A Survivor Not a Victim

Overcoming Rape


Sexual Assault

L’s Story

“Being male means legally you cannot be raped. In my case the police wouldn’t even assist me meaning justice still hasn’t been served to the the girl who we’ll just call Kayleigh for now.

She was much older than me and attended college at my highschool as it was a sixth form. We started talking as her brother was in my year and one of my best friend’s, a friendship which has since been destroyed. It’s hard to tell people or even reach out for help when you’re a male because people just assume it’s nothing major or, “you’re male you must have liked it”. I find it hard to think about and the fact Kayleigh is still out there with no justice served is even harder.

At the time I was 14 and she was 19 and decided alcohol and false promises was the best way to gain my trust.

Even to this day I find it difficult to bare with, I have since settled down with my girlfriend and started living away from home. It’s a scar that’ll never heal the most I can do is spread my message that this isn’t just something that happens to females.

Thank you.




I have one of these, I purchased it shortly after my rape, the cause I choose was for the Boston Area Rape Crisis Center. They are well made, stainless steel. When I first got it, I never took it off. It was a reminder through some of the darkest times in the beginning of this tragic ordeal.  Also, I believe that this site also allows you to create your own cause (but I could be wrong).

Additionally, there are SO MANY causes to choose from in mental health categories, heal categories….the list goes on!

Abby’s Story

“It started as such an innocuous hashtag, something I saw on social media and thought, “Wow, that’s cool.” But here I am, days, months, and now a year after I first dove down the rabbit hole, still sitting and thinking about my own “me too” moments. I’ve had many, but one that stands out above the rest…

I wanted to join the hashtag. I sat here from behind my computer screen and judged celebrities for coming forward but not naming names. I wasn’t such a coward.

And yet the cursor continued to flash on the screen in front of me, and I typed paragraphs and paragraphs but couldn’t bring myself to hit “post.”

My family, my parents, and my abuser are all on Facebook, my Facebook, and I could hear what they would say.

I couldn’t take my family’s pity. I couldn’t take my parents’ criticism. And I couldn’t take his indifference.

We talked after everything that happened. Of course we did. We parted amicably, actually. But while he admitted that what he did was wrong, he never fully acknowledged what he did, because back in high school we were afraid of labels, so we would never label what happened between us as something as severe as “sexual assault.” And now, he has a wife and a baby, and I can’t help but overanalyze every smiling photo they post together, wondering what’s going on behind closed doors, how I could help, or if I could even change anything at all.

How can I save a girl I’ve never met if I couldn’t even save myself?

It started when I was a sophomore in high school, a tomboy nerd who was perpetually body-conscious and bullied for almost all of my school experience. I had had a couple “boyfriends,” but none that were serious. I was looking for love wherever I could get it, even though I was surrounded by loving friends and a very supportive home life. I think that’s why I’m ashamed when I tell this story. I had no drug-addicted mother, no father who walked out on me, no money struggles or real issues other than my own self-esteem. No excuses, no reason other than my own lapse in judgment. I knew better. And yet, I ended up in the same situation millions of women have found themselves in before.

He was a friend first. Growing up, I always thought dumb girls who went to bars and left their drinks unattended or walked down dark alleys alone at night were the ones who got snatched up by these kinds of people. And even as I’m writing this, I don’t picture him as one of “those kinds of people.” It’s crazy.

We met in high school and started spending some more time together. We started going to each other’s houses, mostly his. He quickly became one of my closest friends. And I’ll never forget the night that it started. About 6 months after our friendship began, I was laying on his white, leather L-shaped couch in the living room while he laid across the other half, his head next to mine. South Park was playing absently on the TV. We were half-watching, half-talking. We started discussing past relationships, and I mentioned how I had never even had a “real” kiss. My previous boyfriend nearly 2 years prior and I had tried at homecoming, but it was a peck on the lips that was disastrous, and I broke up with him two days later.

I remember hearing his laugh next to my head, and he started talking about what a shame that was.

Before I knew what happened, he was on top of me. I literally don’t remember how he leapt on top of me so fast, but then there he was. He kissed me forcefully, but I interpreted it as passionately at the time. I remember he had full lips that felt like they swallowed mine, and he tasted like the Fuze he’d been drinking. It lasted maybe ten seconds, and then it was over just as quickly as it had begun. He was back on his side of the sofa in the blink of an eye.

“How was that?”

I swallowed. I wasn’t sure, but I knew I wanted more. I wanted to feel attractive, desired…loved. And that kiss did it for me.

The next 3 years was a personal hell of my own design. I thought you couldn’t get addicted to things other than drugs or alcohol or full-blown sex, but I became addicted to our after-school make-out sessions.

At first, we were just friends. There was such an exhilaration behind our kisses, always surprising and almost forbidden. We weren’t dating, so it seemed unexpected. Then, we got more desperate, happy when his father left to get our pizza so we could sprawl across the couch and tangle up in one another. He was companionship. He was body heat. But he certainly wasn’t love. I knew it even then.

Every now and then there was a moment or a kiss that made my heart skip a beat and put a genuine smile on my face. But so many times, I was focused on doing nothing more than pleasing him. It made me feel like I had a purpose, that I could be used. And I was willing to be used and thrown away like a napkin as long as it meant someone was getting some use out of me. My lack of self-esteem and our mutual desire to be loved, even if it was accompanied by occasional indifference, was a near-fatal combination. 

I started feeling like a prostitute, even though the most scandalous thing we had ever done was make out while I straddled him (clothes all on). I would show up in skimpy clothes to give myself the confidence boost I needed to even face him, we would creep closer to each other, tease, kiss. Then I would sneak out after dark, zipping up my hoodie over my deep V blouse, and I would drive back home and play it cool.

“How was it?”


“What did you guys do?”

He was spooning me on the couch while we watched Comedy Central, he ran his hand down my thigh, and then-

“Nothing. Just watched TV.”

After Otto Frank read his daughter Anne’s diary, he made a heartbreaking declaration. “Most parents don’t really know their children.” Over the years, I’ve come to see the truth behind his sentiment.

We played it cool at school, too. Sure, some people knew that we were kissing on the weekends, but it was high school, and if there was no sex involved, it certainly wasn’t newsworthy.

I was raised in a conservative Christian household, so while I knew what sex was and had learned from the rest of my classmates the bases in between, I had no idea about what happened when the lines of consent were blurred. I was going to kiss before marriage, but nothing else. I would lose my virginity to my husband on our wedding night, and if anyone else wanted to take it beforehand, I would just say, “No.”

Simple. I would never put myself in one of those situations that D.A.R.E. or my parents had warned me about, and I would never have to worry about someone not taking no for an answer.

How wrong I was.

As the months threatened to turn into years, I began pushing for a formal title for what we were. We saw each other every weekend. We ate dinner together, even though it was always in the confines of the house. He showered me with affection, compliments, and, most importantly, self-esteem boosts. We were, by my definition, “dating.” But he would never hold hands with me at school. In fact, some days he seemed to pretend that he didn’t even know I existed. 

And I as continued to pressure him, that’s when his sweet personality began to…shift.

His compliments would be interspersed with comments about my appearance, my weight, and my popularity at school. He knew where I hurt, and he wasn’t afraid to hit me there. Just when I was feeling confident in my own skin (perhaps almost confident enough to search for a real significant other to love me), he would throw in one of his favorite zingers into casual conversation. “Maybe I’d date you if you were 10 pounds lighter.” “Why do you never straighten your hair…it would look so much better!” “It’s not easy being friends with you, because I get teased for it.” These were never even said in anger, because we never really fought. We did try to date once, but he ended that fast. We got together on a Monday, broke up on a Wednesday, and I was kissing him on that same leather sofa on Friday. We were both addicts that needed our fix, and nothing could keep us away. But conflict was still present. I would want more commitment, he would fire back to keep me quiet and content with what I had, and we continued to wallow in our current situation, spinning our wheels for close to two years.

It was during this time that I saw things taking a darker turn but didn’t recognize them for what they were. The first thing I really remember that struck me as odd was on one particularly late night I was over. I had fallen asleep on his shoulder and woke up to find him re-positioning my head on his crotch. I assumed I had just slipped down onto his lap, but the sound of his fly being unzipped and the feeling of his hand on the back of my head guiding me closer made me shoot straight up in my seat. He started laughing and said, “Aww, come on! I was going to wake you with a nice surprise!” I saw his fly was open and one hand was definitely gripping something inside his boxers. He removed his hand and zipped up his pants, but I apparently I still looked uncomfortable because he said, “Relax, it was just a joke. But hey, maybe you’ll find out you like it one day.” And he put his arm around me again, everything back to the way it was.

And yet everything was different somehow. Maybe I knew it deep down, but I was too naïve to understand it or too immature to admit it. I knew that was wrong. But hey, he’s a guy, and I’m denying him something he really wants, almost needs at this age. I can’t blame him, can I? And no harm, no foul, right?

He blew it off, I laughed it off, and that was the end.

My friends didn’t like him. They never did, and he came to one group gathering but left quickly after realizing that he wasn’t wanted. They had no idea what was going on behind closed doors, but they could see enough just from the way he treated me in front of them. But they were busy living their own lives, and I had arms that were always open for me every single weekend, so I kept coming back to him.

As time went on, our kissing sessions would quickly bore him, and he always wanted more. Me, eager to please, would do anything for him – except what he really wanted to do. He’d make a proposition each weekend I came over (“We can go upstairs.” “I’ve got some condoms.” “Trust me, you’ll like it.”), but I always declined, and he’d shrug and go back to kissing me. Like I was taught that it was supposed to work. I say “no,” he says, “okay.”

But one time in particular, we were home alone kissing on the couch. I was kneeling on the cushion next to where he was sitting, so we were face to face. He was shirtless, one hand in my hair, the other nowhere to be found. He was always trying to grab or move or touch something I didn’t want him to, so I didn’t care where his hand was as long as it wasn’t on me. That thought process right there should have told me something was wrong, but I’d heard so many stories of women enduring things for the men in their lives that it didn’t seem so wrong to me at the time. Suddenly, the kiss was interrupted by him moaning into my mouth, and something warm and wet stuck to my arm. I glance down to see what it was and discovered very quickly where his other hand had been.

My jaw dropped and I stared at him in shock. He had touched himself once or twice through his boxers before, but then would go to the bathroom and do what he “needed to do” since he knew how I felt. But there he was, dick in hand and cum shot all the way across his naked torso and onto my arm. I rapidly looked away from my arm to focus on his face, my look of horror begging for some kind of explanation, but he was in no hurry to end his pleasure due to my distress. When his eyes finally rolled back to the front of his head, he saw my face but shrugged.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t think I was going to cum. But damn, I needed to.”

I didn’t respond, just ran to the bathroom. Washing my arm off in the sink, I was literally shaking with emotion, but with what emotions I still have no idea. 

Wash it off. I was a tease. He’d said it himself many times.

Get the soap. I wasn’t hurt. He didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.

Wipe it dry. It was just an accident, another awkward high school moment I’d laugh about years later.

Well, now it’s “years later,” but I’m not laughing.

Every weekend, it was the same. He’d ask for sex, I’d say, “No.” I’d ask for a boyfriend, he’d say, “We’ll see.” We were both left unsatisfied but still happy enough to continue playing our game.

Looking back on it, I realize that he was likely waiting for me to give in to having sex with him and was dangling the promise of a formal relationship like a carrot in front of a horse. To this day, I’m not sure if he is even capable of this kind of manipulation and calculation. I hate to think so, but I also can’t deny that it makes the most sense. (Even 7 years later, the blinders are still in the process of coming off.)

Strike 3 came on a cold day after school. I can’t remember the season, but I remember that it was cold because walking back to my car that night was one of the loneliest treks I have ever made. It was Friday, and we carpooled straight back to his house after the final bell rang. We got some chips and he got his Fuze (I HATE the taste of Fuze forever), and turned on Comedy Central in the living room. We were on a different sofa, a smaller one, so we laid down to spoon so we could both fit. No one was home, but that wasn’t an issue for us. There had been so many other chances, other opportunities if something were to go wrong, so why would it be today?

He started kissing my neck, and I began to relax. Then, he was on top of me just as suddenly as he had been two years prior, and he was kissing me just as forcefully. He was pressing me into the soft fabric of the couch, and I felt like it was swallowing me. He began to kiss his way down my body and tried to pull my tank top down to expose my bra. I laughed and playfully pushed him away. He went back to kissing my lips, and I relaxed again.

That’s when I felt his fingers playing with the button at the top of my jeans. I broke away from his kiss, but I couldn’t think of anything to say over the sound of his heavy breathing. His kisses against my neck became almost aggressive, and he unzipped my jeans.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

If he heard me, he didn’t respond. He grabbed the waist of my jeans and yanked them hard, pulling them all the way to my knees.

I yelled his name in shock and horror, but he pinned me down.

“What are you doing? Stop!”

“You’ll like it.”

“Like what? What are you talking about?”

In between kisses on my neck, he said, “I know how you feel about this stuff, but trust me, once we get going, you’ll get into it. I know you will.”

My stomach sank further than my body was pressed into the sofa.

“What are you saying? I already-”

He wrapped one hand around my neck, not too hard but hard enough to cut off my speech. His other hand worked my jeans even further down my kicking feet. “Just try to relax, trust me, it hurts less if you relax…It’ll be tight the first time, but that will change over time. Just trust me, okay?”

Trust me.

I remember the smell of his cologne. I remember the pinching pressure of his weight on my hips. And I remember the warmth of his body, the warmth I once longed for, as he crushed me beneath the weight of his desires.

Still, it wasn’t real to me how much danger I was in until I felt his fingers jab into my underwear to feel me, then around it to slip inside…

To this day, I’m not sure if he just touched the outer edge, or if he actually got a finger or two inside of me. I think I’ve honestly blocked it out. All I know was that that was the switch that I needed to realize that this wasn’t funny anymore. And it actually never was.

I freed one arm to slap his hand away, but he took the hand off my throat and used it to pin me to the couch. My other arm was wedged tightly between my body and the back of the sofa. I remember he was laughing while I was thrashing around beneath him, like he was still thinking that this was just some kind of foreplay. I used to like to think of myself as being too big and too strong to be taken advantage of like my smaller female companions, but I will tell you that in that moment, I felt nothing short of helpless.

One of his hands held mine while the other aggressively pulled one of my breasts out from beneath my tank top and bra. I kept pleading with him to stop while he undid his belt and fly. All the while, he was still kissing me and complimenting me and reassuring me that everything would be alright. I wasn’t crying, wasn’t screaming, but I was telling him, “No.”


And over.

And over again.

Finally, I got my hand free that had been pinned between my body and the sofa and grabbed him by the shoulders, bracing myself against him and rolling over, throwing him off of me and to the floor at the foot of the couch. Panting, I sat up and quickly readjusted my clothes back into their proper place. Not even looking back at him, I grabbed my purse of the table, threw my car keys inside, and started power-walking toward the door. Not running, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

This was just another one of his honest mistakes.

I didn’t know the full story.

What else did I expect from a 17 year-old-boy who had been denied sex for two years?

“Where are you going?”

I turn around to see him buttoning his pants and running after me. At the time, I think he’s concerned and he wants to apologize. Now, I realize he was worried he had gone too far, and that I would refuse to be his plaything anymore.

“Home.” I whipped around to leave.

“No, you’re not! Get back here!”

A hand, his hand, caught me by the wrist. A hand that had once held mine, wiped away my tears, gently stroked a strand of my hair while I fell asleep. And the hand jerked me backwards, back towards him, with so much force that I nursed a hidden shoulder injury for nearly a month afterward. I fell to the ground with a sickening “thud,” my head glancing off the linoleum floor of the kitchen as I came crashing down.

And after the crash, there was silence. Five solid seconds of silence as I lay there, a lone tear streaming down my cheek, and he stands there, finally appearing to become aware of what he’s done.

He knelt down beside me and then continuously talked. For the next ten minutes, all he did was talk. There were tears. There were apologies. And he continued to ask if I was okay from the fall…but never from what happened before.

My friends know a much more heavily edited version of this story…and most versions end with me storming out the door and refusing to come back until I fell back into old habits a couple months later. I tell it that way because I like that ending better.

What really happened was that I silently nodded to every apology and promise he made. I shakily rose and set my purse back down on the table, and I sat back on the exact same sofa with him to finish our show. I ate dinner with him, chatted with him, and even kissed him goodnight on the way home. I walked alone to the car, shivering in my skimpy attire, and rode home in silence.

That’s not the kind of happy ending people are looking for, but it’s the truth.

Even after all of this happened, it took me another year to formally end our little rendezvous (we used to still meet up when I was home on break from college), and I could write a whole essay on just the mental and emotional abuse he put me through during that time. But I could also write an essay just as long on the good times, the happy memories, and the love and laughter we shared together.

The thing is, it’s never as cut and dry as people who have never been in the situation make it out to be.

I wish it was.

It sounds terrible, and I know it is, but I wish he had been a masked man in an alley that groped me before I escaped. That would have made it easier for me to cope with. And some days, I even wish I was raped. As horrible as that sounds. Because then I would feel justified somehow – I wouldn’t feel guilty for feeling as strongly as I do, for still being so emotionally affected by this. I always find someone whose story is worse and leaves me feeling guilty for drowning in the tide of emotions that overwhelm me sometimes.

It took me 3 years to begin to process everything that had happened, even after the last time we saw one another. It took me a few months after that to actually say out loud that I am a victim of sexual assault. And now, 7 years later, I can finally put into words and admit all that happened. Both what he did wrong and what I did. I think I’m able to say it now because I realize that although our relationship was toxic from both sides, it’s not an excuse for what he did to me.

We’re still Facebook friends…and I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s just a morbid curiosity to see how his life unfolds. Maybe deep down I want him to see I’m beautiful and successful despite of those nasty words he once hurled at me. But I doubt he even remembers them anymore…

And I think that’s what hurts so much. I will carry this with me for the rest of my life. Constantly debating telling my friends, my parents, my boyfriend about what “really” happened over the course of those 3 years…

And I don’t know if our “dates” ever even cross his mind these days.

Maybe one day I’ll reach out to him. A part of me wants to send this to him, but another part of me is ashamed of what I’ve confessed to here, what I’ve written, and that dark voice in the back of my mind still wonders if I’ve made something out of nothing and if all of this was just an unhappy accident.

As tears stream down my face while I spend hours writing this, I fear sending it to him because I don’t want to cause him any pain.

I hope I publish this someday, although probably not under my name. But to you, dear reader, if anyone is reading this, this is my real, unedited experience. Do with it what you will. If you are looking for comfort or a kindred spirit, I hope you found it. If you are looking for something that makes sense of what you’ve seen in the news lately, here’s the simple, true story of a nobody. And if you’re here to criticize, go right ahead. My story warrants criticism, and there’s nothing you can say that I haven’t whispered to myself as I cry myself to sleep.

Stand up. Speak out. Be heard.”

– Abby –

Coping Is Important For Healing

Finding a way to cope with your assault is very important. This gives you an outlet to channel all your thoughts, feelings and emotions through. There are many healthy ways in which a person can cope, and unfortunately there are many self destructive ways in which a person can cope. This post is going to focus on the positive ways because when you are already in such a negative state, it is hard to think of positive ways to cope. I have been there, I have been through the negative coping mechanisms and they just make a person spiral down deeper and deeper into the darkness. So I am going to talk about what other people do that helps them to cope, and I am going to talk about what I do to cope. Please comment below if you do something that is not listed because I know that others would love to know! There is no “manual” on how to recover from rape, sexual assault, domestic violence, molestation, incest, or sexual abuse; so this is my way of trying to aid in the recovery of others.

artArt is one way people cope. Art comes in many forms from painting, drawing, writing, poetry, making collages, photography, performance art (if you play or want to learn to play a musical instrument), ceramic/pottery and making sculptures. Now, you don’t have to be an artist. You only have to enjoy what you are doing. I always wanted to paint, but I never knew how. I can draw, but I didn’t find it an effective coping mechanism for me (but hey, at least I tried it right?). I tried a “Paint Nite” you go to the website, pick a painting that you like, and the location, then they teach you how to paint it. It was really fun, and the painting actually comes out like the one they show you! I have done several of these.

Reading is another coping mechanism. It allows you to escape for a time into a place of your own choosing. Whatever genera of material you like, pick up some great books and get lost in them. At least for a moment, you will be able to focus your thoughts somewhere else.

gardeningGardening. This allows you to use your creativity, and foster new life and new beginnings. If you like gardening but live in the city and don’t have an area where you can garden, there are many community gardens all around. If this is something that appeals to you, search for community gardens in your city. You also don’t even need to garden outside, get creative with indoor plants and design an indoor garden in any room!

Volunteering. Some people find it therapeutic to volunteer. Maybe you love animals and would like to volunteer at an animal shelter. Maybe helping the homeless is more your style so going and volunteering at a soup kitchen or a local shelter is something that would be a fit for you. Perhaps you prefer to donate blood and help with the efforts that go along with that, so an organization like the Red Cross or local blood drives would be something that you can focus a bit of your energy on. Or maybe you might enjoy visiting the elderly in nursing homes. There are so many elderly folks who never ever receive any visitors. One thing that I haven’t done yet, but I will be doing is getting a bunch of flowers, writing a bunch of handwritten cards/notes, and I will be taking them to a local nursing home where I will pass out a flower and a card/note to people who don’t get any visitors. I will sit and visit with them.

boxingExercising. This one is my coping mechanism. Exercising is a great way to cope with sexual assault and many other challenges that life gives you. Types of exercise include: walking, jogging, running, yoga, palates, cross-fit, dancing, boxing, kickboxing, weights, zumba, aerobics, bike riding, spin class, martial arts, swimming, rowing, horse back riding, or playing a sport you like. I box. I box because it allows me to channel my anger and frustrations out on the bag. It is also a great and tough workout! I also do yoga because I find meditation very helpful. I struggle with keeping a clear and present mind, and yoga helps me with that.

Hopefully this information with be helpful to you, if not now (which is completely understandable) then at some point in the future when you are ready.

Sheri’s Story (Video)

Sheri has sent a video to be shared on my blog and it is below. This is on YouTube, and she also has her own blog;


She narrates her story, her statement to the police. This is hard to listen to, but she is very brave! Not only for reporting him to the police, but for getting a rape kit, and for talking about her story and not letting her rapist silence her! I hope that her rapist gets what is coming to him legally!


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Being Raped Has Ruined My Life – I Live In A Constant State Of FEAR

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Being raped is on of the worst experiences that a person can live through.  The aftermath of rape is equally as terrible. As if being raped isn’t bad enough,  the trauma from that event, the memories,  the scars….they last forever.

It is bad enough that I am TERRIFIED to leave my house,  or work once I arrive there safely.  This is my everyday reality.images (2)

My roommate left a few days ago,  and he won’t be back till next week.  I am petrified.  To the point where I sleep with a kitchen knife under my pillow.

It is completely unfair. My rapist lives his live unaccountable for his actions, untouched, unharmed, hell, I would not even be surprised if he jerks off to that morning and what he did to me. And I, am cursed to continue to live with flashbacks, nightmares, fear, visions, the inability to concentrate, sleep and eat.

I live every day of my life in fear, to the point where on most day’s, at least once, I become so overwhelmed with fear that I start to shake uncontrollably, and most day’s this happens more than once.

Rape has ruined my life…

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unlawful sexual intercourse or any other sexual penetration of the vagina, anus, or mouth of another person, with or without force, by a sex organ, other body part, or foreign object, without the consent of the victim.

This is the definition of RAPE

“with or without force”
“without consent of the victim”
So…then why is our justice system so unresponsive and unwilling to prosecute perpetrators of this heinous crime?!?!
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This 17-Year-Old Explains Why Rape Is Never A ‘Mistake.’ What’s Scary Is Who He’s Talking To.

This guy is great!!

And at seventeen,  he gets it!

So Anxious; I Can’tDeal With This Anymore

Since I was raped on February 14th this year  (2016) I have been suffering from major anxiety,  PTSD,  suicidal thoughts and so much more.  About two weeks ago,  I passed my rapist on the street.  I had a panic attack ( which I have never experienced in my life).

Since then,  I have been even more anxious  (which I didn’t even think was possible. …but it is ) and paranoid. I am afraid to leave my house.  I don’t feel safe.  When I leave to go to work,  the whole  (15 minute trip ) is a nightmare!  All my muscles tense up, my heart pounds out of my chest,  my stomach hurts. ..and I want to cry. I work on a locked floor,  so in my office,  I feel safe.  But, I have to run errands daily.  This has proven to be a struggle.  The same feelings that I get on my way to work I feel,  only times three! ! I walk around Boston now with my camera open in fear of seeing him again.

Some day’s I feel like I am going to pass on on the street.

Today,  after work,  I was on my way to counseling.  I stopped at the T to have a clove.  I am an empath. All of the sudden I felt like someone was staring at me so I looked around.  It was this man…


You will notice that he is of Indian descent,  like my rapist,  carrying a conspicuous “suitcase “.  I stared at him while he was on the phone. ..and watched him for about 15 minutes.  He was DEFINITELY staring at me. I snapped a few pictures…the one on the phone   (so if I ever end up dead. … fyi).


I  have learned the hard way to trust my gut. In college,  I was walking home from the T, I got a feeling that someone was following me. But since I lived close to the T, I told myself that I was worrying about nothing.  He actually was following me, stopped me and prevented me from going into the gate of my house.

And that is not the only time I ignored my intuition.

I am in fear of my well being,  my life, and I wish that the fucking sexual assault unit in Boston actually invistigated my rape.

I don’t know what to do.

Gerald Nuckolls – Guilty of Sexual Battery & Indecent Exposure.

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Gerald Nuckolls

Age at time of incident: 27

Occupation at time of incident: Deputy of Tulsa County

From: TULSA, Okla.

Sentenced to: 8 years prison

How I Feel After Being Raped; The ABC’s

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X – is his name ie THE RAPIST 




Brock Turner Rapist. .. Blaming College “Party Culture”

Full article


Brock Turner,  typical rapist as displayed in this article.  He blames peer pressure to drink and party culture for making a “bad decision “.

Brock Turner  the rapist – “My poor decision-making and excessive drinking hurt someone that night, and I wish I could just take it all back”

Rapists never admit blame, it is always something or someone else.

It makes me laugh but also furious how he says that he made a “bad decision ” due to drinking.  No…no,no,no!!!! A bad decision would be drinking too much and puking all over your friends apartment,  or getting into a ridiculous argument with a good friend where you said some awful things that you didn’t mean, or  partying so hard that you miss a midterm /final. Those are bad decisions.  Raping an unconscious person behind a dumpster  (mind you,  there were two actual physical eyewitnesses who caught this creep in the act) does not qualify as a “bad decision “.

Here is where we see Brock Turner the rapist trying to plea with anyone who will listen that he is the victim here. That is the bottom line.

Brock Turner the rapist – “I want to take what I can from who I was before this situation happened and use it to the best of my abilities moving forward. I know I can show people who were like me the dangers of assuming what college life can be like without thinking about the consequences one would potentially have to make if one were to make the same decisions that I made”

Oh, and check out this gem that I found posted by Brock the rapist himself….


I encourage you to read the full article,  it is just. …I don’t even have words!

Brock Turner the rapist – “There isn’t a second that has gone by where I haven’t regretted the course of events I took on January 17th/18th. My shell and core of who I am as a person is forever broken from this. I am a changed person. At this point in my life, I never want to have a drop of alcohol again. I never want to attend a social gathering that involves alcohol or any situation where people make decisions based on the substances they have consumed. I never want to experience being in a position where it will have a negative impact on my life or someone else’s ever again”

And the young woman addressed this in her letter to him;

Victim – “If you are hoping that one of my organs will implode from anger and I will die, I’m almost there. You are very close,” her letter reads in part. “This is not a story of another drunk college hook-up with poor decision-making. Assault is not an accident. Somehow, you still don’t get it. Somehow, you still sound confused”

Changes need to be made, Brock Turner is not a “nice guy” he is a rapist…period, the reinforcement of rape culture needs to end!


More Debunked Rape Myth Statements

Brock Turner; Convicted Rapist…Don’t EVER Forget It

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Brock Turner has been convicted of raping an unconscious female behind a dumpster at a frat party. Two fellow male students caught him in the act, chased him down, and held him until police officers arrived on the scene.

Even though Brock Turner was found guilty, he was sentenced to only 6 MONTHS of jail time because it was in the opinion of the judge that, ““A prison sentence would have a severe impact on him. I think he will not be a danger to others.”

Brock Turner’s father want’s people to stop talking about his son being a rapist. He made the statement [in a letter where he was making the argument that his son should receive probation], “His life will never be the one that he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve. That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life”.

Dan Turner (father of Brock Turner) went on to say, “He will never be his happy go lucky self with that easy going personality and welcoming smile”.

Seriously?!?! HIS life will never be the one he dreamed of? HE will never be HIS happy go lucky self? CRY ME A RIVER! He brutally raped a woman, and now just like almost all rapists, he is getting a slap on the wrist with only 6 months of jail time.

The poor victim. At the sentencing, the young woman asked the judge if she could address her attacker, Brock Turner, directly, and read a letter that she wrote. It is heart wrenching. Some things she said were,

 “The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party. When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my vagina and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.”

On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for HIV because results don’t always show up immediately.

So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.

Full letter here:

During an n interview with The Washington Post on 6/6/16 Santa Clara District Attorney Jeff Rosen stated that, “To this day, the defendant denies what he did, Turner “preyed upon” his victim and displayed violence”.

I hope no one ever….ever forgets the name Brock Turner, and the fact that he is a brutal rapist who got off easy. I hope everyone who reads this shares it with someone, or everyone they know so that it will cycle and cycle throughout the media outlets for years to come. So that in the future when others are looking up information, the name “Brock Turner; Rapist” will always and forever be connected as one, identifying him as a rapist for life, because that is what he is, a filthy, disrespectful, depraved, deceitful, and remorseless RAPIST!



Full Of Regret, Guilt and Shame; Can’t Move On


I am having such a hard time functioning as a human being right now! I am so full of regret and guilt! I wish that I did something to stop him from raping me, anything! At the very least, I wish that I was not to scared or shocked to  call 911 after it happened that morning, or that I didn’t go to the emergency room. If I called 911, or went to the ER, maybe things would be different. Maybe it would have been enough to get him arrested and put on trial.

This is something that I think about every day. How am I supposed to move on without justice, I am I supposed to let this go? He RAPED ME. He took away something so deep inside me. I am not myself, and I don’t think that I will ever be whole again. This crime, it is the worst crime that a person can commit, I think worse than murder, becauseimages (11)se my soul died that day, yet I have to walk this earth every day in despair with horrible thoughts, feelings, flashbacks and memories that I don’t know how I will ever erase.  I am tormented every day, and the thought that he gets to walk around free, not having to admit what he did, no repercussions, a clean record, with the ability to do this to someone else makes me sick. I am I supposed to have hope when the justice system has failed me, much like it fails most rape victims. I don’t see how it is possible. At least if I had the courage to do something that day, maybe the outcome would have been different, maybe I wouldn’t feel this way, maybe I would start my journey of hope. I just don’t see how that is even possible at this point.

I keep having flashbacks about his “defense” in the courtroom when we had the hearing to extend the restraining order. He said that we had a one day relationship. I felt so sick when I heard that, I almost vomited all over the courtroom and cried, but I kept my composure. This….disgusting excuse for a human…this is what he said?!?! I have never even flirted with him in the pa97st, nor have I ever kissed him, or ever gave him a verbal inclination that I was ever interested in him. The thing that kills me is that I told him that…THAT NIGHT, that I would never sleep with him..ever! Those were my words! I was in shock and horror that morning when I woke up with no underwear on, to him fucking me! It was like I left my body, so surreal. I was scared, intimidated, and disturbed. I just, froze, I have never felt like that. And I was still so drunk! I just wish so much that I could go back and do things differently. And, I wish that some type of justice would be served!

I am broken, and I feel that I might be broken beyond repair. Nothing is helping me. I am seeking help, but nothing works. I am so overwhelmed with anguish that I just can bear it.


Are Victims Of Sexual Assault Really Likely To Be Victimized Again? Am I A Statistic

Original Article :

The Repetition Compulsion: Why Rape Victims Are More Likely To Be Assaulted Again




The Repetition Compulsion: Why Rape Victims Are More Likely To Be Assaulted Again

Photo by flckr user Christian, licenced under creative commons

In a society where the subject of rape is still taboo, the idea of even one attack is hard to grasp. The idea of multiple attacks seems far beyond probability.

This makes it unimaginably hard for the considerable number of victims who do undergo multiple sexual assaults.

It’s not an unusual phenomenon. A little known fact is that being sexually assaulted puts you at a much higher risk of being assaulted again in the future, as does childhood sexual abuse.

Sometimes referred to as revictimization, it is not exclusive to sexual assault. Victims of domestic violence are more likely to undergo it a second time. Even robberies and burglaries seem to be self-propogating (and significantly so. Being robbed once places you at a nine times higher risk of being robbed again, and being burgled means you have four times more reason to lock up your house.)

Being sexually assaulted greatly increased the risk of future assaults, with one study purporting that being sexually assaulted once meant a woman was 35 times more likely than others to be revictimized.

“The percentage of women who were raped as children or adolescents and also raped as adults was more than two times higher than the percentage among women without an early rape history.”
– National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey, 2010, CDC

What contributes to this devastating, but common pattern?

There are several theories, and it varies from woman to woman. Women who were sexually abused as children have learned silence, and may be unable to enforce appropriate boundaries, given their childhood experiences. Some theorize that it is a way of attempting to master anxiety or trauma. Some suggest that traumatization may cause some to revert to familiar patterns, despite whatever pain it may cause. And some others suggest that women who have been assaulted early learn to associate sex with pain and trauma, and therefore are less likely to be able to distinguish between consent or coercion.

Despite the relative devastation of each crime, we’re far more likely to offer sympathy to repeat victims of a burglary. It is easier to imagine being appalled when someone, once again, comes home to a broken window. Yet, we’d be more skeptical if someone claimed that they’d been raped a second time.

With rape, it can be more difficult to grasp in part because of the culture surrounding sexual assault. A victim is very often disbelieved once. After multiple instances, a forced sexual encounter is seen as their fault, be it the way they dress, the way they conduct themselves or how much they drank. An easy answer is to assume they are trying to cover up regretted sexual encounters, or that they misunderstand the concept of rape.

The stigma against rape contributes to women’s compulsion to repeat their traumas. Chris O’Sullivan, Senior Research Associate at Safe Horizon, explained that one recurring theme throughout his research in the area was that women were likely to take responsibility for the original assault.

“They were so full of self-blame and shame from the original assault that they felt unable to act on their own behalf during the later sexual assault victimization.”

Sullivan also emphasized that revictimization, despite its nature, was never the victim’s fault.

Women may take years to recover from a sexual assault. Being assaulted multiple times can compound the trauma. Sexual assault victims are much more likely to suffer from depression, attempt suicide, develop PTSD, self-harm or use maladaptive coping strategies such as eating disorders or substance abuse. The repetition compulsion is a phenomenon that still confounds researchers in terms of successful interventions, but that doesn’t mean that informal, but steady support from friends or family won’t be effective in any victim’s recovery process.

To learn how to support a rape victim, or to get help yourself:

  • RAINN offers a hotline for victims or friends & family, resources on how to seek help and a list of internationalorganizations.
  • Pandora’s Project is an online network for survivors of sexual violence.

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