To whom it may concern...

So, yesterday, I got contacted by my former friend who's hands caused a lot of my hell. He was emailed my blog and in so doing contacted me yesterday to apologise. This post is for you.

To Whom it May Concern,

I did not intentionally want anyone to find out who these stories stemmed from, or who any of the main characters were except for, obviously, me. So if people put two and two together, I cannot help that. I tried very hard to keep your name a secret. And apparently I failed. I apologise for that.

My goal in writing this blog is not to make everyone I know hate you, or think ill of you. My goal for this blog is to help me get over everthing that happened to me.

You said you don't recall certain things happening. True, the story I posted yesterday was based on a true story. I had to flower it up for my English class. It's English. And I chose that story because it's always on my mind, whether I'm thinking directly or indirectly about it.

But there would be a lot of things you wouldn't remember, because it wasn't you who did them. If you recall, I was locked up in your bedroom with a bunch of your other friends too. Most of the time they were worse than you. And they wouldn't tell you about it. I was your property. It's like painting grafiti on a school. If you tell, you get in trouble. And it doesn't help you weren't sober all the time either.

And, no, it wasn't all that bad, all the time. Like I said before and I'll say again, I had thought of you as my best friend. I cared about you. I still do. If it was all bad, all the time, then the outcome would have been very different.

I don't want to ruin anything for you. I never did. I'm just trying to find ways of coping with what's happened. Because I was affected. I used to get panic attacks if I ever heard someone say your name. Whenever I hear an older truck driving, I want to run away and hide. Some days I can't even kiss my husband without going into a panic attack, because the memories are so raw and terrible.

How could I fake that?

Again, I'm sorry if people put two and two together. I was trying to protect your identity, and I failed, obviously. But think about it, not very many people I know, know you. So how could they hate a person they don't know?

And as for you apology... I'm trying really hard to accept it. But, I have to admit, I'm angry. I'm angry that you were upset with me for saying the things I did. This is a blog. This is where I'm supposed to be free to write whatever I want short of cyber bullying and slander. I'm angry that it took you this long. I'm angry that you thought everything was fine, when I'm pretty sure you knew everything wasn't. I was cutting and suicidal! You knew that! How could you not know what it stemmed from? How could you not know the source of my never ending depression?

I'm angry. And I don't like being angry. I hate it. I don't want to be angry anymore. I just want to move on. I don't want to cause any problems with you or your family or friends. I hear you are trying to turn your life around. I'm happy you are. I'm happy that you have been able to move on so easily. It's not so easy for me.

So, forgive me for being angry. I'll get over it. Thank you for your apology, I hope that one day I will be able to accept it.

Sincerely,
SuperMana

Prison Break

Here's a story I've been writing for my English class, and it's based on the story of my prison break from my abuse captivity. In hopes with sharing this, maybe you can also find a way to break away too.

Prison Break

“Where’s my hello kiss, Bitch?” That question has always haunted me. I cringe when I think about what used to happen every day in that room, what would start after that question. It marked the hell I was living in. It symbolized the bars I was behind, imprisoned in a daily routine in which there was no escape.

I’m lying on the floor of my room surrounded by my physics homework, starring at my light blue wall. I watch as the fading sunlight flickers through my lime-green curtains, trying to figure out my last homework problem when my younger sister knocks on my door.

“Mana, the phones for you,” she says, brushing her perfectly straight blond hair out of her face and frowning at me.

“Who is it?” I ask, rubbing my hands over my face, trying to wake up from the daze the physics homework gave me. I hear a mumble as she speaks into the phone and a faint reply from the receiver in answer.

“He says his name is K----, and he needs to talk to you,” she says with a tight lipped smile. I groan. I contemplate having her lie to him saying I was busy or something, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I sit up and grab the phone from my sister, waiting for the click of the door closing before I speak into the phone

“Hello?” I finally say into the receiver.

“Hey, Bitch, wha’ took ya so long ta getter the phone?” I hear his voice say.

“Because,” I reply after a small pause, “I was finishin’ somethin’ on my homework. Wha’s up?”

“I’m bored. Be at my house in ten, or ya know wha’ll happ’n,” was the quick reply.

“But, K----, I don’t know if –“ I hear a beep and then silence. Sighing, I gather my homework up and put it in a pile on my desk. I grab my black jacket off of my bed and head out of my room. I turn the corner into the front room and make a beeline for the door. “I’m goin’ on a walk. I’ll be home later,” I yell down the hallway to my mom, hurrying out the front door before she has time to reply.

It’s an early fall day, the leaves beginning to cover the damp earth in a carpet of golds, reds, and oranges. I glare at the colorful leaves, jealous of how simplistic their short little lives were. My mind wanders, trying to distract itself from thinking of what’s coming once I reach K----’s house. How wonderful it would be to be a fall leaf. I reflected. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. There would be no such thing as school or friends or family. I would fly away with the wind. I would be free, with nothing to feel. I wouldn’t be able to feel any pain. I pick up a particularly large leaf off the sidewalk; it’s red color as bright as blood. Nor would I be alive. I would finally be free.

I hold onto the blood-red leaf until I reach his gate. Hesitating, I look around the yard covered in Halloween decorations and the white, eerie fence shining in the late afternoon sun. I glance at the bright leaf in my hand then slowly drop it, my hopes of leaving drifting off with it in the wind. I start to cross the yard and smile when I hear the two four-year-old, diapered twins yelling my name through the front window, everything else muffled by the glass.

I cross the threshold of the front door and get bombarded by K----’s other younger siblings, all of them dying to tell me about what’s happened since the day before. I try to make sense of their little squeaks, but their small voices like high-pitched church bells clang together and I give up trying to understand. I take a brief glance around and notice C----, K----’s guy friend from school, lounging on the couch and my heart sags. If he is here, that means K---- won’t be the only one who locks me into his bedroom today.

Leaning down, I ask one of the twins to take me to where K---- is. Feeling the sticky, dirty little hand in mine, he leads me through the pillow and blanket fort to the stairs. Before we go down, I nod a brief hello to C---- as we pass and he nods once back, intent on beating the car race he is playing. We tread down the flight of stairs, walking stealthily as toy tripping hazards appear. Reaching the bottom, the small boy points to K----’s bedroom then gives me a kiss on the cheek and races back up the stairs, giggling. I take in a deep breath and release it slowly, smiling slightly from the kind gesture of the four-year-old. I tip toe my way across the toy infested floor until I make it to the bedroom door. Knocking on the swollen wood, I close my eyes and hold my breath, wanting to disappear. A click and the door swings open to reveal my prison cell.

I turn into his bedroom, the strong smell of axe failing to cover the cigarette smoke drifting from the far corner. I walk in and close the door, the soft click sealing my prison bars. I continue to face the door and pick at the chipping white paint; the soft bass lull of Trace Atkins playing in the background. I stay there and wait for K---- to speak first.

“Well sit down, Bitch. I gotta finish this here smoke first.” says the voice hidden in the corner. I do as directed and sit down on the un-made king sized bed. I pull my feet up under me and kick off my tennis shoes, remembering the smack he gave me last time for having my shoes on the bed. I sit there on the stiff mattress trying to look at nothing in particular for a while, listening to the large stereo on the shelf in front of me beating out K----’s favorite country artists. Finding nothing worth looking at, I close my eyes and lay down on the bed, trying to ignore the world around me, but unable to get the picture of the blood-red leaf floating away in the wind out of my mind. And then I hear it.

“Where’s my hello kiss, Bitch?” I snap my eyes open and sit up too fast. I finally look at the subject of my misery. He stood there in front of me, arms folded in an impatient stance. I take in his appearance in a glance to surmise what he wanted today. I notice his cowboy boots in the corner by the door next to the baseball bat, and his usual baseball cap on the shelf with his collection of pocketknives. His shirt was un-tucked and hanging loose, his large belt buckle hanging down from the Wrangler belt loops and his button and zipper undone to show the red boxer briefs underneath his jeans. I knew that, today, I would not receive any mercy.

“I said, where’s my hello kiss, Bitch?” K---- growls, his hands clenching into fists. I look into his deep green eyes, trying to see the friend I once had but knew wasn’t there. The bruises on my back, ribs, and thighs start to throb, reminding me again of their presence. I pull my eyes from K----’s gaze and glance around the room, memories racing to be remembered. I look at everything that has caused me pain: the baseball bat, the pocketknives, the holes in the wall, the broken whiskey bottle glass that was swept underneath the bed, the desk stool, and his hands. I look back into his face, his mouth slowy turning into his crooked smile. He steps forward, the smell of axe and cigarette smoke reeking from his body. More memories from the past five years flood before my eyes: all the pain and fear, the hatred and the love, the hope and despair, the loyalty and the shame, the fun and the depression, all originating in those devilish green eyes and sinister crooked smile.

And I hear that question one more time. “Where’s my hello kiss, Bitch? I ain’t gonna ask again.” I look down at my hands and invision the blood-red leaf again, flying away in the wind. I make up my mind and lean over to put my shoes back on. “Wha’ the hell do ya think yer doin’?” I hear above my head as I finish tying my shoes.

I straighten up and glare directly into the devil’s soul. “Wha’ am I doin’? I’m leaving. I ain’t staying here. I ain’t gonna be your bitch anymore. My name is A-----, if you recall, and I’m leavin’ and ain’t ever comin’ back.” I shove him out of the way and reach for the door handle. He grabs my arm in a vice grip and lashes me around to face him, pushing me backward until my back slams into the door.

“I didn’ say you could go.” He spits into my face, his face turning red. He stares me down, my mind racing in fear. I break his stare, looking for something that could help me. Out of the corner of my eye I see his pocketknife collection, and before I know what I’m doing I grab one and flip it open towards those evil green eyes.

“I said I’m leavin’. Now let go of my arm before I give you a scar on that beautifully chiseled face.” I grumble through my teeth, hoping he wouldn’t catch my bluff. I feel his hand start to relax on my arm and I get a burst of more courage. “If you let go of me now, I promise I won’t ever tell a single soul what happened in this room. But if you don’t, I will carve my way out, and your mom and the police will get the full story.” I could see the blood pumping through his neck. I hoped this was a good sign. On my arm, I could feel his hand going limp, and I seized my chance. I pushed his chest as hard as I could and without looking back I race out the door. I hurdle the piles of toys and run up the stairs, taking 3 at a time.

“Wha’ the f –“ I start to hear before I barrel into C---- head first. We both tumble to the floor at the top of the stairs. I shake my head and check that C---- wasn’t hurt too badly. He starts to mumble something, and I decide he’s alright. Behind me I hear the loud stomp of someone else coming up the stairs and an angry voice calling my name. I scramble to my feet and rush for the front door. Adrenaline racing, I fumble with the door handle. I hear K---- coming up behind me, and I start to panic. I grab the handle and jiggle it, praying it would open. I turn my head and see K---- turning the corner towards me, red face full of rage. I face back to the door and pull at it, and right before K---- grabs me again the door swings open and I fly out, running.

I don’t remember how long I ran or what route I took. I don’t remember how I got home or what happened the rest of that night. K---- didn’t call me for weeks, and it wasn’t long before I learned through the gossip wheel that he had moved to go live with his biological father sometime after my escape. I don’t know what will happen if he ever moves back and calls me. But that doesn’t matter, because I broke out of my prison. I had found my key to freedom in a blood-red leaf flying away on the wind. 

Remember, you are strong, you are important, and you are a survivor, and there is no shame in that. You can write me your story of abuse of any kind or your story of escape, or if you have a friend, neighbor, or family member has a story and they don't mind you sharing, you can tell me at supermana.iamasurvivor@gmail.com.  I am here as a kind of outlet, if you will. And I believe in you.

Why stay?

Talking with my mom earlier today, she told me she didn't understand why a victim who is being repeatedly abused doesn't just leave. Why do they stay, and not get help? To her, and to lots of people out there, it's just common sense to stop hanging out with them or dating them or whatever the relationship is. She says it's just plain common sense, so she doesn't understand. She knows that it's documented that victims stay with their abusers for different psychological reasons, but it's just not something she can understand.

I've been thinking about it, and this is what I've come up with.

Common sense is societies way of saying "Well, duh!" to a situation that has a common answer. Common sense is the asnwer to ordinary circumstances that don't require much brain power to figure out and execute. As I see it, you cannot use common sense in a situation that is not ordinary. All forms of abuse are, sadly, a common situation, but not an ordinary one. So common sense, the "Well, duh!" society likes slapping in our faces, cannot be used.

Some don't leave because they physically cannot leave. Criminals in a county prison, for example. Yes, they are criminals, but I personally would never wish any abuse, particularly sexual abuse, on anyone, even a criminal. In these restraints, these victims cannot help what inmates and guards do to them. And because they are a criminal for some reason or another, their voice in particular is never heard, their abuse is looked over, and all of society looks the other way. These survivors have no other choice but to stay, and help is not an option.

Some don't leave because of the family ties between them and their abuser. A spouse abusing another spouse, a parent abusing a child, a sibling abusing another sibling. A grandparent, an uncle, an aunt, a cousin. Whatever the family tie is, they are family. Some victims grow up thinking the abuse they are going through is just how family members should show love to each other. Commonly, the victim doesn't know a way out even if they wanted to, so they don't.

Then there are the unmarried couples, the best friends, the boyfriend and girlfriend, one dominating over the other, abusing to their hearts content. You would think this kind of abusive relationship would be the easiest to sever. It's not family, you aren't physically being kept there. So, why not leave? Why stay?

This is were the reasons get very complicated.

Any reason why a victim stays is a valid reason, and it's never a simple answer. You can't use "common sense". But stories where there is no marital, familial, or other restraining factors are hard to puzzle out. You might be thinking, "Okay, SuperMana, I kind of see your point when it's your family or if you are trapped somewhere, but these people don't have that. It's just them choosing to stay. They bring the abuse on themselves by keeping themselves in the situation. It should be easy just to walk out, right?"

Well, dear reader, it's not easy. It's not simple. And I'm speaking from experience.

My abuser was one of my closest friends. For a long time I called him my best friend. Because there wasn't just the abuse. There were days where no abuse happened, it was just another fun day with him. I talked to him when I was angry with my family and confided in him when I had a crush on another boy. We had lots of good times. And for a long time I was convinced I was meant for him. That we would become high school sweethearts and get married and such. (I'm so grateful that's not the way things turned out.) I was emotionally attached to him and as any human knows, emotional ties are always the hardest to cut.

"Okay, SuperMana," you tell me, "you were close to him. You thought you were best friends. But everyone loses and gains friends. And since he was abusing you, it might have been a little hard, but when you weigh staying friends with him and getting out of the abuse, there is no contest."

Okay, reader. But you are still trying to use common sense. And, for me, there was another reason why I didn't get out for the longest time.

Fear.

I was terrified out of my mind. My abusers threats were very convincing, especially because most of them weren't the empty threats friends give to each other when messing around. His were real.

Demonstration:

"Bitch (That was the name he used when talking to me), get naked and lay on the bed."
"No."
"Excuse me? I said, get naked and lay on the bed."
"Please, ____, don't make me. Not today."
"Bitch, get naked and lay on the bed, now! Do you want me to hurt you?"
"No, please ---"

WHACK. He punches me.

In an hour a bruise starts to be visible on my ribs.

Physical harm can be a great hinderance in doing something your abuser doesn't want you to.

Physical harm was not the only thing I feared. My abuser would make threats against my living health, my social status, and my family members, particularly my younger siblings.

So, you can see from my experience, it is never just as easy as leaving and never turning back. The victim has to make risks, and sometimes the risk the victim feels they have to take is too great a price to pay.

This is all very confusing, I know. But, if you remember that nothing in life is simple, especially when it comes to abuse, than it might make a more complete picture out of the puzzle. And stop trying to use common sense. Common sense only works with trash, dishes, and finding the car keys.

And regarding religion...

So, I have recieved several messages and comments regarding my story, and I thank you all for your support. There is just something kinda bugging me, so I'm gonna let it out, K? The point of this post is not to bash on anything or anyone. It's just my view from this side of the mask. I apologise if anyone disagrees or is offended with what I say. It's just how I see it.

For background, I was born and raised as a member of the Church of Jesus Chirst of Latter-Day Saints, or Mormon. In our church, we believe that Christ suffered everything there is including our sins, our sorrows, our pain both physically and emotionally, and in sum-up he knows everything we feel and go through.

I believe this whole heartedly. He is there and has been there for me. Some days, a continuous silent prayer was the only way I could get through the hours in the hellroom. If I didn't believe Christ was there for me, I don't think I could have made it.

But...

As much as I wish He was, Christ is not an instant cure-all. Neither is the Atonement. If it was, I would have been fine years ago, and I wouldn't be writing this blog.

A lot of the comments were on the lines of "trust in the Lord and Christ... Use the Atonement, that's why it's there... We love you and God loves you, and if you put everything into His hands, He will heal you..." and so on.

Let me let you in on a little secret...

It's very, very hard for God to take care of everything for you.

If God took care of everything for you, there would have been no point in this life, because there would be no growing, no learning, no agency.

Just like you can't put all of your sorrows and pain into your neighbors' hands.

I can't put everything into his hands, no more than I can put everything into yours.

Because I have to learn to deal with it myself.

He did not make any of my decisions for me. No matter how much I asked, the abuse didn't stop until I got out, not because He made it stop. I had to help myself, in order for him to help me.

I know, for myself, that I have a heavenly ally. But that's what he is. He is an ally. He, no matter how much I want Him too, He cannot just magic away my pain. He has to let me suffer, so that I am stronger.

When Christ was on the cross, God withdrew His spirit, just for a little bit, just so Christ would know what it feels like to not have the Spirit of the Lord with Him. God had to let Christ suffer.

Similarly, Christ helps me with my pain and my suffering. But talk to anyone who has suffered pain. Talk to a child who was a victim of a parents' divorce. Or a mother who lost a child. A cancer patient. A victim of sexual abuse. The pain never goes away. It's always there. The degree may lesson, but it never fully goes away.

So, no, Christ cannot take that pain away. He does make it better, but it's never gone.

You may believe differently. I am not trying to say it's my way or the highway. I'm just saying, in my experience, Christ, the Atonement...

The instant-Atonement-cure-all does not exhist.

So stop telling me to go to Christ and turn to the Atonement to heal me.

I've been there the whole time.

And, no, the pain hasn't gone away.

... And, sadly... It never will.

My story..

I have realized that I have invited others to share their story, but have yet to actually tell me own. I have hinted and generalized, but that 's it. It may feel like a rant, a vent, a story that makes no rhyme or reason, but I can promise you this: it is true. And maybe one day I will be able to actually forgive and forget. Not only the abusers. But myself.

As I have mentioned in the post "Does any of it help", I found out recently that I was, in fact, sexually abused as a little girl. Five years old, to be exact. I was told that when the abuser came out and confessed, my parents recieved a call from the childrens justice in the neighboring town, and that it would be avantageous for them to bring me over so that they may do their children interrogations. My parents complied, and at the children's justice building they did the play-interrogations, and following my parents were told that whatever I experienced, I apparently did not percieve it as a traumatic event, but more of a game, and that I will be fine. So my parents, to my knowledge, did nothing. I have scattered memories. I remember holding someone's hand down the stairs into the basement of the house, going into the back bedroom. Someone, blonde, telling me to stick my tongue out and put it in his mouth. I remember taking off my clothes. I remember the blonde man brushing my hair and whispering into my ear. I remember in later boasting to my friends in second and third grade about having frenched kiss before. I remember telling my mom these memories, and her telling me they are just bad dreams. But I remember the dreams. The dreams were different.

That's the beginning.

Next, I'm in sixth grade, my group of friends found together. It started as innocent games of "Truth or Dare", which became not so innocent. As we grew older, our little band broke apart. Those not being affected by the boys greed of flesh off the loop, moving away or just refusing to be friends anymore. The other sufferer sharing my pain being able to break away summer after seventh grade. And I was left alone. With them. The two boys that held the same name, but spelt different ways. I won't lie, for a long time I was enamoured with the taller and more handsome of the two boys with the same name. I had also known him much longer before the other boy joined the group. I guess that's when the group fell apart, and our innocent play became less and less innocent.

Where do you cross the line? Where does it go from just playing to not something fun anymore? I never liked the truth or dare games that ended with someone kissing or losing clothing. But then, summer before seventh grade, it wasn't truth or dare. It was Him, telling me to take off my shirt and lay on the bed. Take my pants off. Let me touch you. Kiss me. Now. The first few years, if I said no, he would ask and beg and plead and bribe until I complied, and if I still said no, then the rumors would start. I would get weird looks at school, the people who I thought were my friends would turn their shoulder. I was constantly trying to find new friends, friends that haven't heard the rumors. And I found a few, but, just my luck, they were my friends because they were infatuated with Him. He even "dated" a few of them, as much as you can date in junior high. Much later, I learned this was peer pressure and cohersion. Then ninth grade... Oh man, puberty can do some messed up stuff to ya. I guess this is when the two boys thought they were men. Because all of a sudden, it wasn't pressuring me to say yes. It was yes, or I will take it from you, by any means. And I guess you can say the real abuse began. It kept on climbing and climbing, They continually thirsty for more. And now it wasn't just Them. It was all their other guy friends "wanting some". The group kept on getting bigger and bigger. Some I only saw once and can't remember their names. Some came again and again. His house, His bedroom, had become my hell. Then, May of 9th grade, it came to a climax.

This whole time I would fight and fight, no matter what they threatened to do and the actual pain they inflicted, I would fight for my virginity. That, at least, had stayed in-tact so far, and I was determined on keeping it that way. But my plans for myself aren't what they had in mind. That day in May, they took what I had protected to my utmost. Him, his friend with the same name, and their friend took it. I remember bits and parts of that day. I had a fountain drink, and I remember feeling woozy and tired. I remember laying down on the bed, feeling exhausted. Things from there are blurry. I remember vaguely that my clothes were removed. I remember feeling pain. And I remember black. Next, I remember being woken up several hours later. I remember seeing the clock, but not comprehending the time, until I realized a phone was being pushed to my ear. I remember hearing my dad on the other end, furious that I am 2 hours late for curfew. I remember being in a daze, putting my clothes back on, and walking slowly home. My head felt stuffy, like someone had stuffed it with cotton. And I was so tired. I got home and was chastised for my untimely arrival home. I couldn't tell them the real reason I was late, so I lied. I lied so much. No one could know. A week later, I go to attempt suicide by jumping off a cliff. Suffice to say, it did not work. I ended up walking home, confused and depressed. I had apparently started an uproar at my family home and at my school. He came by my house later that day, to make sure I was alright. He squeezed my arm, which I knew to mean to not tell anyone, so I didn't.

In their frantic to find where I might have gone, my parents read my sparatic journal entries. Some confessing what acts happened that particular day at His house, some confessing how much I hated and loved him at the same time. Some complaining about life, some just ordinary days. But, in lou with reading these, the next day I was sent back to my parents room and lectured about the content in my journal. I was sent to our bishop and made to repent for my terrible sins. I knew then that I couldn't ever tell them what was really going on. If they wouldn't let me explain what was in my journals, they would never understand what happened only the week before. So I remained silent.

That summer felt like bliss. They were back to the pressuring tactic after my suicide attempt, and not once did they ask for sex. It helped that both were "dating", and that another, more beautiful and sensual girl was there, ready and willing to share her body with them. That's how we spent the summer. But then school started. High school. The few friends I had, decided I was to blame for their sorrows, and I found myself friendless in a school 3 times as large as the previous one.

And then His girlfriend broke up with Him, and the carnage that followed would make a serial rapist proud. The beatings began again. But they were so much worse than before. Bruises showed up on my legs, upper arms and back and sides. I always wore several layers of clothes, trying to hide everything. Alcohol would be slipped into my drink, in hope it would make me more compliant. For a short while, They would force a cigarette into my mouth and threaten to burn me with it if I didn't smoke the whole thing. That was too easy for His mom to detect though, so they had to change to chewing tobacco. He, nor his friend with the same name, had jobs, so they paid for all of their whiskey, beer, cigs, and chew with my body. These... People would come up to His house, and they would have an alloted time to do whatever they wanted with me, and use whatever means they wanted. Life was hell. Along with the cuts They gave me, I started cutting myself. I had done feeble attempts before, but now this was the only way to get through the day.

The means in which my body was shared was horrendous. I was the debt paid, I was the victim of a bored afternoon, and the common favorite was the poker games. Each chip had a different sexual act, and when the game was done, I was locked in the room, and each player came and got his dues. After one game, when I refused, I was hit in the back with the baseball bat. Whether from this onslaught or the other multiple times my back has been punished, I still have back problems.

As the abuse became worse and worse, I kept on trying to get out. I would make feeble attempts to convince Him I couldn't see him any more, that my parents wouldn't allow me. Always written in notes, or using someone else's phone and sending texts during lunch. But these feeble attempts never got anywhere. So I started to look for other outs. I tried overdosing on different drugs, but all of them ended up just making me sick. I would cut my arms so deep that the blood flowed freely, but only would for a short while. I always wanted out, but I was too scared of death and Him to ever go through with it.

I have only mentioned a fraction of what happened in the hellroom. If I wanted to go into depth, it would take me a whole book and several years to describe everything. In the end, almost half-way through my junior year of high school, I finally had the courage to get out. Shortly after, He moved, and I never saw his friends unless we randomly ran into each other, in which I would run the other way. But I don't think I ever really got rid of him. In all honesty, if he called me today and told me to meet him somewhere, I would most likely go. He is the waking demon of my life. I can never get rid of him. He's always on the back of my mind.

I was pregnant three times, all ended in miscarriages. I never knew who the father was but once. I only told my mother and Joyce of one, my junior year of high school. But there was once my sophmore year, and once my senior year. Like I said, if he called, I would most likely go. He called during my senior year, once I had started to really think I was finally rid of him, and I went. 8 weeks later, I miscarried.

My life was ravished by Him. He had taken everything from me. So when I went down to SUU, I thought maybe here I could start a new life, start anew, freed from Him at last. I was freed of Him, but intruded by another. Week of finals the first semester I was there, I was raped in my dorm room by who I thought was a friend. Just like the first time I was raped, I don't remember much. I had been on my own sleeping medication. I remember falling asleep with him there, and waking up naked and cold. He had sent me a text message saying he had fallen asleep and had woken up with me naked and him in only his boxers, and got scared and left...

It had seemed I could never find peace. Could never find a safe place.

I am safe now, with my amazing husband. I haven't heard from Him nor is friends in a long time, and this other SUU is no longer anywhere where he could hurt me.

And I am ready to speak out.

Here is my story. Laid out for you to read. Maybe one day I can confide in more details, but as of right now, more details is exactly what I don't want to remember. 

And the Stories Begin..

Stories are a basis of life. Movies, TV shows, newpaper reports, books, life.. What do you tell your friends if not stories?

And here are where our stories begin.

This is a young man who has suffered discrimination, abuse, and much more. He has been waiting for a chance to share his story, and I feel it's about time it's heard. So here it is.

"Dear Mana,

Today I discovered your blog and I am so sorry for what you have been through.

I too have experienced sexual abuse. When my parents sent me to a certain school, I was physically abused nearly everyday and the sexual abuse was almost as frequent. It breaks my heart to know that other people have been through similar, or worse, situations than I have, and yet, in some sad way I feel comfort knowing that I'm not the only one.

Anyway, here's my story:

Since I have “come out of the closet” to my parents, I have been asked several times, by my mom at least, for my “story.” When first asked, I never gave her a story, because quite honestly, I didn’t really have one. Thanks to the fear shown by the both of my parents a story has sprouted from what could’ve been an average teenage boy’s life.

I left a letter in the mailbox explaining that I am gay before I set off to what would become my last Shakespearean Festival, I had hoped for the best, but expected the worst. My expectations had turned out to be correct.

I had known I was gay for several years, my earliest thought of it comes to mind when I was a mere six years old. I had no knowledge what sex was—or attraction, for that matter, and therefore it could have not been anything other than nature, unless of course you want to take the ideology of “the over-bearing mother and the absent father caused it.” In which case, my parents are to blame.

I had put months of consideration into writing that letter to my parents. I believe I had the actual letter complete in early September and I knew they wouldn’t receive it until October. The letter I received in response from them clearly wasn’t written with the same consideration or love. It was stated that I was loved in the letter, but I found no evidence therein of such. The letter was filled with only scripture references and a brief comparison of prostitution to homosexuality.

When I had returned from The Shakespearean Festival I received a hug from both of my parents. The next day, however, Dad was making sure I was certain that I knew he wasn’t homophobic, which to him meant he had no irrational fear of gay people, and Mom’s main concern was whether or not I should attend a program to make myself straight, as if that were possible. At that moment I knew I had made a mistake in telling them.

A small group of friends supported me and accepted me for who I am. They continued to show love for me and truly cared. However, a larger group of friends began to hate me. Their whole perspective of me was completely changed simply because they knew more about me. They made habit of giving me Pass Along Cards every day, and even began throwing religious pamphlets at my head. They called me names like, sinner, faggot, and homo. They told me that I was going to Hell and that God hated me. These people, who before they knew I was gay were my best friends, had now become my worst enemies. I even began receiving anonymous death threats in my locker.

As things got worse at school, things also became worse at home. Comments from Mom like, “You don’t see me telling people every time I have sex,” and Dad saying things like, “Being gay is against God’s law and God’s law super cedes any civil rights,” were spat into my face day after day after day. I was, in their eyes, against God’s law and allegedly a promiscuous gossip. In my eyes, both of them were irrationally afraid of gay people.

Because of the hatred and fear that my parents expressed towards homosexuality, I never came to them with my problems at school. I had no one to go to. I eventually just stopped using my locker all together.

As any person would, I grew depressed. My real friends noticed my usual effervescence was fading and they commented on it immeasurably. Eventually I grew suicidal, even attempting suicides under my parents’ nose, all of which were, obviously, unsuccessful.

One night—to my memory, it was the Fourth of July—I had finally come up with the plan that would be successful. I was about to carry on when I noticed a good friend of mine was online. I started chatting with her and expressing my sorrow. She said I needed to get help and made me promise I would. That night I went in tears to Mom pleading for help. She sent me to a hospital for eight days. While I was in the hospital, Mom seemed to think it would be a good idea to tell me that my greedy therapist deemed it necessary that I were to be sent to a different school: a school for kleptomaniacs, children with sexual problems, and drug addicts. Apparently homosexuality falls into one of those categories—of which I am still trying to figure out. I managed to convince her to allow me to come home.

A few weeks after I got home Mom and I got into an argument about homosexuality. She had blatantly said lesbians were disgusting people, and then completely denied it immediately afterwards. I had had it with the emotional abuse and yelled at the both of them. Dad responded by reminding me how I was against God’s law. The cops were called and the one victim of the situation was taken to a receiving facility for delinquent teens.

The first night I spent there, I decided that I should have never thought my parents could handle this. Their medieval mindset proved to me that any thing that goes against the grain of yesterday could not be shared with them. I had decided in that sleepless night to never speak with them about it again. It was something I was willing to sweep under the rug in order to go home.

The first time my parents and I met at the facility, they said I would be coming home the following Monday. I was anxiously looking forward to coming home, for my senior year of high school was starting in less than a month. When Monday came—I believe it was the third of August—two strangers showed up to take me away to the juvinial school. My own parents, when I had been nothing but painfully honest, had lied to me.

On the drive to the school, the strangers called me snooty, and a whiner after all I had said was, “There must be a mistake, my parents said they would take me home today.”

Upon arrival, I was to strip into my boxers, in the middle of a school hallway, with no privacy, to be checked for drugs. I then was given a pair of jeans and a lovely stained yellow shirt to wear. After I had finished dressing I was placed into a room where I was not allowed to speak, at all, and was forced to sit and do absolutely nothing. They called this room the Self Contained Classroom (SCC). I sat in that room for three days.

My second day in that room, I was subject to being kneed in the stomach by a staff member who then threw me to the ground. Why? Because I tripped on my flip flops—the only footwear I was allowed—during the grueling drills we were forced to do. With my stomach already upset from the drills, being kneed and thrown to the ground finally forced my dinner out of me. After spewing, this particular staff member called me a “fucking retard” and turned to the other staff members present and said “Can you believe this kid?” The other staff members showed no sympathy to the humiliation and abuse I was being subjected to. A couple even snickered.

I was given a roll of paper towels to clean the puke up. No mop, no towels, just a roll of disposable, thin, textured paper.

The eight months I was there were filled with nothing but physical, emotional, and even sexual harassment and abuse. The same staff member who kneed me my second day there became a staff that I was unfortunate enough to have to spend nearly every day with. He was what the facility called a Cottage Parent, and he was the main governing staff over me. He rarely called me by name, for he enjoyed calling me “faggot.”

There was one day when the boys of Cottage C—the cottage to which I belonged—and I were in a line walking to the cafeteria. I took a small step out of the line to dodge a puddle. The price for keeping my feet dry was to be kicked in the leg by my Cottage Parent for not walking in a straight line. The bruise from this kick was shown to my parents, but I was under strict instructions to say it was from playing soccer in PE. Though the color of the bruise has faded and disappeared, you can still to this day feel the lump left by it.

My roommate, who was a marijuana dealer, punched me every night before bed. It was no love tap—these punches often had me gasping for air. Bruises on my ribs and sides became normal to me. One night, my roommate told me that it was time for me to get a jail tattoo. I told him no, but he pulled out a ballpoint pen and a screw he had been concealing and said to me, “You can do it yourself, or I can do it for you.” I had no idea how to respond to this, “I’ll do it later,” was the best I could come up with. He laughed at this and told me that he knew that if I managed to put it off I would never do it. He then added that if I didn’t do it that night, he would rape me. In my fear I etched the first design that popped into my head onto my left knee and then smeared the ink from the pen over it. It was incredibly painful.

Needless to say, the ink from the pen didn’t stay. When I healed all I had was a scar.

I reported all these happenings to my therapist, from the abusive staff member to my psychotic roommate. The only thing I left out was the tattooing, because I knew I would be in serious trouble if anyone knew I had attempted a tattoo. My therapist told me that I needed to stop being a victim, and once I’ve done this, apparently my troubles would go away. I tried to stop being a victim, simply no one else tried to stop victimizing me.

After I had learned that Mom had blatantly invaded my privacy by reading the journal I had left at home and that a boy in my cottage had been reading the one I had been keeping at this school, I developed a code. However, the boy knew enough to harass me greatly and he started writing incredibly creepy love letters, in my name, to the boy I mentioned in my journal to be attractive. Eventually this got out of hand and the boy I had called attractive reported me to the therapist. I was called in to his office and was shouted at for a good half an hour about what sexual harassment was and how I was sexually harassing this boy. I tried to tell him that I hadn’t written any letters, but he wouldn’t believe me. I spent the next day and a half in a yellow shirt, in the SCC.

With the code I developed I felt free to write whatever I wanted in my journal, with no fear of my privacy being invaded. I began to plan out an escape. I knew that almost every weekend, the staff member that lived in the cottage with us boys—called a Live-In by the facility, whose room was just across the hall from mine, invited his girlfriend over late at night. When he would go outside to get his girlfriend, he would turn the alarm off, walk outside, walk back inside with his girlfriend, close his door, and then turn the alarm back on. I figured the time it took for him to close his door and turn his alarm back on was enough for me to run out of my bedroom and out the front door of the cottage.

When the night came I prepared very carefully. I stuffed all the clothes I had underneath my sheets and put on three pairs of socks for we had to lock up our shoes into a locked room at night. As soon as the staff closed the door behind him and his girlfriend, I sprinted through the front door. I heard the beeping of him punching the code in as I closed the door behind me.

The rest of the night is unimportant. I called Mom the next morning and shortly was found unconscious on a strangers front lawn, dehydrated.

After a brief chat with Mom, I was taken back to the school and was placed back into a yellow shirt, into the SCC. I spent three days in there this time.

Knowing I was never going to be able to run away from the place, I decided in those three days to play along, to smile and nod, and to lie.

My lying rewarded me richly. I was allowed more privileges through my lies, including participating in a play under the watchful eyes of the missionaries. I was eventually allowed to come home every weekend as well. Even staff began to leave me alone, as I had become just another soulless entity to them. I had faded into the obscurity all the other boys had been living in for months. I lied my way through each day, and it made me less human, and therefore less interesting to harass.

When my parents visited for the Scarecrow Festival in mid October, which the other boys and I labored to put together, with very minimal help from any staff, I was allowed to spend the day with them. I tried to tell them all the awful things that were happening to me. The therapist must have noticed this because he then started to follow us and eventually interrupted our conversation saying, “You’re not trying to ‘work’ your parents are you, ---?” he wore his false smile, making it seem like he was joking, but I knew that I was not going to be having a pleasant time once this was all over.

I told my parents of my roommate’s rape threats, which they wrote off as me lying to get out of the abominable place. I even tried to tell them other things that go on there, and they clearly thought I was making everything up. After that night they told my therapist of my alleged tall tales, and he told the staff member who I was unfortunate to have to deal with almost every day, and, once again, I paid dearly for telling the truth.

When my roommate punched me in the back of the head, held me down, pulled my underwear to my ankles and pulled his down as well only a few weeks later, I said nothing to no one. Luckily, his rape was unsuccessful, as night security was making heavier rounds on Cottage C, thanks to my attempt at escaping. Even luckier, room changes were made before he tried to rape me again. This time I had two roommates, which felt safer than one. That is, until one of them got angry at the other and decided that a great way at getting revenge was to ejaculate on the other kid’s face in the middle of the night.

I knew that the time for honesty would come again, but I also knew that it would be some time.

When Christmas came around, I let loose a bit of honesty, and was almost not allowed to go home for Christmas because of it. Luckily, I masterfully lied my way out of a consequence and enjoyed my Christmas away from the school.

Whether it was before or after Christmas, I can’t remember, but the plan for me to start day-program, and go home every day and only be at the school during school hours was set for the first of February. I started counting down the days with every journal entry starting with “X Days of Hell remain.” I was actually happy for the first time in what seemed like forever.

I knew that I was safe enough to slowly become more honest, but a few things—the attempted rape, for example—could not be shared until I was completely free of the school.

I started to apply for jobs so that I could earn money over the summer. I applied at about ten places nearby. One of which called me back. The conversation went something like this:

“So, we have an opening, but I just wanted to ask you about something on your application.”

“Okay,” I said.

“You wrote that you go to school at ---,” the woman on the phone stated.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Is that the one in ---?”

“Yes it is,” I answered.

“I’m sorry to say this, but we aren’t looking for someone like you.” She hung up the phone before I could say anything else. I knew that I couldn’t have that school on my diploma and decided it was important to go back to my former school. After all of this was discussed, I transferred back, shortly after I managed to get a job at the movie theater, and even went with the school choir to Disneyland. It was such great fun. However, my best friend told me when I came back that I wasn’t the same person anymore, and that she didn’t want to be around me because it depressed her—just another casualty claimed by the juvinial school.

I told my parents that she didn’t want to be friends with me anymore because of a reason I fabricated myself, knowing that arguments would occur if I had been honest.

My drama teacher noticed the difference as well. He approached me and asked why I seemed so emotionally withdrawn. I lied and said that I just didn’t get enough sleep anymore because of the long nights at the movie theater. My drama teacher, whom I spend very limited time with, noticed my changes and my own parents didn’t. In fact, if anything they seemed pleased with the changes.

Due to the fact that the juvinial school did not have the courses I needed to get enough credits to graduate high school, I attempted finishing up all the credits in that last quarter at my original high school alone. When graduation came along I was one whole credit away from graduating. Because I was in the choir that was singing at graduation, I had to watch all my friends and other fellow classmates walk to the stage in the Mariott Center and pick up their diploma while Pomp and Circumstance was played by the band.

After all my hard work, my high school education ended no better than a dropout’s.

I needed to move out. I needed to go somewhere as far from my parents as I could get. I couldn’t possibly afford living alone with only my job at the movie theater to provide for me. I started applying to other places and searching for apartments. I also looked into signing up to take the GED test, so that I could get a High School Equivalency Diploma. I hoped that with that, I would at least get somewhere in life.

I found that a near by university held GED testing every Saturday and signed up immediately. When time came to take the test, I went and sat in the testing center, making my way through each section of the test as carefully as I could. It took a total of seven hours to finish the test, and I was amongst one of the first people finished. This made me nervous, I felt like I should have taken longer.

When my results came in about two weeks later, I had passed every section, my lowest percent being 83, in the math portion. I was so proud.

My GED diploma came in the mail and I felt so overwhelmed with emotion. I loved it, because it meant my future, but I hated because it represented everything about my past that I regretted.

GED diploma in hand, I registered for a university far away from my home town, and given my high marks on the test, I was accepted and received enough financial aid to help me pay for everything.

I was so happy to move out—freedom at last. The feeling that I can finally be myself, and not have to change myself to avoid offending my parents, was marvelous. A new confidence was instilled in me right away. The change was noticeable. Before, I would look into a mirror and see a sad boy looking back at me. Now, I see a confident young man. I never knew how much life there was in me, because I was afraid to use it all. Even though there are residual effects—I constantly have nightmares about the juvinial school—I know that I’m not the worthless person everyone has tried to tell me I am. I have a future now, and it looks brighter than I could have ever anticipated."

Here is another survivor. One of the last things he said to me in the email was "I wish none of this ever happened, to either of us, but at least we may be able to gain some comfort that our stories may prevent more crimes by letting people see how disgustingly common they really are."

The actual names of people and places are taken out for this survivor's protection. Like many, he fears that speaking the truth, like so many times in his story, would have a consequence that is unjust and result in pain and suffering.

People suffer all the time, everywhere. It really isn't something that happens just on TV or in the movies. It's real, every day life. And not all of them end sadly. This survivor was able to pick up the pieces and go to the university he wanted to. If that isn't surviving, I don't know what is.

Email Me!

The email I set up specifically for this is

supermana.iamasurvivor@gmail.com

Shoot me an email if you would like to share. I swear, nothing will be shared without permission, and names shall not be used unless you specifically express the want.

I believe it is beneficial to share your stories. So, if you are at a place where you want your story heard, here is a good place to let it out. I will be sharing. I hope you can too.

You are not alone.

First, before I go into what I wanted to say today, I would like to say that I love my family, my parents, my husband, and my friends very much. They aren't the bad guys, necessarily, but that doesn't mean I always agree with what they say. That is my right, and theirs.

Now, continuing on..

I got a couple facebook messages yesterday night/early this morning in response to my last post. One responder said I could publish what she said. Here is her message to me.

"Hey Mana,

I just wanted to tell you I've been reading your blog lately, and it's truly amazing how you're facing this. You give me hope. To see you work through this pain and to see you so determined to live your life makes me so happy for you and makes me feel like maybe I can too.

I can't begin to imagine what you've been through, but I can understand parts of it. I, too, was raped. When I was 17. At PG High. I've only ever told 3 people in my life - and one was my mother. Long story short, I was sent to higher religious authorities and told to repent of my sins and not ruin the boy's reputation. It was an awful situation and I have since become silent about the issue. I am dealing with it, better than I had before, but I wish I could become more vocal in the public's eye.

I think you're doing a wonderful thing by voicing your story and your journey and your insights. I think the public does try to downplay sexual abuse, and it sickens me. I hope by doing this it helps the people around you understand the victims better, and understand how horrific something like this is. I know there are others like me out there, who are silent and cannot share their stories for fear of more abuse and people not believing. I know you've helped me, and I know you'll continue to help others.

I hope that by doing this you will also find some peace. In talking to the few people who know my situation, it has helped me get through the harder days.

I wish you all the best."

Hers is yet another tragic story that is a common occurance, and is commonly silenced. Like this responder said "I know there are others like me out there, who are silent and cannot share their stories for fear of more abuse and people not believing."

Everyone has their own battles. As one reader said, "I am living with depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic anxiety and sometimes feel so... detatched from the world". The pain comes in many different forms, and doesn't necessarily stem from sexual violence. Anything traumatic can have a costly toll on your spirit and well-being.

Both of these readers commented on how the public always seems to downplay or just plain ignores the reality of what we victims, we survivors, go through, every day. One said "That's the thing that bothers me about issues like ours: nobody talks about it and the reality of living with it."

And, in response, I wrote back
"I like to think society has a color filter over their eyes. They see the colors that are socially acceptable, and all other colors are forgotten. Kind of like the book "The Giver". All they see is black, white, and shades of grey. Color evokes too much emotion, too much thinking. If society had that color filter lifted from their eyes, they would be exposed to all the true colors of the world, instead of the ones painted for them, and all of a sudden they will have to feel, think, and react for themselves. But that is just too much for society to handle. So, in consequence, those of us that actually see the true colors of the world are silenced, ambushed by the pressing masses of society."

Life is difficult. There is no doubt about that. Everyone has their own demons, and it would be unfair for me to say anyone has it worse than another. Everyone has pain, and everyone has something to feel grateful for, even if they refuse to see it. But that doesn't excuse the feelings and hurt victims of sexual violence feel. It's just as real as the pain one feels after losing a loved one, or finding out you have cancer, or divorce, or any other number of things. So why is sexual violence so hushed up in our society? Think about it.

There are many of you reading this, who are feeling real pain, trying to find ways to survive. My blog is open for anyone to read and share. If you don't want to write a comment, I will be setting up an email shortly that you are more than welcome to share with me comments and stories, experiences and insights that I can share either anonymously or with your name, like my readers who have let me share their stories and feelings today.

I want you to feel safe and secure. If you want a voice, you can find one here. Maybe finally being able to tell your story will help you get the strength you need to start your healing process.

Dear readers, you are not alone. Never think you are alone. There are many out there, afraid and suppressed. Don't let what happened to you rule your life. You are the difference between a happy life and a sad one. I believe in you.

Remember, you are strong. Remember, you are importatnt. And above all, remember, you are a survivor, and there is no shame in that.

Does any of it help?

Do you know what I hear all the time? Everyone hears it. All the time. Those words, "I'm always here for you, I will always listen." Always. Such a time encompassing word. And what does it mean? It means always, when it's on my time. Think about it. Think about the last time you heard those words. Now, do you actually ever go to that person to be heard, or do you start and then get cut off? Something else seems to always come up. Always is a lie. Always should be replaced with "When it's convenient, and if I feel like I have something to say, than I will interupt you. You won't actually be able to finish a thought. And whatever you say, you are actually wrong, and this is how it is, because I'm the person you are confiding in, and because I am, everything I say is right, and you have to take my advice. Now, what were you saying?" That's what always means.

A couple weeks ago I finally told my mom about all that happened. And the way it happened, is she wanted me to talk to Joyce, a therapist/counsellor. Fine, I thought. I guess it can't hurt any. So I skipped math and my mom, Joyce, and I found a room, and I talked. Kinda. I got a lot more than I usually do, but I felt like I needed to talk more, and I couldn't get the words out. Like Joyce and my mom put a hand over my mouth and told me it's time for the grown-ups to talk now.

So I started this blog to get some of it out, to see if it helps. And I froze. I posted for a couple days, and when I told my mom, she told me it wasn't a terrible idea, but it's not really theraputic. So I kinda stopped.

At my university, they had a couple days where they held "the clothesline project", where victims of any kind of abuse or violence can write on a t-shirt. White t-shirt was for people who died as a result of violence. Yellow- survivors of physical assault. Pink, Red, and Orange- survivors of rape or sexual assault. Blue and Green- survivors of incest or childhood sexual abuse. Lavender and Purple- survivors of attacks suffered due to perceived sexual orientation. Black- for those disabled as the result of an attack, or assaulted because of a disability. Grey and Brown- survivors of emotional, spiritual, or verbal abuse. The colors my life could fall under? Yellow, Pink, Red, Orange, Blue, Green, Grey, and Brown. I chose the color Pink. I wrote on the front. I filled it. And it wasn't enough. I could have covered twenty, thirty, forty shirts and still have not felt finished.

On the t-shirt, I named my abusers, all except my childhood one, because my mother won't tell me. She doesn't want to ruin his reputation. He is a good man. He's repented, it's behind him. It's not behind me though. I didn't even know until that day in the room with Joyce. I have the memories, all of which I have told my mother at least once, and have been told it's just my imagination. Come to find out, each one is real. It may have not traumatized me when I was little, it may have been a game created by my abuser, but that doesn't mean it wasn't abuse, and that doesn't mean I can just brush it off a couple weeks after finding out that all those memories are real, when I have been told continually they are just hauntings in my imagination.

I almost feel like my mother cares more for this man's reputation than my healing. You can't just tell someone they were being sexually abused at 5 years of age, and than say I can't tell you who he was, and expect the victim to just forget about it. They deserve to know. It's not my goal to go and slander anyone. But, seeing as I am the victim, I figure I have a right to know who it was. It's like saying I can't ever say the names of my other abusers, and I can't tell anyone who they were, because that would slander their name and their reputation. It's like saying that if I wanted to go to court, I can't, because that would mean the possibility of sending my abusers, those abusers who molested, raped, assaulted, beat, bruised, cut, demised, and slandered me among other things, sending them to prison for the crimes they commited. Their reputation is more important than being the victim of their villaney for several years and wanting some sort of justice, compensation, SOMETHING for all the hurt they have done.

I really need to talk to someone.

But who to? A crisis help-line? I don't like talking over the phone. I'm much more a over text where I can methodically think out my replies or in person having a real conversation. So, why not my husband? My husband likes having the t.v. or music on, all the time. I can't seem to get it quiet enough for him to listen unless it's right before bed, but than it's too late in the day. So, why not my friends? Most of them don't even know I've been through any of this, and those that do don't really know the full extent of what I'm feeling. They are having enough problems as it is, all of them being young adults trying to find their way in the world too, so I would feel guilty confiding in them. So go to therapy? They are detached, can look at it objectively, and are a great help, right? I can't afford them. My husband and I are living paycheck by paycheck. Literally counting our pennies. Even ten dollars a session is too much. So, the obvious answer is my family, right? No. I've tried. I get started, and I get told that what I have been through is not as great as so-and-so's, and I should be grateful for so many things. I get started and I get told not now, I'm busy. I get started and I get cut off mid-sentence and told about how my confidante's life is so much worse. I get started and than get chastised and lectured and told I'm a terrible, sinful person and I must go repent for my sins. And then I get told "I'm always here for you, I will always listen. You can always come talk to me."

I don't believe you.

My mom is even hiding some of what she found out the day with Joyce from my father, scared of what he would say or do if he found out. Doesn't matter what the circumstances were.

And I'm supposed to be open with you?

.... Yes.

At least, I can here, on this blog. I have a friend, Julie, who told me my blog is a great help for services trying to make people aware of what victims are actually going through, and how they can help.

So, reader, are you enlightened?

Do you understand what a victim feels?

Because I have to tell you, this is the tip of the universe that is what a victim goes through.

And it never ends.

The edited version of "The Truth Behind the Mask: Why Sexually Abused Victims Don't Speak Out"

So, my English 1010 teacher said my paper was excellent and very revealing, and the editing is much better than the one I shared before. So, here it is. Enjoy.

The Truth Behind the Mask: Why Sexually Abused Victims Don't Speak Out



My friends and I were sitting at a table, laughing and talking like we did every lunch hour. One friend came up to the table and sat down, a quizzical expression on her face.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask.

She replies, “In my last class we had a lecture on the psychological effects that can occur after being sexually abused or raped, and I just don’t get it.”

“What don’t you understand?”

She became a little flustered as she answers, “I understand that sexual abuse can be a fairly harmful thing, but why don’t the victims just go get help at the beginning, when it starts, instead of waiting for years or not reporting at all?”

The girl across the table from me pipes in; “It’s because most of them aren’t being sexually abused, it’s just they are too embarrassed to admit they like it.”

Standing at the end of the table was my best friend, and she jumps in the conversation, “Nah, it’s basically “crying wolf”, which is why so many quote-in-quote rape and sexual abuse cases go unreported, because they aren’t real.” Her boyfriend walks up behind her as she says this and sneaks a kiss on her cheek. She yelled, “Rape!” and the whole table bursts into laughter.

That is, everyone but me.

Because I am a victim of sexual abuse.

It perplexes people as to why victims don’t report their sexual abuse. They think it can’t be that hard to go into a police station and say those four words, “I am being abused.” They understand it’s a sensitive subject, but it’s just not something that happens often, and anyone who says they are being abused is just looking for attention. The truth? Victims don’t report their abuse for many reasons and the most common one: fear. They fear their abuser. They fear that they won‘t be believed. But most of all, they fear the truth; the truth that they were abused.

Fear. It is an emotion that can control ones actions. It can be manipulated for any use. One strong fear victims of sexual abuse feel is fear of their abuser, a tool used by many abusers to keep their victims quiet. If you were in a situation where you were threatened physically and verbally every day with the end of your life or social standing, would you go tell every one what was going on? Or would that fear keep you from speaking? It’s why I didn’t speak out.

While I was growing up, I was sexually abused by my best friend for five years. Why so long? Because the verbal and physical abuse and threats on my life and reputation kept me from speaking out. If I fought back, rumors would go around the school about me. These rumors would get worse and worse, going from “I kissed so and so” to “I slept with this person” to “I will do anything for pay.” The circulating gossip kept me from getting a lab partner in my physics class and being left out of group sessions in English. If I told my abuser no, that I didn’t want to today, he would use physical force until I complied. Sometimes it was just a slap across the face, sometimes it was a punch to the jaw. Sometimes it was a baseball bat rammed against my back, and sometimes it was worse. I began to wear long sleeved and heavy clothing to hide the bruises and cuts. If I told my abuser I’m done, I’m leaving, I am never coming back, he would whisper in my ear, “Who will believe you? You, a whining little nobody, against me, one of the most popular guys at school? I know where you live, I know where you sleep, and I know how to get into your house. Your parents would never believe you, not if I tell them how much of a whore you are first. So, who will believe you?”

Fear of the abuser is a powerful thing.

Another fear that drives victims to stay quiet is they fear they won’t be believed. Everyone likes being believed. When you tell your best friend how your coffee spilt on you this morning and it ruined your favorite shirt, you want them to believe you, because it’s true. A victim wants to tell their story about being sexually abused; they want to be believed, because it’s true. You then ask why, if these victims really want to tell their story, don’t they speak out and get help. Like my abuser said to me, “Who will believe you?”. No one seriously talks about sexual abuse; it’s tabooed, it’s sensitive, it’s a touchy subject. You normally don’t hear a conversation about it when you are walking down the street. It’s just not something we talk about openly in our society. Sexual abuse is one of those things that isn’t real unless it happens to you. It happens on TV., it happens in another town, another state, but never at home.

For example, a few years ago one of my older sisters got married. She would always say she was happy, tell these stories about how awesome her new life is, a big smile on her face. We all saw the white elephant in the room; she wasn’t telling us something. She would have bruises on her arms or legs and say she tripped down a flight of stairs. Her smile was always fake, and when she thought we weren’t looking she would wipe a tear from her eye. For a long time she never said anything about it, and we never brought it up. When she eventually told us what was happening, there was a lot of damage done to her physically and emotionally. Later she told me that she felt like she couldn’t speak out because she was scared she wouldn’t be believed, that she would be blamed, that our family would judge her and treat her differently. She never believed her ex would be like that because he was the polar opposite when they were dating; he was nice, popular, kind and gentle, especially around friends. She thought that no one would believer her, and who would when he acted like such a nice guy all the time.

Fear of not being believed is a very powerful thing.

One last fear that can overtake anyone is fear of the truth. We see it every day, everywhere. Victims of sexual abuse feel that fear every day, even after the abuse is over. They live a lie, because facing the truth is much more terrifying than pretending it’s not there. They become reserved, a shell of the person they could be. Some become work-aholics, absorbed in working their life away. Some become so reserved they become hermits and loners, self enclosed and sad. All victims are acting on life’s stage, burying the pain and shame they feel behind the mask they put on every morning.

I remember that mask. I wore it for years. I never wanted to admit to myself what my friend was doing. So I ignored it. I had other friends I would spend time with at school, I couldn’t let them know what was really happening. My parents had a picture perfect future for me; I couldn’t let them see how imperfect it was becoming. I always thought about what would happen if I told the truth. Would my friends leave me? Would my parents be angry? What would happen to me at school? So I put my mask on. It always felt like I was covering my eyes; if I couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there. If I couldn’t face it, I knew no one else could. So I kept my mask on, my eyes closed, and my mouth shut. The rest of my life was much easier that way, even when I knew the nightmare wouldn’t stop until I removed the mask.

Fear of admitting the truth is a powerful thing.

They weren’t lying when they said fear was power, and fear is a ruler in the life of a survivor of sexual abuse. Half a million victims go without reporting their abuse and getting help every year because of this ruling emotion. So the next time you pass someone down the street, check out at the local grocery store, or wave at your friends, look into their eyes.

Can you see behind the mask?

　

The Truth Behind the Mask: Why Sexually Abused Victims Don't Speak Out.

Now that I have that last post out of the way, this is what I have been working on for one of my English papers. It's still technically in rough draft form, but I kind of like it this way. Seems a little less formal and more personal. And it's called...

The Truth Behind the Mask: Why Sexually Abused Victims Don't Speak Out.

My friends and I are sitting at a table, laughing and talking like we did every
lunch hour. One friend comes up to the table and sits down, a quizzical expression on her
face.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask.

She replies, “In my last class we had a lecture on the psychological effects that
can occur after being sexually abused or raped, and I just don’t get it.”

“What don’t you understand?”

She gets a little flustered as she answers, “I understand that sexual abuse can be a
fairly harmful thing, but why don’t the victims just go get help at the beginning, when it
starts, instead of waiting for years and then not reporting at all?”

The girl across the table from me pipes in; “It’s because most of them aren’t
being sexually abused, it’s just they are too embarrassed to admit they like it.”

Standing at the end of the table is another friend, and she jumps in the
conversation, “Nah, it’s basically “crying wolf”, which is why so many quote-in-quote
rapes and sexual abuse cases go unreported, because they aren’t real.” Her boyfriend
walks up behind her as she says this and sneaks a kiss on her cheek. She yells, “Rape!”
and the whole table bursts into laughter.

That is, everyone but me.

Because I am a victim of sexual abuse.

It perplexes most people as to why victims don’t report their sexual abuse. They
think it can’t be that hard to go into a police station and say those four words, “I am
being abused.” They understand it’s a sensitive subject, but it’s just not something that
happens that often, and anyone who says they are being abused is just looking for
attention. The truth? Victims don’t report their abuse for many reasons and the most
common one: fear. They fear their abuser. They fear that they won‘t be believed. But
most of all, they fear the truth; the truth that they were abused.

Fear. It is an emotion that can control ones actions. It can be manipulated for any
use. One strong fear victims of sexual abuse feel is fear of their abuser, a tool used by many abusers to keep their victims quiet. If you were in a situation where you were threatened physically and verbally every day with the end of your life or social standing, would you go out telling every one what was going on? Or would that fear for your life and social standing keep you from speaking? It’s why I didn’t speak out.

While I was growing up, I was sexually abused by my best friend for five years. Why so long? Because the verbal and physical abuse and threats on my life and reputation kept me from speaking out. If I fought back, rumors would go around the school about me. These rumors would get worse and worse, going from “I kissed so and so” to “I slept with this person” to “I will do anything for pay.” The circulating gossip kept me from getting a lab partner in my physics class and being left out of group sessions in English. If I told my abuser no, that I didn’t want to today, he would use physical force until I complied. Sometimes it was just a slap across the face, sometimes it was a punch to the jaw. Sometimes it was a baseball bat rammed against my back, and sometimes it was worse. I began to wear long sleeved and heavy clothing to hide the bruises and cuts. If I told my abuser I’m done, I’m leaving, I am never coming back, he would whisper in my ear, “Who will believe you? You, a whining little nobody, against me, one of the most popular guys at school? I know where you live, I know where you sleep, and I know how to get into your house. Your parents would never believe you, not if I tell them how much of a whore you are first. So, who will believe you?”

Fear of the abuser is a very powerful thing.

Another fear that drives victims to stay quiet is they fear they won’t be believed.
Everyone likes being believed. When you tell your best friend how your coffee spilt on
you this morning and it ruined your favorite shirt, you want them to believe you, because
it’s true. A victim wants to tell their story about being sexually abused; they want to be
believed, because it’s true. You ask then why, if these victims really want to tell their
story, don’t they speak out and get help. Like my abuser said to me, “Who will believe
you?”. No one talks about sexual abuse; it’s tabooed, it’s sensitive, it’s a touchy subject.
You normally don’t hear a conversation about it when you are walking down the street.
It’s just not something we talk about openly in our society. Sexual abuse is one of those
things that isn’t real unless it happens to you. It happens on t.v., it happens in another
town, another state, but never here at home.

For example, a few years ago, one of my older sisters got married. She would always say she was appy, tell these stories about how awesome her new life is, a big smile on her face. But we all saw the white elephant in the room, that she wasn’t telling us something. She would have bruises on her arms or her legs and say she tripped down a flight of stairs. Her smile was always fake, and when she thought we weren’t looking she would wipe a tear from her eye. For a long time she never said anything about it, and we never brought it up. When it finally did, there was a lot of damage done to her physically and emotionally. Later she told me that she felt like she couldn’t speak out because she was scared she wouldn’t be believed, that she would be blamed, that our family would judge her and treat her differently. She never believed her ex would be like that because he was totally different when they were dating; he was nice, popular, kind and gentle, especially around friends. She thought that no one would believer her, and who would when he acted like such a nice guy all the time.

Fear of not being believed is a very powerful thing.

One last fear that can overtake anyone is fear of the truth. We see it every day, every where. A popular one we as a society see all the time is in a romantic couple, the boy is cheating on the girl, and the girl knows. She ignores it though and hopes it goes away, because she is too scared to admit it and deal with the aftermath. Victims of sexual abuse feel the same. They live a lie, because facing the truth is much more terrifying than pretending it‘s not there. They become reserved, a shell of the person they could be. Some become work-aholics, absorbed in working their life away. Some become so reserved they become hermits and loners, self enclosed and sad. All victims are acting on life’s stage, burying the pain and shame they feel behind the mask they put on every morning.

I remember that mask. I wore it for years. There is something about having your best friend sexually abusing you that you don’t want to admit. So I ignored it. I had other friends I would spend time with at school, I couldn’t let them know what was really happening. My parents had a picture perfect future for me, I couldn’t let them see how imperfect it was becoming. I always thought about what would happen if I told the truth. Would my friends leave me? Would my parents be angry? What would happen to me at school? So I put my mask on. It always felt like I was covering my eyes; if I couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there. If I couldn’t face it, I knew no one else could. So I kept my mask on, my eyes closed, and my mouth shut. The rest of my life was much easier that way, even when I knew the nightmare wouldn’t stop until I removed the mask.

Fear of admitting the truth can be a very powerful thing.

They weren’t lying when they said fear was power, and fear is a ruler in the life of a survivor of sexual abuse. Half a million victims go without reporting their abuse and getting help every year because of this ruling emotion. So the next time you pass someone down the street, check out at the local grocery store, or wave at your friends, look into their eyes. Can you see behind the mask?

Because the truth can be a very powerful.

Now just think about all that implies. And it relates to not just sexual abuse. But to just about everything in life. Everyone can, and usually does, wear a mask. Why are you wearing yours? 

(Insert Catchy Phrase Here)

I hate how life can feel so down. I hate it when getting up in the morning feels like a chore. I hate bursting into tears for no rhyme or reason. I hate feeling like I have to explode, but when I get to the exploding point, I just don't care anymore. Lately it feels like a chore to care. I just don't want to. Giving up seems like such a relief. I hate feeling like I'm drowning in my own sorrows, and I am tired of trying to swim to the surface.

But what I hate the most is knowing that, somewhere in this ocean of sorrows and fatigue, is a safe boat with the real me on it, and I can't find it.

Caffiene, Sugar, and Prayers: The Cocktail of Everyday Life.

Dr. Pepper and chocolate. Some of my most favorite things in the world. Often put together, often used as coping.

It doesn't work very well.

You may use coffee. Or coke. It may be snickers, or swedish fish. But in the end, it means the same thing.

"I don't want to deal with such-and-such problem, so I'm going to ignore it and drink or eat something I do enjoy and can control."

Yeah, still doesn't work very well. I don't know about you, but it just makes me want more, and doesn't solve anything for me.

"Well, Mana, what does work?"

Prayers.

Prayer seems to have a very calming effect for me. I know that God is listening, and is watching over me. No, I don't pray as often as I should. But when I do, it makes me feel so much better. And I know they get answered. I have been praying that somehow, some way, my husband and I will be able to make rent next month.

My husbands last check from his recent job he lost was just enough to cover it. That is one stress checked off.

Another prayer I say very often is for help to overcome my issues, my fear, my guilt, my shame, everything associated with being a survivor, and support so that I don't have to do it alone.

I was recently able to tell my mom. I think I am finally ready to go to a therapist. I started this blog. It is taking longer than I want it, and I am doing things I wasn't okay with for a very long time. But I now can face it, and finally take care of it.

Prayers do get answered. They do make you feel better. If you have never prayed, I suggest you try it, to whichever diety you believe in, whether it's The Heavenly Father, God, Jesus, Allah, Jehovah, Buddah, whoever.

Just pray.

So take that Dr. Pepper and that choclate bar and feel better for the moment. Then when you are done, kneel down and say a prayer, and start feeling better for life.

"God didn't promise us days without pain, laughter without sorrow,or sun without rain. But he did promise strength for the day, comfort for the tears, and light for the way."

DISCLOSURE: My mother would like it clarified that it was no one in my family that was my abuser or attacker. The ones when I was child I have no idea who he was, the five years of abuse from the age of twelve to seventeen was from a guy I had been friends with at school, and I was raped last December by a guy I knew at SUU.

2 Months and Counting

Today is my husbands and mine two month anniversary. It feels like life is going so fast, but yet is going so slow. Some weeks it feels like 3 months have gone by, and then a month can go by, and it feels like we haven't even had a week.

So far, life as been pretty good. We have had our curve balls, like my husband losing his job, but there is always someone looking out for us. We have options if a job doesn't turn up before next months rent is due. It's amazing what faith can do.

But there has always been something right under the surface. Something there, but unspoken, un-addressed, ignored unless something triggers it to the surface, and then it's pushed down underneath again.

Having ignored and pushed down and buried in the back the issues that comes with sexual abuse and rape, it comes up every once in a while, and it comes hard. My husband will lean in to give me a kiss, but suddenly I'm back in that unsafe place. In front of me isn't my husband, he is my past attacker. He isn't asking for a kiss, he is taking it. And I break down. Anxiety fills my body, fear radiates from me. I will push him away, run away, run to a corner, shrink, and cry. Cry and cry and cry, whispering words I don't even understand. My husband will slowly approach me, speaking to me quietly, reminding me where I am, who he is, what is happening. He will reach his hand out and ask me to take it, tell me it's my choice. He is here. Through my tears I will see the hand, slowly reach out and grab it, and it's like a weight releases me, and I'm back in my apartment with my loving husband.

That is some serious issue.

It's not always a kiss. Sometimes we will be having a tickling fight, sometimes he will say something. Sometimes it doesn't happen for weeks. Sometimes it happens 3 times in two days.

And sometimes it happens on our 2 month anniversary.

My first post.

This is my first ever blog, with my first ever post. Kind of scary. I have heard those stories of blogs getting tons of followers, or one blogger saved someones life or something. I don't expect my blog to be amazing. I don't expect anyone to read it, to listen to my stories. But it adds some sort of power to me. Something I can control in a world that is unpredictable. Writing seems to have a lot of power for most people. So, I am trying it out. Showing my life as a survivor. Because that is what I am. I have survived, I am starting to overcome and be a hero in my own story of abuse. All it takes is one day at a time. One hour at a time, one minute at a time. And eventually, it'll be easy. I hope my stories of every day triumphs and defeats can help someone reading along, to know they can survive too.