Our Stories

This happened awhile ago, I was a teenager.

Someone was really into me when I was in 8th grade and they were in 11th. I was foolish to hang out with them again after the first time this happened. I went to their house (family house). They forced me to go into their room by taking my skateboard and running inside. Once inside “to obtain it back” I had to hide in a closet the whole time due to their parent not allowing to have guest over. They made me wear their clothes and wanted to touch and kiss me.

The point that effected me still to this day, is I’m not sure if it was all a joke to like really mentally effect me or they are the one who is unstable. This was the start of my trust for people getting ruined. I remember saying I never want to see you again and they ended up chasing me “like literally ruinning after me” for a good bit, seeming upset.

I was uncomfortable and I felt like someones experiment.

What is ironic, is that I finally came out of the closet but in a way better sense. I will never be in any closet again, proper or figuratively.

— Anonymous

When I was very young (maybe 10 or so) we visited distant family on a farm in Kentucky. I remember loving the farm and our annual summer visits. I remember the fun with my cousins and the great food we always shared at the end of the day — always fresh grown right there on the land. I remember churning butter and ice cream on hot summer days, shucking peas in the shell and just swinging on the porch swing.
Until that day …I cherished those summer vacation times. My “uncle” decided to show me the barn and the cows one afternoon. I still don’t remember all the details from over 50+ years ago but I do remember him removing my panties…beyond that it remains a blank in my mind. Even after all this time, I still cannot recall any details. My psyche has buried it so deep, I can’t or won’t retrieve it. The one positive thing is that when I got home back to my parents, I told them immediately what had happened. I don’t know what was said or done among the adults from that point on, but I do know that I and my cousins were never again left alone with my “uncle” and I, specifically, never saw him again. So, in that respect, I knew that I was safe and that my parents would protect me. I do, however, often wonder if my increased weight and inability to lose it don’t have a relationship to that trauma buried so deep? Until that year of my life, I had always been very thin and then in one year, my weight doubled and I have never been able to successfully shed it. Even though I cannot fully recall the event, I wonder if somewhere deep inside, I have been burying the trauma with food for all these years? I guess I will never know for sure.

— Anonymous

A decade ago, I used to love public transportation. I didn’t get my license until I was 25, so taking trains and buses gave me a thrilling freedom. That freedom was quickly replaced with responsibilities and “safety plans.” First, I learned not to make eye contact. I learned to take a book or anything that would make it less likely that I would accidentally eye contact. I learned not to smile easily at people– especially men. I learned to think through my exits and routes home from the bus. All of this because a man I never spoke to decided to follow me and cat call me on my way to work. He was absolutely relentless and it forced an immediate flight response. My only mistake? I made brief, so so brief, eye contact with him. I had a transfer downtown where he spotted me. The first time it happened I ran into a Wendy’s and ordered the cheapest thing on the menu (it’s a biscuit btw) and waited him out. Over the course of three weeks, I changed schedules and ducked into random stores or restaurants. I never told anyone or reported him because he didn’t commit really a “crime.” Instead: He terrified me. He embarrassed me in front of countless passengers. He made me late for work. He forced to buy biscuits when I had no money. He forced me to duck into stores I didn’t have any interest going in.

I think of the countless ways women get taught these kinds of lessons. I still have no idea what a police officer would have said or done considering when atrocious acts of sexual violence are actually reported they are routinely ignored and belittled. I don’t even know what my best friend would have suggested. Take a different bus? Try going into a store? Scream at him? Carry pepper spray? I don’t even understand how I never told anyone I was scared out of my mind and he never touched me. But, then again, streets full of people didn’t say anything either.

— Anonymous

I’ve always known I was transgender, but never knew the word for it until I got to high school. Growing up, always being uncomfortable in a body that felt like it didn’t belong to me, it was no surprise that I wouldn’t recognize something so wrong due to the uncomfortable feeling I was so used to. I’ve blocked the memory to the point where I have no clue how old I was- but I was old enough to have started breast development.

I came home from school to be accused of not showering well enough- hormones were starting to kick in and acne had started and my acne was bad. Always was. The punishment I received was to shower in front of a stepmother I barely knew. One I was already terrified of for her explosive outbursts of anger, which had already preceded the shower. It was meant to make me prove that I knew how to clean myself.

I had never felt so ashamed of my body- and to this day there hasn’t been a new shameful experience to top that feeling. The feeling of me not being comfortable with myself, and now having to show myself to someone else. Someone I didn’t know much about. Someone who terrified the living shit out of me- a kid. A kid who came home from school expecting to do homework. A kid who was too ashamed to tell their father, who wasn’t home at the time.

She had her excuse, though being true did not matter to her. All she needed was the excuse to commit an act.

I still feel degraded and humiliated by it. I felt like I had no choice, and I feel like if it would happen again- I’d still feel like I had no choice but to strip and show my body that I already dislike to someone else. I don’t know how I’m ever supposed to be comfortable in my skin when I have memories of things that just make me ashamed of what genitles I have.

I’m sharing this because I don’t want others to end up in the same situation and not realize just how wrong it is and that it can happen to all ages by anyone.

— Skyler S

These are two letters addressed to recipients who will never receive them. Ashamed and scared, I kept these stories hidden from the rest of the world, including even those closest to me. I attempted to repress my emotions, hoping that if I told no one I could pretend it wasn’t real.

Dear B.,

You were the first to taint my innocence. You struck at a time when my self-confidence had dropped to a point in which I felt worthless. With no friends to support me, I fell into your trap. You complimented me, gave me attention, and made me feel wanted. Soon, though, you changed. Suddenly, I was worthless again-unless I did what you said. Although you weren’t physically here, you still found ways to use me for your gratification. You liked me, so that meant I had to do whatever you wanted, right? That’s what a good girl should do, you told me. You told me what to send, and I shamefully listened. When I cried and begged not to, you began the emotional manipulation. I was a bitch, a slut, a whore, you said, despite the fact that I had never so much as kissed a boy. If I couldn’t make you happy, you were going to find a new girl, one that I could never compare to. You said that if I left, no one else would want me. You reminded me that I had no friends, but you took it even farther, and you drilled into my brain that no one liked me, no one cared about me, and I should be thankful that I had you. So, I succumbed to your requests, despite the fact that it filled me with disgust. How, I wondered, could you enjoy seeing me with tears streaming down my face? How could you enjoy destroying my self-confidence? When I said I refused to send any more pictures, you began to threaten me. You now had pictures of me that I wanted no one to see, and you used it to your advantage. All you had to do was post one of those pictures, and my young life would be ruined. Eventually, I couldn’t take the mistreatment any longer. I was giving and giving, and getting nothing in return. I realized you were a coward. With great satisfaction, I told you I would no longer be your puppet. I would no longer use my body to make YOU happy.

If I could choose to remove anyone from the history of my life, it would be you, B. I often think if it weren’t for you, there would never have been A.

Dear A.,
You were forceful from the beginning, but after B, that’s what I was used to. Your overconfidence contradicted my lack of confidence, making me feel that you were superior to me. You knew the “cool guy” act well, and felt content blowing me off-you thought your time was much too valuable for me, I’m sure. You knew I was inexperienced sexually, and you saw that as a challenge. But you took it too far that night in your bedroom. I was now comfortable kissing you, and you, much stronger than my 100 pound frame, flipped me onto my back. I was a little scared, but I didn’t think you would take advantage of me-I trusted you. Suddenly I felt a pressure between my legs, one that I had never felt before, and I knew my worst fear had come true-you tried to do something that I had told you many, many times I was not ready for. I told you our relationship was over, and you did not seem to like rejection. You were persistent, and I felt obligated to forgive someone who would try so hard to win me back. Only someone who cared about me would try that hard, I thought. But, back in your bedroom, it happened again. You had tried to do this with me before, but this time, I could tell you weren’t taking no for an answer. You were on top of me, pinning my hands down. I repeatedly said “no” and “stop.” I said it wasn’t going to happen-but you told me it was. You kept trying to force your way inside of me, and I managed to stop you, but after a while, a feeling of hopelessness washed over me and I felt that the only way to get out of this room was to give in. So I did, and the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional pain I felt immediately after. I cried most of the night. I felt dirty, used, and like I now had no value. I couldn’t date someone else, because who would want me now, I wondered? You had me exactly where you wanted, and you used for one thing. The only thing you thought I was worth. I remember the day you left for college. You could only hang out for about half an hour, just enough time for you to do what you wanted. I was in tears, but you didn’t care. You took me up to your room, that room with so many bad memories, and pushed me onto your bed. You laid me on my stomach and got behind me, and the image of me lying there, tears falling down my cheeks and onto your pillow while you had your way with me, is still burned into my memory. Then, as if you hadn’t just been cruel enough, you sent me out of your house with no attempt to comfort me, because your friends were on their way over for a party. How anyone could have such little sympathy, I still don’t understand.

As much as I wish I never had to experience these things, everything that has happened in my life has lead me to my current relationship, which I am thankful for every day. He is the one who helped me realize I deserved better. I’m stronger now for having overcome these situations, and I will not be used by a man again.

— Anonymous

I am an athlete. I have always been tall, strong, quick, and competitive. At age 12, I was a nationally ranked swimmer, and in high school and college, I was tough enough to compete on the men’s water polo teams. Occasionally I’d incur a punch in the face or grab of my ass when I’d score on male opponents with my strong backhand shot.

Virtually all of the teammates were both proud and protective of me, aware that I faced a different kind of challenge in the pool. One friend, M., even became a partner in helping me found and coach my University’s first women’s team which went on to beat powerhouse schools like Norte Dame, Ohio State, Michigan, and Indiana University. Overall, my relationship with water polo was a life-giving, confidence-bolstering experience.

Except for K.

I’d known K. since kindergarten, a detail I remember because he punched me in the nose one day on a brightly-colored, alphabet carpet. My teacher told me he thought I was cute.

In high school, we landed on the same swimming and water polo teams, attending nine practices a week together and traveling to meets and tournaments on the same bus. In spite of this time together, we weren’t friends. I never liked him, mostly because of the ways I heard him speak about fat girls in bathing suits and the physical assets of his girlfriend of the week. I had enough sense to keep my distance.

Until I couldn’t. We played opposite positions in water polo: the hole. Playing the hole, or center position, requires a lot of aggressive, physical contact, but the contact is always intentional towards getting the ball. Overly aggressive fouls above water are grounds for an ejection penalty.

Below the water’s surface is another game entirely, and for K it meant free reign to grab and poke me in places I’d never been touched. He was invasive, unchecked, and violating in all ways possible while still clothed.

We played on the same team for several years, because being his match in skill and size meant enduring his harassment. I fought back every time we scrimmaged, punching, scratching, and elbowing my way free of his illegal holds.

I never told the coach, because I thought everyone already knew how K played defense in the hole. But mostly I didn’t tell because I was ashamed that — even to one person — I was nothing more than tall, strong, and up for grabs.

— Anne Hofmann