character in one of my plays, that I'd write in a spiral notebook since this was way before I had my first computer. Scenarios played out in my thoughts, and I'd write them down. I'd then mentally cast my favorite actors and actresses into the roles of my characters. I didn't consider this a life ambition nor did I think it'd get that far and that I'd be sitting next to Steven Spielberg one day, but it was a thought, it was a goal, it was a direction, even though my brain told me that it wasn't a reasonable one. There was nothing else that spoke to me - no other career aspiration - perhaps this is because Oompa threw them all at me and said they were good ideas. Even as a child/teenager, she was forever trying to manipulate me into making choices she wanted me to make and to 'shape' me into what she thought was best, with little consideration for what I wanted or believed. "You should be a teacher," Oompa said to me, once. "What about for a deaf school?" "No." "Why not? You're good with kids. You're a success story and you could be an inspiration!" "NO." Yes, I do have a way with children - I'm the favorite aunt, I'm the one who gets on the floor and plays with the kids at family gatherings, but that's generally because I prefer the company of my nieces and nephew in place of their parents and I don't see them as often as I'd like. However, Oompa was a teacher. I do NOT want to follow in my mother's footsteps in ANYTHING I do. While I do sincerely love my mother and DO owe much of my 'success' today to 'early intervention,' I harbor a very deep, hard-to-find-at-times resentment for her - there was much she could have handled differently while raising me. While there was much she did do, there were also things she neglected - things having nothing at all to do with my hearing disability. At this point, bygones are bygones, and I've put into place an impenetrable barrier when it comes to her. It has taken YEARS, but I've managed to establish a distance between my mother and me; it has become increasingly necessary to do so as I got older and wiser. Admittedly, moving two hours away from her has helped, too. Anyway, my first time around, I chose a major in Liberal Arts/English. I didn't know what I was going to do with it, but was hopeful that eventually a different path would present. Little did I know that one would, but in the most unfavorable way imaginable. While the goal I have today took over two decades to become clear, I spent most of my first three years of college in a daze. I'd been raped shortly after the beginning of my collegiate journey and I was still trying to deal with that aftermath of that while balancing the 'basic' introductory courses. I wasn't thinking about anything other than just getting through the current day. I was directionless, I was unmotivated, and I was LOST. I was doing just the minimum needed to pass the class - that was pretty much it. There was no longer any excitement, there was no longer any visibility on the road that lay before me. All I had left of that was the faint memory of what it looked like BEFORE - and I was proceeding in hopes of not stumbling over an obstacle that had fallen when that illusion of a perfectly mapped-out future had blown up in my face. It was almost a relief finding myself pregnant with the Son in the middle of my third year. In a way, I took it as a sign - that I needed to begin to focus on things that I knew were a sure thing. It was time to stop wandering aimlessly. Impending motherhood was now more important to me than trying to balance schoolwork that I just wasn't of the frame of mind to be doing. And to what end? I had no idea where I was going - I was going to graduate in another year or so, but then what? Life was going to again, change drastically for me in a matter of months. It made no sense to continue on a path toward the unknown. And so, I dropped out in 1999, telling myself that one day, when I was able to identify a newly paved road to a destination that was doable, I'd revisit the idea of picking up where I left off. I announced late last year that I was ready to consider going back to school. The Son is now in his second semester of his freshman year in college and my daughter is in the seventh grade. I've spent the last nearly nineteen years of my life making sure they each had everything they needed. I put their needs, along with those of the wasband and my stepchildren, before my own. I gave little to no thought on what my purpose was, other than to be a wife and mother. Although I will always be Mom to my children and a wife to my committed partner of ten years, I am now ready to be something more. I am ready to work toward a career title, and I am ready for my reach to exceed that of what I'm used to. I'm ready for all of it. Again, Oompa, who was, I believe, most excited to hear my announcement, pushed the idea of my working toward becoming a teacher. Again, I told her no. She suggested a few other things she thought I'd be good at - some having to do with working with deaf children, since I was still considered a 'success story.' Likely, she'd want some more bragging rights reserved for when I graduated and was now working as whatever she recommended. After all, my successes were because of her, didn't you know? I shot those ideas down, too. I've previously shared with you all my aspirations to become a Social Worker. Oompa's soured expression was what further solidified this choice for me - she was SO sure that I would agree with her that social workers don't break the bank with their paychecks and I'd pick something that she'd initially recommended...her wisdom wasn't to be discounted, after all. 'It's hard work,' she also said. I wasn't sure whether to be offended that she was thinking I couldn't handle it, or to say, 'yes but because of your early intervention, I'm fully capable of a little hard work.' In hindsight, saying the latter would have shut her up immediately, but it's one of those thoughts that come to light days after the conversation had ended. For the first time in years, I stood my ground and told her that I wanted to become a Social Worker - and that was my goal - period. I did NOT want to be a teacher. I did NOT want to be an advocate for the deaf. I did NOT want to 'apply to a trade school so that it was easier and I could start working sooner rather than later.' I had started distancing myself from my mother prior to the age of 17, and I never shared with her details of my trauma. I just never felt safe doing so. That being said, I don't expect her to understand what mainly steered me in the direction of Social Work with a focus on Sexual Assault Counseling and Advocacy - but at this point - I am past the point of attempting to explain anything to her. Her thoughts no longer MATTER to me - and little by little, I am finding myself becoming FAR more vocal with her when I disagree. You've likely seen a recent example of this with my recent decision to lease a Jeep (my choice) over a Subaru (her recommendation)... So, now, here I am, with the acceptance email in front of me. Y'all know my tendency to ramble, and I'll try to wrap up soon, I promise. I came here to blog about something very specific I am feeling, and all that's been said before the mention of my mother, well - it's not unimportant, but it's for the most part, supporting information. So, without further ado... How do I feel about this acceptance? You'd think I'm whoop-whooping and clapping to myself in anticipation of finally completed some of the required steps to re-commit to going back to school. But I'm not. I can't stop looking at this letter, and although I am happy and I am pleased with myself for taking the steps I've taken, all of my doubts are coming back to say hello. I feel something. Maybe many somethings, but for sure, it's not as simple as I'd like for it to be. I've got jitters. Yes, definitely. I don't want to say I'm excited because I'm not sure that's what it is. There IS some excitement though - knowing I've made good on the promise to myself to re-focus on my education is something I'm proud of. I'm so used to doing for others, and doing for myself is rare. Another thing to take pride in is having found something that, although under circumstances that I'd love to say weren't a contributing factor, I can truly focus on building a career in. I'm nervous. I'm starting to wonder if this is indeed best. Not because of what I've decided what I wanted to do by now - but because I've been out of the 'school loop' for so long, now - I'm used to life being the way it is now - to take on school would bring forth VERY drastic changes. I know I stated above that it's something I'm ready to do - but I'm finding that the more ready you are, sometimes the doubt is stronger. Changes are, for me, VERY uncomfortable. I am sure I am not alone in this - change is not easy for many. I'm not completely in the dark on what college life entails, but...I'm 40, now. I've spend the last 19 years building a life that didn't involve me conforming to schedules, doing homework, meeting deadlines. I'm no longer a spring chicken, and I wonder if starting over at my age is even what 's best. I know - we never stop learning, it's never too late to get that degree, you can be furthering your eduction until the day you die - I know all this, I have even said this to others. I have to admit that a part of me anticipates there being somewhat of a sadness when I show up to my first class and I'm surrounded by kids my son's age, who are fresh out of high school and are going to get to travel that straight-line road that I was unfairly denied. I am going to be not only required to emerge from within my 'bubble,' my comfort zone, in order to attend classes - I'll also be meeting new people, there will be discussions I'll have to participate in, there may come a time where I'll have to speak in class. All of these possibilities are constantly circling my brain because this is what I do remember having to do 20 years ago (my first rodeo) and I was the same social disaster back then. Understandably, there are going to be times I will have to say to myself, "Cap - this is all a part of your overall healing journey. To put yourself out there is to re-learn how to establish a comfortable place within society." I have been a self-proclaimed hermit for the last several years, and this, I FULLY expect to have some issues with in the beginning, as I attempt to emerge from this mental cocoon I've become so comfortable staying hidden inside of. I'm terrified because I know that my goal to become a Social Worker is going to REQUIRE I become somewhat comfortable using my voice, being around others, looking others in the eye when I speak to them. I am going to need to learn to approach others, start conversations, learn to communicate in ways that don't involve writing emails or messages. I know that I cannot be forced by anyone other than myself to do these things. Even to self-push isn't always recommended but it certainly IS something that I've decided I need to work on as I proceed on my own personal healing path. In fact, going back to school can be seen as intertwining two positive steps toward a better me. It's inspiring but also scares the ever-loving shit out of me. I'm also sad - because there is great irony in one of the reasons contributing to my dropping out - now becoming something that is motivating my return to school. That cannot be missed. I know that all this seems...well, silly. At least, it does to me - I know that a lot of time has gone by since 'the first time around' and that I should be embracing these upcoming changes as I am now approaching them from an adult perspective. I know am not the same person I was at 17. I'm more mature now. I won't be attending any parties. I won't be putting myself into any potentially dangerous situations. These changes are good for me - they're healthy, they're ambitious. They're decisions I've made without pressure from anyone else. And deep down, I know that some of these concerns are probably unreasonable and I'll likely be just fine. I just feel it is important to be honest with myself and with whomever reads this - honest and truthful about what has been attacking all of my recent feel-good thoughts and leaving behind ones of impending failure. I think, though, that there's also another thing to add to what I'm still having trouble believing. That the fog has cleared, and the road ahead has become more visible. There is no longer any debris for me to navigate over, around, under, etc. There is once again - a straight path from here to where my degree awaits. I'd taken a serious detour - but now, there is a part of me that is back where I was when I was seventeen - standing at the beginning of the road (be it made out of yellow bricks or not) and eager to get started on the rest of my life - and then there is a part of me that is fearful of that road unexpectedly changing AGAIN. It doesn't even have to be in the form of trauma - change is brought forth in SO many different ways and I've too often seen things not work out the way people hope they do. I'm just so used to things not happening the way I'd expect them to - why should this be any different? In closing, I am asking for all of your good thoughts and well wishes as I begin this brand-new walk; there's still much to be done to put my butt into a chair by the time September rolls around. In the meantime, I've decided that now that I've had a chance to write on them, I'll say no more on my 'unreasonable' fears and instead just focus on what I CAN do to make it all a reality. Still, some motivation wouldn't hurt! That'll be it for today, I think. I've a date with the online FAFSA tonight and tomorrow with filling out some more paperwork for the VR counselor - slowly but surely, and despite the unwelcome self-doubts, I am getting the needed steps taken. And here's another thing I cannot believe I'm hearing myself say - but I'm proud of myself for getting to this point. Hoping you're all doing well. Until next time, friends. - Capulet

I've had a difficult life so far. When i was eight i started to show the dirst signsof depression but of cpirse, my family didn't notice. They didn't notice a lot. When i was eleven i was raped and i kept it to myself for years because i was ashamed and i didn't want anyone to know. I dealt with the depression shame and disgust of my own body by myself. I Iet it destroy me so that it didn't destroy anyone else. At 12 my father started to sexually abuse me as well aa emotionally and mentally. He accused me of things i would never do and it's still happening to this day. At 14 i suffered a hip injury which the root problem started from my rape but of course, i didn't tell anyone that. I suffered extreme agony for 2 years, became addicted to prescription drugs which was tramadol methrocarbonal and cocodomal. I was an addict at 14. Earlier this year i had my surgery and I've been off my meds for a few months now. It's extremely hard but i know i have to resist the temptation. Truth is i just want to fall back into that oblivion where i don't remember my rape... where my father doesn't abuse me and actually wants my company just for me... where my mum is happy to see me. Ive never had an amazing relationship with my mother... i think she's always seen me as the burden of the family, but just shortly before my 16th birthday my father was arguing with me and my mother because cominf back from our holiday i was still in crutches (i hadn't got my operation at this time) i slipped on a wet floor and hurt my hip again. The pain was blinding and i had to be given an extreme dose of my meds to knock me out on the flight. My father took a different flight home and he had demanded before we left that i was to be there whenhe was getting collected. After my fall i was sent straight home with my sister and my father was NOT happy to say the least. He caused a massive argument, valling me a w**re amoung othet things and when it all came to a head and i was sobbing i told them i was raped in the heat of the moment. I thought when i told them that i wouldn't have to deal with it alone anymore. But my mother accused me of lying she doesn't believe me and my father makes rape jokes. That completely destroyed me. I need help i can't do it alone anymore... I've contemplated suicide and I'm trying to convince myself that it'll get better in time but it's been nearly a decade I've been suffering with depression. Im only 17. I just... i have no where else to turn and i thought that if there was someone going through the same thing they might be able to help. Thank you for taking the time to read this. - lonelyladybug x

Urm.. i don't what to say.. but i guess i need help.. 😢 i need someone... listen to my story.. how hurts i am.. i just can't take it anymore.. i have no one to talk to.. about what happen to me.. 😢😢 Even my family don't believe me.. i don't know who else to believe... i never ask to be rape.. i never ask that... 😢 but no one listen to me... they put blame on me.. I hate myself.. i hate my life.. 😢 i live with trauma and depression.. and it's getting worse.. i do self harm... to getting rid of that feelings... 😢 I don't know what else to do.. i feel like wanna die.. wanna run away.. wanna dissapear... i can't take it anymore.. 😢😢 It hurts me... 😭😭😭 god.. i totally hate my life... this isn't fair... what should i do... why no one trust me???? 😢😢😭😭

Still crying.. can't get over it.... and i'm trying my best to forget it.. to move on.. Still think about suicide.. how to end it all...how to get rid of this feelings.. But somehow still manage to smile .. laugh... jokes with others.. While at 3 a.m .. 😭😭 I'm all alone.. 😢 and think.... i don't wanna live anymore.. this isn't fair.. why no one get it?? Why people put blame on me?? It's not like i wanna get that things happen to me! Why no one ever considered it.. never ask me how i feel..how i ever survive this depression anxiety all this things... I don't care how many years its gonna take.. but why.. no one believe me... it's not my fault.. i don't want all of this things to happen.. i don't want.. I wanna dissapear.. i want to forget all of this.. 😢 Sorry for my broken english.. 😭😭

So... Hey. Its a little weird being here but i'm excited. I guess lets get started with why i'm here. A lot of my friends haven't been through what have been through. There is like this disconnect where when i talk about what happened to me, or the issues i'm facing because of it, everyone just stares and doesn't respond. Like they think if they say anything I am going to go off or something. It is very lonely i guess. I just really what to make friends with people who will understand because they have been there. I mean i've been through a lot of crap but i wont post anything on this because i feel that is a bit too heavy for an into. Look forward to talking with y'all.

Dear Eddie, It has taken me at least five whole minutes to decide whether a piece of shit like you warranted a 'dear.' It was completely out of habit that I started this letter in the same polite, courteous way I would start a letter to anyone else. YOU, however, are not just 'anyone else.' I also debated whether or not I should use your name - I don't even know if it's your real name. Either way, I have decided that I want people to know exactly who you are - and unfortunately, using your first name is not even enough. This, though, is ALL I know about you. There are many appropriate not-so-nice names I could call you, but for the moment, they elude me. And so I'll use the name that has sparked terror and dread in me for the last twenty-two years. While there's so much accumulated that I need to say to you, I don't even know where to start. First of all, make no mistake - you're an absolutely despicable, horrible person and as far as I'm concerned, a waste of air and space. But, no matter how much hatred I have for you, you're still, unfortunately, an important part of my life. Not in the sense that I can't live without you - because I certainly CAN and honestly, would LOVE to. As a matter of fact, I most likely would be living an entirely different life if it weren't for you. I'm thinking that 'important' is a too nice a word - so perhaps I'll change it to 'significant.' Clearly, that is ALSO too kind and positive a word to describe the likes of you. I'm not going to worry about word-searching right now though; there's far too much that I need to say to you, regardless of whether or not you ever see this letter. I'm certain you'll never hear me; why would you? You quite effectively silenced me 22 years ago. It seems fitting to write you this letter today. I have had so much time to think and to cope with the emotional, mental, and physical side effects of what you did to me that night. I have not physically seen you in exactly 22 years - but I have 'seen' you MANY times, through memories and other reminders every single day since 10/4/1996. It's gotten a lot better with time, but you have visited me in my sleep; you've assumed the identity of my grocer, a random person on the street, a classmate, the guy who owns a pizza place in central Long Island, the list goes on. You were there whenever there were televised rape cases or trials; you did this to me, therefore your face was the one I saw, no matter who was currently on trial. For a long time, you were everywhere I turned; there was no escape. Now, you're not there as much, but deep down, I know that you'll never completely leave. And that's both mind-blowing and kind of fucked up - we knew each other for JUST thirty minutes - and yet you are going to occupy a piece of my brain for the rest of my life. In hindsight, you probably do not remember that night. Or maybe, you do. Maybe it makes you smile or laugh when you remember how you brutally and heartlessly overpowered a distressed seventeen-year-old girl. It doesn't do me any good to consider your pleasure in doing so, so I won't. But do NOT, for one MINUTE, think I didn't see out of the corner of my eye, that cocky smirk that was on your face while you were holding me down. You enjoyed every second of what you did. Perhaps I was just 'another girl' to you. You've probably done the same to other vulnerable girls. You were calculated, methodical, and sad to say, you knew exactly what you were doing. I guess I've always wondered how you can sleep at night - knowing you, using your body as a weapon, destroyed every single one of my hopes and dreams in a matter of just minutes. And I also wonder why? Why did you do this? What was in it for you? Was it worth it afterwards? Because of you, I spent the rest of that first year of college in a daze - it's a miracle I passed the courses I was taking. It was a literal chore to get out of bed every day and do the same thing - get dressed in clothes that may or may not have been washed, drive to campus (and back) in a dissociated, autopilot mode, then spend evenings at home in a similar zombie-like state. Then it was a rinse-and-repeat kind of thing, all while I withdrew socially and drifted slowly into a more consistent state of darkness. Nothing was crystal-clear anymore. Everything became fuzzy, jumbled and otherwise difficult to see - the life I had plans for no longer existed and was abruptly replaced with the life you forced me to live. Because of you, I searched for emotional and sexual sustenance in all the wrong places. I felt as if I had nothing of worth to offer the boyfriend I had at the time - so he was history shortly after. You were my first sexual experience - and you taught me that sex was painful. You also taught me that saying 'no' would not work - that fighting would get me hurt, and that it was ideal to just lay there and take it. And so I searched silently and recklessly, for that 'good' experience that would negate the bad one. For the record, this didn't happen. Of course, the guy that SHOULD have been the one I gave my virginity to, was instead, the one I cast aside when I feared my innocence was no longer intact. Because of you. And on that note, it is because of YOU that I am both mortified and absolutely disgusted with my past behavior. I've had 22 years to reflect on all of those poor choices and it's a goddamn miracle that I'm alive today! I'm ashamed of myself - because of what you taught me, I allowed men to do absolutely horrible things to me - because I was too afraid to say 'no.' I don't know if it was because I was afraid of being punched in the face or it was a learned auto-reaction at that point, but either way, whatever they wanted was usually what they got - this accomplished absolutely nothing more than eventually reducing my self-worth to zero. I stopped caring about any repercussions or consequences of my actions. In fact, I wanted to die - I wanted them to just put me out of my misery - the misery YOU started! Obviously, that didn't happen, either. I survived you, and then I survived my own self. And today, I'm STILL surviving, although the only difference is - I've forgiven myself for my part in these bad choices - as much as I'd like to blame you for those, I cannot. I acted alone, same way I did anything else. ALONE. I will say, you may be to blame for my self-imposed solitude - it's how I felt most safe and the least threatened - but maintaining this constant need to be alone is on me, and perhaps on my ex, who further implied that leading a private, isolated life was ideal. Even TODAY, I find myself wanting more personal space and alone time than seems reasonable - and because of this, I'm seriously lacking in social skills. It may not be entirely because of you, but you definitely helped that along. Because of you, I can't wash my floors with Pine-Sol. The unmistakeable smell triggers me when I try and all I can remember is my face being held down against the cold, hard, wooden floor (which STILL smelled like Pine-Sol) while you raped me. Because of you, I have a DEEP, almost UGLY hatred of music. No, it is not your fault that I was born with the inability to hear it - but it was also the reason no one heard me calling for help. It brings my children such joy - they LOVE music. So does my fiancee. And I can't help but remember and remain stuck on how the 'noisiness' failed me. Ironically, the music became somewhat of a focal point - when I stopped fighting and succumbed to your brutality, I focused only on the vibrations of the floor beneath me. And that's what I continued to focus on even after you were finished with me. It was a small comfort. I was alone in a place I was unfamiliar with, I was in a large amount of pain, I NEEDED something to distract me. And so I kept my eyes closed and my face against the floor for several minutes before getting up...just counting each pounding, deafening beat....it was better than trying to figure out WHAT had just happened to me. And for about five minutes, it was my only comfort. It was the only time I can remember where I welcomed the 'noise.' It was during that tiny window where music was still okay, that window was slammed shut once loud, blasting music became a known trigger. Because of you, I have not worn a skirt since that night. There were a handful of occasions that required me to put on a bridesmaid's dress, but other than that, I refuse to wear anything without a crotch. Even with those god-awful dresses, I wore a pair of skin-tight spandex shorts underneath because I needed to feel that extra layer of protection. You taught me that I needed to be mindful of what I wore - and that skirts were not safe, regardless of whether they were long or short. And every time I walk past one in the department store, I'm reminded of the cream-colored skirt with sunflowers on it that I wore that night. That was my favorite - it was long, it covered my legs, and came all the way down to my ankles. Because of what you did, I was forced to throw it away because I couldn't bear to look at it anymore. Because of you, I learned all about fear. The simplest, STUPIDEST things would now cause me anxiety. For me, fear goes hand-in-hand with trust, another thing that I lost the ability to do freely. Once upon a time, I was a very trusting person; I had faith in other people, I believed in the good in everyone. To a point, I still do, but it's become increasingly difficult for me to trust that not everyone is out to hurt me and there are actually kind, honest and truly good people out there. Because of you, I'm constantly second-guessing people, I'm questioning why people even wish to associate with me - what's their reason for it? How are they going to eventually hurt me? I HATE this about myself - I understand it, but I don't like it. I've walled myself off, because of you, and now I'm in a position where I need to learn to break down some of these walls or risk being alone later. Because of you, I'm afraid to ask for help when it comes to communicating with others and putting ANY trust into the kindness of strangers. Because if you recall, I was desperate and asked YOU for help. We both know how that turned out. Furthermore, I felt for the longest time that being hearing impaired was what landed me into trouble in the first place - I certainly could have made that phone call, myself, had I been born with two functional ears. But it wasn't about that at all, was it? This was what you planned, right? This diabolical scheme of yours was devised and set into motion JUST as soon as I uttered, 'can you help me?' Am I right? This, like so many other questions I have for you, will likely remain unanswered. You know, I wonder what you are like today. Have you changed? (Although it is hard for me to see you as anything other than a cruel monster, I know people change and truly have repented for things they've done in the past. I'm not sure this applies to you, though.) Are you a good person now? Are you happy? Are you proud of yourself? Do you have a successful job? Are you married? Do you have kids? Do you have a DAUGHTER???? If you do, I TRULY hope that knowing that YOU, yourself, are a sexual predator causes you to now live in fear of someone doing to her what you did to me. Of course I am not the type to wish ill will toward the women in your life that you DO love and care about - but I sincerely hope that you understand the severe gravity of the effects of sexual assault - not just on the ones who have experienced it, but on the people around them. And I hope you know and recognize that YOU are a person who has single-handedly caused these effects. Do you ever even think about what you did to me, and possibly, to other women? Or do you fall into the 'none of the above' category and are you rotting in a cell somewhere because you raped another woman who had more balls than I did and reported you? Either way, do you feel any remorse at all? Do you even KNOW what your actions have done to me, and perhaps to others? I've had to accept that most all of the kickback from that night has been on me - you couldn't have cared less when you left me in that room, a bleeding mess. If you're still alive and karma hasn't caught you yet, you probably still don't care. You didn't care when I begged you to stop, you didn't care that all I wanted was to go home. Instead, you laughed at me, you mocked my screams, you terrorized me. I've come a long way in 22 years, though. I'm not ashamed to admit that I've fantasized about killing you. And (because it was the only way I could get away with it) - in my dreams, I have killed you in multiple ways. I've yelled at you, I've screamed. I've beaten the shit out of you, I've smashed your face in, I've castrated you, I've hammered your ballsack to a slab of wood with a rusty nail. You hurt me 'there,' and I wanted desperately to return the favor. I'm not a violent person by any means, and I'm slightly embarrassed to even admit what I've thought about doing to you and to other sexual predators. You have certainly made me angry enough to entertain these thoughts, but that's all they were - thoughts. Time has shown me that the physical pain subsides and there is nothing at all that will completely cure the emotional and mental pain that sexual assault inflicts. This specific pain, that because of you, I feel every single day. Yes, time has mended my spirit a great deal, but there is going to forever be a part of me that you stole, you still possess, and that I will NEVER get back. You know what, though? I'm not mad at you anymore. I have come to the conclusion that after 22 years, it is no longer anger I feel when this time of year rolls around. It's become a permanent mark, yes, but it's also a numbing sadness that, no matter how much time has elapsed, will always live inside me and become more noticeable in the fall. While I didn't have a choice in what's been plopped down on my plate (because of you), I DO have a choice in how I deal and cope with what's been served. And I am now choosing to put that pre-existent anger behind me - it's done me NO good to hold onto it and I refuse to give you any more of my time or energy. Plus, when dealing with anger, there is usually a resolution...a way to come to terms with it and eventually dissolve it. I think that, for me, means you'd have had to 'make it right' or otherwise pay for your crime at some point. But you'll likely never be held accountable for what you did to me - even if you've been reported by someone else and you're paying THAT price, the debt between you and I will never be resolved. So, today, 22 years later, I am feeling that it is time to let go of it...and while I've managed to released all of this pent-up anger towards you - I'm still and always will be disgusted with the poor excuse of a human being that you are. I will never forgive you, either. Your fate is truly out of my hands, but I do have hope that when the time comes, you'll get exactly what you deserve. I do have remaining guilt for allowing you to walk free, for not getting up from the floor and chasing you out of that bedroom - I sometimes feel that in that moment, I should have mustered up whatever strength I had, found my voice, and exposed you for the rapist you are. I've run through this scenario in my head, too - maybe someone would have restrained you, someone else would have called the police, and you would have been put away. I'd have gotten medical attention, my parents would have found out what happened, sure, but at least you'd have been locked up. Had that been what happened, it would likely have spared other women from having to experience the same thing I did. But sadly, this is just another one of those 'woulda been nice' thoughts that will never come true. Because of that life-changing, impactful half-hour I spent with you, the once fearless being I was, was rendered weak, speechless, and paralyzed. I truly feel that because of you, I froze in fear and shock when that window of opportunity was open - I COULD have done something, but I did not. While I now understand why I felt powerless in the moment, I feel that I still failed not only other women you may have subsequently harmed, but also myself. And I HATE you for that, I HATE you for making me despise myself. I hate you for teaching me the true meaning of the word 'hate.' Such an ugly word; one that I don't even want my children to use...yet so fitting for how I feel about you. I hate what you've done, what you represent, what you're capable of. I hate your type - and that there are so many more of you roaming around. I hate YOU, Eddie. This is what I have to live with, though. Other than this nagging feeling that I've failed myself and others, (which I've forgiven myself for as well) I've been a good person. I've never hurt another person. I am kind. I am caring. And I didn't deserve this. I know this now. Because of you, it took a LONG time to come to this realization. I survived 22 years ago and today, will continue to grow as a person. I am not the same person I would be had I not met you, but that's beyond my control, now. Instead of trying to duplicate the person I used to be or 'pick up where I left off,' I am going to focus on reclaiming the small, yet significant things that you either stole or otherwise changed for me. There are some things that are gone forever, but there's hope for some others. I'm going to embrace the rest of this fall season, and all of the fall seasons to come. Rather than scowl at the natural beauty of the changing foliage, I will instead smile in appreciation of the breathtaking scenery. I will buy the biggest fucking bottle of Pine-Sol and wash my floors with it next week. Why? Because I KNOW that my face will not be pressed down against that floor afterwards - and I'm going to prove that the dread I feel toward Pine-Sol is simply going to mean it's time to complete the never-fun chore of washing the floors. I'm going to slowly work on lowering the walls that are up, because of you, and learn to more freely delegate my trust in those who are deserving of it. I suppose while there's plenty to blame and loathe you for, there is one positive thing that I can derive from our encounter 22 years ago. Undoubtedly, that was the WORST, most impactful night of my life and to me, to be able to gain any positive insight out of such a negative, horrible event is pretty fucked up. I don't want to give you credit for ANYTHING, more or less anything positive in my life - especially when I don't think I would be inspired to pursue the line of work I'd like to without first encountering your cruelty. Because of you, I have developed a profound understanding of myself as well as the MILLIONS of other women who have been sexually assaulted. I understand the deep, lingering pain and constant frustration, the emotional and sometimes physical toll that rape takes on a person. I know that us women are individual beings and we all deal differently, but we all share this common burden that we have to live with forever. Because of you, and other predatory beings like yourself. Before you, I was an English major and wanted to become a scriptwriter. And now, after you, I want nothing more than to use this experience, coupled with my gained understanding and knowledge of 'what comes after,' and become an advocate for sexual assault/rape survivors. Because of you, I understand EXACTLY what other survivors are going through and the grueling, seemingly uphill journey that lies ahead of them. I am now ready to grab ahold of as many survivors' hands as I can, and climb this hill with them in unity and solidarity. At first, I questioned whether I'd be able to devote the rest of my life to doing this type of work - it's certainly not going to be easy, but perhaps in the process, I will continue to heal. I know and understand that I will be healing for the rest of my life. And so, I have made peace with this change - I feel more confident in my abilities to help others than in scriptwriting - but perhaps I've done both. I've re-written my life's script. I'll never be able to completely discard the old, broken, battered version of myself - but I can certainly decide what happens to me, moving forward. As for you, Eddie... I don't know what's going on with you right now. You can be living the American dream with a house and family - or you can be sitting in a 12x12 cell in prison. I've no way of knowing. Either way, I truly hope that at one point during the rest of your life, that you learn the true definition of suffering, the way you made me suffer. I hope that one day, you will understand the feeling of being overpowered, and that you will experience vulnerability. I hope you see for yourself how it is to feel lonely and isolated because no one around you understands what you're going through. I hope you learn all about that feeling of keeping your silence - and that you come to realize that it's because you just don't know who to trust anymore. It'd also be nice to see you struggle with things you thought were simple and easy, but are no longer. Because following trauma, NOTHING is the same, anymore. The things you did every day become foreign and become things you have to re-teach this altered version of yourself to do, all over again. And I hope that someday, something scares you to the point where your heart (I know you have one) starts pounding for reasons that may not be immediately clear. I hope that in that same moment, you freeze and are unable to move, or even BREATHE. That's PTSD, that's anxiety. That's what you unfairly sentenced me to. That's what I've had to live with for the last 22 years - because of you. YOU however, have to live with everything I've mentioned in this letter. And knowing your type, there's likely lots more that you're going to have to live with. And, ultimately, that's what you deserve. You deserve the absolute misery you've inflicted on others, you deserve pain and suffering. I'm just sorry that I won't be there to witness that moment when Lady Karma decides it's your turn to pay the price for all the terrible things you've done! And last, but not least, I truly hope you see my face when she finally catches up to you. Don't forget to watch for the satisfied smirk. - Capulet (Because of you.)

Its just another nightmare... i dream about it again.. i can see clearly his face... i can barely feel his touch... its make me sick! How can i survive like this... whenever i see my reflection on mirror... i cant see me.. the real me.. i only see the other part of me.. 😢😢😢😢

Last night... I got depressed.. and cut my hand several times... lucky it doesnt blood so much.. and its not that hurt... I feel relieved and getting better after i cut my hand.. And now.. like nothing bad happen 😊 i'm smiling

Its been 2 years.. i still cant forget it. I still live in nightmares.. i'm depress.. i'm struggling.. every day... I still hate my self.. i still cant accept it. The things you have done .. leaves me with scars... i dont like memories... i hate to remember it again.. i hate to shed a tear.. I left today hating what you have done to me.. you dont just took something from me.. you took everything.. every single of me.. Every time i showered.. i cry.. i still can see what you have done.. your hands are imprinted on me... your voice still lingers in my ear.. still pounding in my head ... its a bad daydream that never ends... Your hand that choke me.. that slap me.. that touch me.. i cant forget it.. everytime its kill me.. i hate my body as much as i hate you.. i hate my eye.. my ear.. my hair.. my body.. even my voice... because of you.. its hurt me everytime i remember.. you touch me... its hurt me a lot .. everytime i know.. i am a broken girl.... This is the pain.. that no one can see.. its slowly killing me.. torture me.. killing me apart.. bit by bit.. its hurt.. its kill me inside.. Theres the day that i wanna give up.. like i wanna kill myself.. like i want to end all of this.. i am a shame.. i am a mistake.. I am nobody.. useless.. unprecious.. but i still try.. try my best. Struggling here by my side.. continue faking everything.. to see everyone beside me.. happy.. to see their smile.. their happiness.. because i love them... they everything to me... Even though i'm nothing to them.... Every night.. i still whisper the same thing.. almost 2 years... "please.. let me go.. please.. stop it.. please... " every night with my pillow full with tears.. i cant scream out loud.. i cant crying out loud.. i dont want people to know.. how broke my hearts. How hurt i am.. Because in the morning.. here i am.. smile.. laugh.. in front of your guys... Faking my another day.. my life.. just to see people around me.. smile and cheerful.. Here i am.. a survival girl.. who dying inside.. but live outside...

Trauma? Feels like you want to end your life ??

I'm good at faking smile... 😊 why? Because with that i know i'm getting stronger. I dont need people to keep asking me "are you okay?" No.. because whatever happen i'll never be okay.. I'm done. I'm tired. I just need my space.. my time to be alone.. i just want to be alone. I know i'll neved getting better.. i just keep faking everything . Faking my smile my laugh my appearence.. its bettter than crying out loud but no one listening .. no one ever care.. their just keep saying... "its all your fault" its okay.. i used to live my life like this.. im fine...

I need to put a sex offender in prison to right the OCD/brain chemistry in my brain. I don't know what is wrong with my brain. I have been fighting it now for over 26 years. The doctors won't give me a diagnosis. I've had OCD for as long as I can remember, its horrible. For the past 19 years I have been trying to get someone who sexually abused me put in prison so that my brain will right again and I can fight off the anxiety and depression and all manner of symptoms in my head. It's really frustrating as no one seems to believe me that it is true. The worst part is that it was the Police that 'arranged' for me to be sexually abused in the first place . I don't know what was wrong with my brain from birth. It might be autism, or learning disabilities? I don't really know. I really struggled with school. Everyone else around me seemed to find school easy. I had a notion that I was going to join the RAF when I left school but I think that seed might have been planted in my head by my abusive sister. I never knew what I wanted to do when I left school. I didn't really have an interest apart from finding a cure for my brain so that I could be a Pilot, even that though seemed to be someone else's idea. I really wanted my brain fixed so that I could fight back. Or at least fight on an even footing. Life always seemed to be unfair. My abusive older sister treated me like ****. I really hated her. The best time of my life was when I was 18 and my sister had left home and I got to go walking on the local national park with my parents. I still wonder if science will come up with a cure for autism in my life time. Aged 14 I was set up by my school to be repeatedly raped by the diseased turd in the back room of a grotty pub.... I was made to leave the Air Training Corps aged 15 for smelling of body odour... of all things. Bloody broke my heart, I had my sights set on a career in the RAF. I just gave up. I used to come home from school at lunch times and get drunk and go back and it in classes not knowing what to do. I was so paranoid that I smelt bad. I was set up by my abusive father and sister to copy the diseased turds crappy drawings in return for a chance to 'suck it off'... I was made to go to art college even though I had no idea how to draw or even any talent. I wasn't even a homosexual and even if I was no one on god's earth would willingly go near the diseased turd! I didn't have any interest in art college and I still don't. I was set up by my abusive sister and her sickening scheming mind of hers. She's had my life planned out for me since the day I was born, I've never had free will, I just get told what to do by my abusive sister and father. My sister can only think in terms of consequences. I was 15 years old. Most of the other people I knew at school had girlfriends. I was forced against my will to get into bed with the diseased turd in the back room of a grotty pub. I could have been in bed with a girlfriend or at least safe at home doing my homework. For the life of me I can't fathom how responsible adults and teachers at my school and social workers and Policemen decided that I should be raped by the diseased turd. It doesn't make any sense.... Aged 16 I was drugged with too much Cannabis Resin, LSD and Pain Killers so that was my health out the window. I had to leave art college as I was too ill to do any of the work. That was in 1992. I am now 42 and I have never done a proper days work in my life. I failed my GCSE's aged 16. Some bright spark decided that I should be made to 'hang out' against my will with someone who is mentally ill. So that was my education and future out of the window. The depression and anxiety from failing my GCSE's got worse over the 5 years of high school. When I was 15 the mentally ill person made to pay for its cigarette addiction, so I become hocked on nicotine. That was my physical health out the window. A few months latter at a house in a nearby town I was introduced to cannabis resin, so that was the end of me... When I was 16 I was made by my abusive sister to the Tourette rapists grotty smelly flat to be used as a fag powered vibrator so that my mentally ill and delusional sister wouldn't have to worry about squeezing out 'retards'.. as she puts it. Up until the age of 16 I never actually had a sex life and now thanks to Claire G** I never will. Melanie G***** and Claire G** and her friends thought that dancing around in front of me with their tits out whilst ethnically cleansing was a barrel of laughs. I was ill in bed. Asleep. I need to put Melanie G****** and Claire G** behind bars... When I was 10 I thought I was going to grow up to be a professional boxer... When I was 11 I thought I was going to grow up to be a fisher man... When I was 13 I thought I was going to grow up to be a fighter pilot... I didn't actually get to do anything apart from be ill... because that is how Melanie G***** planned my life out for me... I used to enjoy playing football. Then when I was 10, Amanda W*** asked me for a tounge job in the play ground in front of the whole school. I haven't play football since... When I was 10, I was told that someone said that I had nice hair. So my mentally ill psychopath of a sister made me wear too much hair gel to school to rot my hair out of my head until I was 17 when she had me raped in my bedroom by the diseased turd and then I was forced against my will to loiter around public toilets with filthy old grotty homosexuals in stench ridden shit holes after being ill all day at college. They called it 'comedy clubbing'. Then on the morning of 10th January 1994 to add salt to the wound I was made to go to a careers meeting at the college so that Stephen B**** could laugh at me in a public toilet so that I would rip all my hair out of my head... now I am 42 and I don't have any hair on my head all because of a comment made to be sister when I was 10... They actually used me as a public toilet loiterer aged 17 after my fathers had me raped in my bedroom... foul shit ridden diseased public toilets... so that my sister could have a bit of a laugh with Claire G** so that Claire G** wouldn't have to worry herself... The foul shit ridden dirty old man in the public toilet on the morning of January 10th 1994 was set up in bed next to mine in April 1997 to be given the chance to masturbate in my face and then shake my hand so that my sister could have a bit of a giggle to herself... The NHS actually wasted money and doctors even gave it some thought before hand... they even gave it a name 'mike'! Mike! returned by some surprise in September 2002 to let me know that I could pay for a t-shirt in the petrol station on the way back from a Beth Orton concert in Bristol so that my father could have me illegally detained against my will so that my sister wouldn't 'feel' bad about showing off her new son after spending years in New Zealand... I am told that the doctors wanted to lock my sister up... by my fathers said no, not my precious daughter you can lock my son up instead and stab his arse with a needle and fill him up with needless pills and torture him for 3 months in a mental home for fun, whilst my precious daughters gets married. joy oh joy!... I just wanted to learn how to play the guitar, I thought why not. My fathers convinced the doctors that I was about to go out a kill people... it was my fathers and sister that are killing people... December 16th 1998, the day of my 23rd birthday. The day after we moved into a new home. Claire G** insisted that we move out of Brixham because she didn't want to feel like a embarrassed Tourette rapist. I was set up in Selina M***** car so that Claire Guy could accuse me of trying to perform oral sex on her after she had been raping me for 8 months... I can't imagine wanted to perform oral sex on Claire G**. I wouldn't p*** on Claire G** if she was on fire... Now Claire G** has been stuck in my front temple lobe for 19 years because of my untreatable OCD and the only way to get her out is to put her in prison for sexual abuse...

I wanted to join the RAF and become a fighter pilot but a mental case got in my way.... Still trying to fight for justice against the Social Services, the health service, the Police, the department for education, the tourrete rapist, the diseased turd etc.. the list goes on and on.... Still can't quite fathom out how to get solicitor on my side so I can fight for justice and compensation... Need to get the Tourette rapist and diseased turd out of my head and system... I need stop the constant harassment and verbal abuse from the social services... Need to put the Tourette rapists child porn scam in front of the crown court to clear my name.... It's been 26 years since I was able to get a good nights sleep...I really need a break....

May 2013 we had just moved in to the new house. I was trying to hide the bruise for him and the cuts on my wrists. I just wanted to die. Weeks pass and me and him don’t talk I find out that I was pregnant and at age 15 that info can scare the crap out of you. I cried for days. I couldn’t let my family know they would be so mad at me. About a mouth after I found out I was pregnant I got in a fight with a girl at school because her boyfriend was leaving her for me.( I had left him because he just wanted me to runaway with him and I didn’t want that. So I left him and went to date let’s call him guy. Guy and I were together for a mouth before he raped me to. The night it happened I brought him to my house and let him in though my window no body was home but I still had to hide him . He and I sat there talking for a hour or so and then he did it pinned my to my own bed in my room and just ripped close off and forced he way I want he wanted. I cried but couldn’t scream my sister would wake up and I couldn’t have that so I just layed there crying and when he left I didn’t leave my bed for three days and one day I took a shower and next thing I know I am no longer pregnant. Guy stayed in my life for far to long December of 2013 I tried to kill myself in my bath tub by cutting my left wrist I had six stitches and three days in a mental hospital. When I came home from that guy called me and I started to talk to him again because I thought he would change his ways but it never changed. Between December 2013 and June 2014 I had two more miscarriages and guy and Sam the threed guy raped me at least 10 time before me and guy get arrested for trying to kill my family I needed help and nobody wanted to get the help I needed so I put my self where they had no other option but to help me I have been in therapy for five years I was on probation for two years in foster care 7 mouths and in treatment and year and one mouth and in jail a mouth. Now I am happily married going to school to become a hairdresser and now life couldn’t be better my past has beat me down for years and still does but I’ll get though it I have this long..

I don’t know how to really start this off ….it’s hard to talk about because the only person that knows about this is my husband.. it was may 17th, 2013 we were getting ready to move to cripple creek. I really didn’t want to but it was whatever I had no say back then I was 15 yrs old. Nothing I said mattered well it felt like that sometimes. One reason I didn’t really want to move was because my boyfriend at the time lived kinda far from me and if I moved we would be farther apart. Me and him it just wasn’t a healthy relationship at all we were 15 yrs old we know nothing about a good healthy relationship. But the day we started moving to the new place he came and see me at the park by my grandmothers house he got a ride just to come see me and had to walk all the way home. Witch I felt bad for because he was being an ass and making me feel bad about. But that day was may 17th , 2013 we walking up the hill behind the building over there. Next thing I remember is him on top of me with my pants off and shirt and all I could do is cry I couldn’t scream or call for help I just cried.. it hurt so bad ….I had to act like all was good when I got home I could let them know what happened, I thought I loved home and I thought that if I say something he will leave me. Will the next day he texts me and treats that if I tell anybody he will personally kill me with his bare hands. I still to this day have never told my family my husband is the only one that knows about him and what he did to me. I stayed with him for four mouths after that and one day he left me cuz he thought I was cheating on him………. He was the first one to that advantage of me...

To begin with I am 17 and was raped 2 years ago and it still sometimes causes nightmares. I was 15 years old and my parents had just gotten divorced so i rebelled. I went to party's and was not making good decisions, but I was still a virgin. One night at a party i was so drunk because i was trying to make my problems go away so i was dancing. then one of the people who i thought were my friends asked me to play spin the bottle. I agreed and proceeded to play i was having a good time. This time the bottle landed on this guy who i thought was actually cute so i was hoping it was me, and it was. he told everybody not to wait up so i thought still a little wasted we would just make out. I was having a good time and then he trys to touch me and I immediately push him off and tell him no but he proceeds. he pushed me up against the wall with his hand over my mouth and begins to touch me. i was squirming trying to get away but he was much stronger than me. ll of a sudden theses three other guys walk in and i think i`m saved but they were his friends and he told them to join in so they did. one of them pulled out a knife and began to cut my clothes off as the others were laughing. he comes really close once hes taken off my clothes and said if i make one move or sound he will cut me and i tried to get away and that`s what he did he cut me on my stomach just enough to draw blood. Then the other two slam me down on the bed and i just hear zippers and change falling out of pockets. then they began touching me down there and i scream so one of them gave me a huge scar on my knee that i still have this day. then they all took turns raping me laughing and calling me a sl*t. eventually he had cut me 22 times and 10 left scars after about 45 minutes i passed out and when i woke up they were gone with a girl standing over me asking if i was okay. i didn't talk that whole way to her house and i didn't know her now she is one of my closest friends. she let me stay cleaned me up gave me new clothes and took me home the next day. when i got home i wore long sleeve stuff for three months and maybe 8 hours of sleep a week i just kept having nightmares and when school started i had panic attacks frequently eventually the panic attacks went away only showing up when something really triggers them and the nightmares still happen just not so often. eventually i told the girl and immediately felt better. i am now very afraid of knives to the point where i wont touch any except now a butter knife which took a while to do. I am now better than ever and know that it wasn't my fault and i know i am stronger for it. i made this so u guys can tell me your story and trust me i understand.

I was 14 years old and studying for my GCSEs the day that the diseased turd was brought into my class room. I have since been told that it was brought to my school with the sole purpose of raping my face. It was the local social services, they had set me up. I don't for what reason or under what law they were able to do such things. It really doesn't make any sense to me. I had wanted to join the RAF since the age of 6, I was my long term goal. It's what I had dreamed of doing, its what I studied for. I didn't have a plan 'B' I didn't however have an interest in David Spring's cartoon's or indeed a interest in 'sucking it's di*k'. I am not a homosexual. I can't imagine anyone wanted to go near David Spring. I didn't have an 'interest' in Art. I didn't need to pay for Jamie Conway's cigarette habit. I didn't want to go to Jamie Conway's alcohol birthday party. I didn't want to 'do' LSD. David Spring is beyond ugly and foul and gross and sick and mentally ill and psychically disgusted. I can't quite imagine how a social worker could legally dream up such a thing?? Still my Policeman father 'paid' David Spring to repeatedly orally rape me. Apparently it was done for my sister. What 'mental illness' she suffers from, I can't quite fathom. Being a 'teenager' is hard enough without being raped by the diseased turd. Jamie Conway cost me my GCSE's. Emma Gibson (or whatever the fuck her name is?) cost me my place in the ATC and my career in the RAF. Claire Guy cost me my health and my wife and children...

I could have gone home a started my long recovery in early October 1996. I could have got well again. I would have only been 20 years old. I had my entire life ahead of me. I would have been in joyous recovery after 18 months of mental torment and not being able to breath. I was fighting for breath 24/7 for 18 months. Peter O'Brian CPN and who ever his team were, set me up at Derriford Hospital on the 28th October 1996 for 24 hour sleep deprived electroencephalogram. It's now 2017 and I have yet to recover... I don't know how a mental health team could be so irresponsible to put someone like me with my condition in such danger?? Unless they did it on purpose to make me ill?? It was Detective Sergeant Stephen Blair and his foul toilet dweller and its Cauliflower cheese that did it. I don't know if they had it planned out in advance or it was a spur of the moment thing but it cost me my natural born life. I was almost out the door and on my way home to recovery when... it really isn't fair. I could have recovered. It wasn't until 1998 that I was given a second electroencephalogram that I started to recover only to be taken to the Buggerist house in Plymouth for Julie Burgoyne to trigger me again with 'Stephen, what haven't you been eating?' and it started again. I was ill. I could have been home and dry on the 16th December 1998 when we moved into our new home in Paignton, if it wasn't for Claire G asking me what my room was like which triggered me again. I was ill again. This time it has taken 19 years and counting and I'm still ill. It could have been a fresh start in a new home in a new town. I could have been in recovery, I would have been 23 years old. Instead because of Claire G bi-polar brain and big mouth I have wasted most of my life trying to fight off Claire G. A complete waste of time and energy. I saw when the pain shot across my forehead when I was made to say 'It's like a room' that I would have to put Claire G in prison for sexual abuse for me to be in recovery. My whole life has been on hold for 19 years while I try and figure out how to sort my brain out because Claire G can't keep itself to itself... Claire G offered to make me a millionaire when I was 18 if I kept quiet about the sexual abuse she had subjected me to when I was 16...

I really wish my sister could have left me alone when I was 10 years old and not have made me wear hair gel to school to humiliate me. It has really damaged my hair and my mental health, there really was no need for it. Both my father and sister ganged up on me and forced the hair gel onto my head. It was really upsetting. Apparently someone at Primary school in the 4th year said that I had nice hair. I don't know what psychiatric condition my sister has but she went mental and found it necessary to smother my head in hair gel o ruin my hair. I was only 10 years old, I couldn't defend myself against both of them. I looked ridiculous, people laughed at me, it was horrid!!. My sister had it all planned out, every step of the way! She's a psychopath, its really frightening what she has subjected me to over the years!! It wasn't until the 3rd year of Secondary school that I was introduced to The Stone Roses on a Brittany Ferries ferry on the way to France, that I stopped using hair gel and started to grow my hair back that I realised how much damage the hair gel had caused to my hair. That was when the Diseased Turd Rapist was brought into Brixham Community College by the maths teacher Stella Boundy in order to rape me and stop me from joining the Royal Air Force. (It's only now at the age of 41 that I begin to realise how much damage my father has done to me since the age of 18) The Doctor says that I am mentally unwell because the diseased turd raped me. I have lost count o the amount of times that the diseased turd (David Spring) has raped me between the ages of 15 and 17. Being buggered by Gary Burgoyne at the age if 14 didn't help my mental health. Being made to 'get my own back' aged 15 by buggering Gary Burgoyne made things all the worse. Which is what stole my sex life. I haven't been able to get an erection since that night in December 1990 at the Burgoyne's house when my parents came home as I was buggering Gary Burgoyne. I know, my bad, I'm not even a homosexual. I don't fancy males, nor would I want to have sex with one. I was just so bloody angry about being repeatedly buggered when I was 14. I was under age. I'm not a homosexual as I say, I didn't want to be buggered. It's really upsetting and distressing. It took my sex life away. Apparently I have to tell a girl/women what happened to my penis to get my erection back, or so I am told. How on earth do you tell and girl you got caught by your own father buggering another boy up the arse when you were 15 years old?? I'm not even a homosexual. Nor would I want to buggera boy up the arse. I only fancy women. I became really ill in the summer of 1990, when I was 14 years old. I wanted to buy a baseball bat from that 'trendy' sports shop in Paignton to batter the diseased turd to stop it from raping me. I became really angry. I didn't know that I was being set up by the school to be raped. Apparently my sister had it all planned out to stop me from getting married and having children. She must be mentally ill or something. I need to get a solicitor and set a Law Degree to figure out how to sue the school for rape. They set me up with Jamie Conway how has bi-polar disorder on September 2nd 1987 as well to stop me from doing my GCSE's which I need to sue the school for. I needed my GCSE's to join the RAF. As I say Melanie Graham had it all planned out and as far as I know she has the rest of my life planned out for me as well. I don't have a life of my own. I have to do whatever my Father and Sister tell me to do. It's grossly unfair, in England we live in a democracy, there are Laws and Free will and Freedom of speech. I need to bring the Law down on Melanie Graham to stop her form what she is doing. She is mentally ill and needs to be stopped. I want a life of my own, not something she has dreamt up in her sick brain. Apparently my sister set me up aged 30, to live next door to a dirty gross foul sick old homosexual known to both Claire Guy and my sister in order to make me physically unwell and to stop me from having children. I am now 41 and I have yet still to come to terms with what I was subjected to in that flat living next door to John Barker for 4 years. I came within a knats whisker of saying to the Police there is a dirty old man in my bedroom please could you help me. Which I m told would send Trevor & Claire Guy to prison for 10 years a piece for their Child Pornography Scam. I was on the phone to the Police, I am hoping they still have recordings of my conversations with the Police call centre to try and fathom out how John Barker stopped me from reporting him to the Police. Apparently he was making death threats. I'm sure it must still be possible to prove that John Barker sexually assaulted me in my bedroom that morning in August 2010 so that Claire & Trevor Guy can be sent to prison for 10 years. I just need a Law Degree to fathom out how. John Barker scarred my body for life in that flat. I want Justice!!

Really angry and upset as I right this. I have had to recently call the Police out due to abusive neighbours and verbally abusive social workers. The Police don't seem to have yet to have solved the problem, I will have to call the Police again. We moved to a new address back in December 1998, it was the day before my 23rd birthday that we moved in. I thought it would be a fresh start, a chance to start again and move on from past abuse. I have since found out that my mother had been asked by the family of the female perpetrator that abused me for my mother to move my family out of my home town when I had been put into a mental hospital and had no reaction to medication and it was found out that I had infact been abused by the female perpetrator and they had been lying to try and cover the sexual abuse up. So, it hadn't been a fresh start it had been blackmail. Why would my mother agree to move out of the town just because the Guy family didn't want to be embarrassed?, it just doesn't male any sense why wouldn't my mother stand up to them and tell them No! if you want someone to move, you move out. I'm really angry. My mother had been blackmailed by the Guy family to make us move out of town so that Claire didn't lose face. To make matters worse, the day after we moved into the new house, the day of my 23rd birthday I was supposed to be going shopping to a nearby town with my sister and one of her friends. Only for my Father to receive a phone call in the morning to say that, and I quote 'Claire is 'cuming' is that a problem'?. I felt sick to my stomach. I didn't realise that my own father had been involved in the sexual abuse I had been subjected too. I wanted to say, 'Yes, that is very much a problem' 'I don't want Claire anywhere near me or my home'. I wanted to scream my head off. There was something in my fathers voice that threatened me into replying. I few weeks previously I had typed out what Claire had said to me whilst an before she was sexually abusing me and sent it to her last known address, her mothers house. I now think that I was made to this so that they could entrap me. My sister, Selina and Claire arrived at the house. I hadn't even unpacked. I don't know why I just didn't spend the day unpacking and help to move into the new house. Why would I want to go shopping with Selina and my sister anyway? There was loads to do around the house why didn't I just stay home. It would have saved me a life-time of stress. We went out to the car, my sister demanded whilst laughing and giggling that I 'sit in the front'. I am sure my sister has a mental health condition. Claire made a demented 'Mooing' sound then said 'What's your room like?'. It wasn't said in conversation, I wouldn't want to speak to someone who had sexually abused me anyway. She said it with sarcasm in reply to the letter that I was made to send to her mothers house. Claire insinuated that I really had infact wanted to try and perform oral sex on her and hadn't been put up to it by my sister. I felt really ill and dirty... I wanted to get out of the car... I knew what would happen to my brain if I answered and that it would last for many years to come. Infact so far it has been 19 years of pain and mental torture. I said reluctantly, 'it's like a room' and then the pain shot through the left hand side of my brain just like it had walking out of the Ben Peppers bedroom after they made me do LSD all those years ago. Then the panic started to set in... and the anxiety and depression.. We got to the town and Claire just wandered off without saying a word. I couldn't believe what had just happened. I could have been safe at home unpacking my stuff. Claire didn't stay to do any shopping... it had been a set up. I now know that in order for the pain, anxiety etc to stop and for my brain to 'flick out' again I would have the monumentally task of putting Claire in prison for sexual abuse. It has been 24/7 for the past 19 years and still, I have yet to convince the Police of the sexual abuse that I had been subjected too. It turns out that the set up the day we moved to the new place had been part of a child pornography scam that Claire had dreamed up in order to try and put me in prison so that Claire and my sister wouldn't had to go to prison. In 1999 and 2000, my sister and Claire and her social worker friends had infact been behind my bedroom wall in the flat next door screaming their heads off at me threatening to force paracetamol down my throat if I didn't do as they said and download child pornography to a laptop that they had made me purchase in order to put me in prison. It is now 2017 and the social workers are still behind my bedroom wall. To make matters worse members of the Guy family have moved into the house next door to me. For what reason I have yet to fathom. Claire G was not welcome at my home and she knew it, she had to get my father to threaten me in order to come to my home to verbally abuse me because it was 'getting high'. Claire G was feigning distress and head butting the air and making involuntary hand movements and making noises at me. I was forced to answer but I didn't want to I just wanted to get out of the car. Claire G is a pest. 19 years ago I could have spent the day unpacking in my new home. It would have saved me distress and mental torment the likes of which you have yet to imagine. I could have been happy at home and been out working, instead of being knocked about by Claire G, her abusive sister, my sister and the social services. What a waste!! Claire G needs to be put in prison. Claire G's child pornography scam doesn't prove anything other than Claire G is a paedophile. I need to call the Police about the social workers screaming at me through the walls of my home. There is no need for it, it just aggravates my nervous system. Claire G is so mentally diseased I can't stand to think about it. I was actually forced between its legs by my father and made to grin and bear it for 8 months against my will. If I ask for Claire's current surname or address I get threatened by the Police with arrest. How backwards is that?? Claire G forced her tongue into my mouth on Brixham harbour and I get my mouth swabbed by the Police, my DNA goes on record and I get a caution for harassment?? What kind of a sick joke is that?? I don't like Melanie Graham, she aggravates my nervous system. Claire G 'arranged' a revenge rape in my bedroom by David S and I'm the paedophile?? What planet do these people live on?? The Guy family are now trying to fit me up for a spell in prison before trying to use me a some kind of prostitute whilst living on the streets. They do it by hanging around my home and screaming through my walls and verbally abusing me. They are so sick in the head that they think its funny. They actually use their jobs as social workers in order to carry out their crimes, and as of yet no one has raised the alarm. They have been hanging around my home for 19 years verbally abusing me. Why hasn't someone stepped in to stop them??? I don't understand the mentality of these people. The morning of the set up in Selina M's car, someone stole my wallet out of my bedroom. Where they using it to blackmail me into answering Claire G's verbal abuse? Why would I waste time shopping in Torquay on the day of my 23rd birthday with someone who has arranged for me to be raped in the past? When I could have ben at home unpacking my things into my new home? Was Melanie G jealous that I might have a new home and she didn't. She lived in New Zealand, it was nothing to do with her. Claire G has ruined my home life and my brain and wasted 19 years of my life. She has cost me my mental and physical health, my career, my family, any children I might of had. Just so she could have a cheap 'dig' at me because it was getting high. To make matters worse, to get it self over the fact that I turned around in Selina's car to point out that 'I am not going to answer that' Claire G made me through out of my things. The entire contents of my bedroom and home, the very things I could have been unpacking the day I moved in. It did it by screaming though my walls at me. I didn't even know they were there. A counsellor said that I had been brain washed. I want my bedroom back. I want to be 23 again, its not fair. I've been cheated.

I was set up in 2006 by a female perpetrator to be abused, stolen from and made morbidly obese all so the female perpetrator could feel better about herself and so that she could lose some weight. I'm not quite sure how to define selfish by someone who 'uses' another person as a 'fag powered vibrator' in order to sexually satisfy ones self and to have an orgasm, Jesus!. C. would make me sexually abuse myself between its legs in order for it to 'cum'. I was black mailed by the fact that my Policeman father would find out that I was in trouble with illegal substances, I couldn't go home and ask for help, I was only 16, I didn't know any better. I was terrified. I was saw 'J' outside C's house in early 1999, it said "Oh there's the nutter who's threatening court action, because Claire, because he's schizophrenic because he took some drugs!". Then in August 2010, the very same person walked into my bedroom after letting it's self into my flat with a key, sexually assaulted me before walking out again. I have yet to find out how J stopped me from telling the Police but I was on the phone to the Police. I was 10 stone whilst at college in 2004. I was 18 stone after being abused by J for 4 years in 2010. All because C hasn't got the brain to keep its vagina to its self. I have yet to find out how over weight C did become. Apparently C would have died a super-morbidly over weight obese person of half a ton due the abuse she subjected me to, if it wasn't for the fact that they went onto mistreat me even worse. I am now obsessed with weight lose and healthy eating. I was never over weight growing up and didn't have to worry about what I ate. Now thanks to C and J, worrying about my weight is about all I do. I feel ill all of the time and am physically scarred and disfigured from the abuse I suffered at the hands of J in that flat. I haven't been able to go to the beach since 2006. My mind is a total mess, I'm completely paranoid and hear voices. I'm too scared to go outside the front door. C actually gets off on abusing me and find its funny.