What She Has To Do

Today’s contributor prefers to remain anonymous.

“A woman doesn’t always do what she wants to do, but she will always do what she has to do.” I grew up hearing that line over and over from my Grandma. I was 12 years old the first time she said it to me, her voice cracking as she tried to get it out. I was in the E.R., hemorrhaging from what I still referred to as a kitty cat. Her words soothing me and giving me strength.

A little back story starts four year prior. My older brother had just gotten his license and even though he didn’t live with me at my grandparents he wanted any excuse to drive, so my grandparents would have him pick me up from gymnastics. I used to love gymnastics practice. I loved my coaches, my teammates, it filled me with joy. No one noticed how I began to want to skip every practice before I quit all together. They did notice I was wetting the bed; no more liquids after 7. Those 20 minute rides home all began to take an hour, no one noticed. My new reclusive behavior was blamed on not being able to cope with a father in prison and a mother who never wanted to be a mother. I had coped with that, I never really cared. I adored Grandma and Pop. They were blind to the evil happening underneath their nose.

It Is Not Enough To Merely Survive

Today’s contributor prefers to remain anonymous.

He starts with small things. Small things to make you feel bad for him. Or small things to make you think that you’re crazy. When you get that feeling in your gut, the one that tells you to get out, listen. When he tells you about his first sexual experience and it makes you uncomfortable even though he’s crying so you think he feels bad, get out. When he tells you that his dad has been known to smack his mom around and this does not sit right with you, get out. When you start getting emails from people he tells you he knows in bands and the logistics don’t make sense but you go along with it anyway because why would he set up an elaborate scheme pretending to be someone else to see if you’re cheating on him, get out. When his idea to rough up your sex life is to hold you down and call you a slut and covers your mouth and doesn’t stop til he realizes your crying might wake up your roommate, get out. When something like that happens more than once, get out. When every single one of your friends is vocal about his or her distaste for him, get out. When he tells you that your friends are prudes who need to loosen up, when he tells you he doesn’t understand why they don’t like him, when he talks openly about your friends’ bodies to their faces despite their vocal objections, get out. When things start happening to your car when you go out without him, which is every time you go out because he is embarrassing and all of your friends hate him because they know he is a horrible person, get out. When he tells you that he prays for nuclear holocaust every day and you know in your gut that he isn’t joking and he isn’t using hyperbole, get out. When you find porn on his computer that makes you want to cry, get out. When he pushes you that first time, get out.

“We Don’t Want To Rock The Boat”

Mandy reluctantly lives in suburbia (she’d rather be in the city or out on a mountain) with her husband and sons. She’s a persnickety writer & editor, knits, spins yarn, gardens, plays roller derby, runs, lifts weights, and really likes Smarties. She also thinks the truth can save people and is closer than ever to feeling comfortable in her own skin.

I have spent years and years going over the same events in my head. Wasted years when I could have been focused on something else, like my future or my family (and I mean my family: my husband and children) or my career and education. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up and I still can’t quite identify myself the way other people do. Most days I still feel broken and I worry that I’m not responding to things the right way

I didn’t realize what had really happened to me until I was a pre-teen. No one talked about things like molestation or abuse until the early 80s when people started telling their stories and other people started listening.

It was 1976 or 77, the summer I had a wild 70’s print bikini, which I remember wearing. I was 4 or 5 and one of my Dad’s younger brothers, in high school at the time, came to babysit my brother and I. He and my other uncle were basically a generation younger—the youngest uncle was born the same year as my half-brother and the same year as my oldest cousin on that side.

I wanted to go for a walk or pick berries or something and my brother wanted to watch TV or maybe the uncle arranged to separate us. He took me for a walk. He did things to me on the hill behind our house that I don’t really want to go into. I remember telling my parents about it, asking if what had happened was okay because I didn’t know if it was but I knew that I didn’t like it. My mother bathed me to make sure I was clean, and took me to a visit our family doctor, presumably to make sure I had not been raped.

The Exhale

Today’s post comes from Kali Jean in upstate New York. She says, “I have only started working with my local organizations including The Vera House (shelter for abused women) and The Clean Slate Diaries (motivational program through art/dance/spoken word for survivors of sexual assault/sexual abuse/domestic violence) to get my stories out. I’m very open with talking to people about my struggles AND my victory.”

***TRIGGER WARNING – What I write is based on my life experiences that I am comfortable sharing. There’s mild details that could upset you.***

I am an advocate for sexual assault/abuse survivors. There are reasons. There are stories. And I will share them with you because I’m not scared anymore.

I call this day, “The Sickening.”
I was sexually abused for 2-3 years starting at the age of 5 by a ( (former) relative (he has since been disowned) who was 14-15 years older than me. It was at a school. In the teacher’s lounge. During an art show. I walked off with him, seeing how he’s blood and being the nonchalant 5 year old girl I was. It was supposed to be okay.

I remember the smell of Windex and new carpeting. I remember the sound the vinyl couch made when he laid down. I remember what I was wearing. Pink corduroy Osh-Kosh overalls. White turtleneck. Light up sneakers.

I remember the confusing kiss he made me give him.
I remember the uncomfortable touch he gave to me.
Apparently, the color from my face drained that day.

For the next couple of years, it was on and off. I’d see him at Christmas when we’d go and stay at another relative’s house. I’d pretend to be asleep as he tiptoed in the room to touch me, even though me and my sibling shared the same bed. I didn’t want to wake him.
I remember when he visited us here and stayed for weeks. I was about 7 when he made me stand there and watch him fool around with his girlfriend. I remember her name. She was at my grandmother’s funeral. He wasn’t there. He couldn’t.

Things halted. I repressed these memories until I was 10. I don’t know how it happened, but I know it made me feel dirty and ashamed.

He never told me not to tell.
He never threatened me.
He never bribed me.
He left the opportunity completely wide open.
I don’t know why.
I don’t need to know why anymore.

I told my parents 5 years later.

My Story Of Abuse

Originally published here – Maureen is a contributor at Put Your Damn Pants On. 

Have you ever put someone’s feelings above your own? Have you maybe ever had a parent, growing up, whose feelings you worried about? Or maybe you were just born that way, always worrying about other people’s feelings, even as a child. Have you ever gotten into a romantic relationship where you worried about the other person’s feelings, and they used that very fact against you? I have.

I’ve been choked, picked up and carried away, had my child put in danger and my car tampered with so I couldn’t escape. I had my front door to our basement apartment barricaded with guns in the middle of the night because my (now ex-) husband, a former Marine, was drunk and wouldn’t let me leave because he said the neighbor had a bomb in his car…. That was the night before I left. I stayed awake, afraid, seven months pregnant with our second child, while he lay a foot away from me in the bed, drunk and eventually snoring. The part that bothered me the most that night is that he insisted on sleeping with a rifle next to him, leaned against the thin particle board that separated our room from the baby’s, the front of the rifle pointed right at the crib.

An Introduction

This is space for survivors to share their stories – survivors of sexual assault, rape, molestation, domestic violence, abuse. There are wonderful organizations that provide support groups and discussion boards and therapeutic exercises for survivors. This is something different. Hopefully.

This is where you tell your truth. Where you can say – this shit happened, it’s fucked up, but I survived. You can share your rage, or your sorrow, or your guilt, or your pain. And we can witness it. We can read, we can know, we can spread your story, we can amplify your voice.

Think of this as a megaphone, a soap box, a room where you can scream as long as you want.

Comments will be strictly monitored. There won’t be victim blaming or shaming. There won’t be rape apologists or abuse supporters. There won’t be threats of violence or disbelief. I have a delete button. I have a block button. I will use them.

I’ll post stories as I get them. I hope you come back to bear witness. There are survivors everywhere – this is their space.