What really horrifies me, as an an adult and as a parent myself now, is the adults in my story.10/28/2019
Middle school is hell. It’s strange to look back from an adult perspective. I’ve tried to explain those years and what they meant to me – what they did to me – to my husband, but I don’t think he really gets it. To be fair, any one thing I describe doesn’t sound that bad. But I remember the whole picture – a little too clearly. And what really horrifies me, as an adult and as a parent myself now, is the adults in my story. The kids in my story were just that, kids. They didn’t have fully developed personalities, and they didn’t act in a vacuum. Somewhere, some adults – mostly unseen by me – informed their behavior. And adults that I did see enabled it. I think I’ve always been a bit of a loner. My mom was always telling me to get my nose out of a book and socialize more. But I don’t remember feeling bullied or picked on until about 4th grade. That was a bad year all around. I was the new kid in a new school. That was the year I got glasses. That was the year I got chicken pox. That was the year that I started to develop. It was a bad combo, and I know that I was teased a lot. What I mainly remember was being called “chicken lady” for the remainder of the year after the chicken pox episode. 5th grade was another new school. That was, I think, the first year that I was aware of anything relating to sex. I had to wear a bra every day by then. I had hair on my legs, but I was too young to shave, so I was teased about that. Some of the girls in my class – the girls that were still skinny and flat-chested and smooth and cute – started “dating” some of the boys, but I never did. I just wanted to be left alone. I think we all learned more about sex than was probably appropriate that year. Our teacher talked about it a lot. I remember him sharing a story about a girl masturbating with a Coke bottle in the bathroom. When I was in high school, I happened to be watching the news, and I saw the familiar face of my 5th grade teacher – in a story about his trial for molesting students. I was not molested, nor did I have any knowledge of this happening to anyone else in my class, but I have to say that I wasn’t as surprised to see that story as I should have been. I remember thinking that it explained why he wanted to spend so much time talking to 10 year olds about sex. At any rate, by the time 6th grade started, I was not only a loner, I was used to being picked on. I still wasn’t prepared for what the next three years or so would be like, though.
I stuck out like a sore thumb, or at least I felt like I did. I hit puberty so much earlier than the other girls. I had a good D-cup by 6th grade, and I towered over almost everyone else too (I should have enjoyed that more – I think it was my last good growth spurt. Today I’m a fairly short adult. But at the time, I was tall for my age.) Tall and boobular might have been OK, but I was also pudgy. Not fat – I certainly felt fat, and was sometimes called fat, but pictures from the time don’t lie. I was not fat. I just wasn’t a size 0. I had acne. My hair was uncontrollably greasy. My (single) mother was supporting us with a number of waitressing jobs while in school completing her nursing degree, so we were pretty poor. That meant I had ugly glasses frames from the Lions Club bin and thrift store clothes that never fit quite right, especially because I was just so top heavy. I also carried a violin and a stack of novels everywhere I went. I was not “popular crowd” material. I wasn’t even friend material… I really don’t remember having any that year. To the best of my recollection, it all started with the bus. I was the only 6th grader at my bus stop, and the 8th grade boys took the opportunity to torment me. They would blow a whistle and ask, “did you hear that?” If I responded in the affirmative, they would crack up, shouting “it’s a DOG whistle.” (Of course, if I responded in the negative, they’d say, “yes you did” before moving on to the punch line. And if I stared straight ahead and ignored them, they’d just hurl taunts in my direction.) Whoever said ignoring bullies was the best way to deal with them clearly never met this group of 8th graders. They made up a song about my boobs (sung to the tune of Henry the Eighth) and belted it at top volume to and from the school. They made up nicknames for me – “silicone girl” – and they followed me through the next three years (creative, weren’t they?). Plenty of girls laughed right along with them. I would hunch in my seat, as close to the window as I could get, and some 8th grade boy would plop down next to me, sling his arm over my shoulders, and reach down and grab my breast. Over and over again. They grabbed me once after I got off the bus, one of them holding my arms while the others grabbed my breasts. I told the bus driver the next day, and she told me to run home next time instead of walking. I did, and they chased me. I outran them, but the memory of that chase is still crystal clear to me. That bus driver – she heard those songs, she heard their “jokes”, she saw them touch me. And she never said a word, other than telling me to run when I complained to her. Not one word. This was around the time I started getting “sick.” I would feel nauseous or headachy in the morning, and the malady would magically pass after I’d missed the school bus. It also started taking me a really long time to get dressed after gym – my last class of the day. Somehow I missed the afternoon bus a lot, too. My mom was mad, but my grandparents – bless them – drove from their home two towns away to pick me up or drop me off whenever I needed them. Eventually, I stopped even trying to take the bus. One of my grandparents just came and picked me up at home in the morning and at school in the afternoon. I never talked about what happened on the bus, but I suspect they knew that something was wrong. Unlike my very busy mother, they had the time and energy to be observant. I’ve never stopped being grateful for the reprieve they gave me. By about midway through 6th grade, I’d given up the bus for good. Unfortunately, the harassment followed me into the school. By 7th grade, the boys in my grade would “accidentally” bump into me in the halls, in order to grope my chest. That was actually the least of my worries at the time, though, because some of the girls had gotten in on the action too. It was a girl that first called me “slut”. A small group of girls, actually – it felt like the whole school, at the time, but it was really a handful of students that were doing anything, and another, slightly larger handful that watched them. Everyone else either didn’t notice or ignored what was going on. And it was a decently sized school, so there were plenty of people outside my immediate classmates that had no clue who any of us were. But It really felt like the whole world, at the time. Especially once the girls got into it. They repeated the nicknames the boys gave me – “bra stuffer” and “silicone girl” and added “slut” and “whore” for good measure. They told each other – loud enough for me to hear, naturally – made-up stories about how I tried to have sex with their boyfriends, or the male teachers, or the janitor. Sometimes the story would be that I had sex with whoever, sometimes the male in the story would turn me down for being “too nasty”. (Not only was I a virgin at this point, I had never even held hands with a boy. I didn’t date, kiss, or so much as have a male friend until I was 15.) They said I stuffed my bra for attention, or I got implants over the summer for attention. And my breasts just kept getting bigger, which was no help. I hated them. I fantasized about cutting them off. Remember the health classes, where they split up the boys and girls, and talk to the girls about periods and hand out tampons and pads? I got a bunch of pads and tampons hurled at me in the locker room, Carrie-style (though mercifully, without the chanting) after gym the day of that little event. A few days after that, one of the girls who seemed to hate me the most threw rocks at me in the hallway. At that point, I went to the guidance counselor and spilled everything. She called in the girl in question, who denied it and accused me of lying. I cried, she stared at me stony-faced, and the counselor dismissed her. Then she lectured me about how I needed to grow a “thicker skin”. She told me that everyone wasn’t going to like me, and that I needed to get over it. She said she couldn’t do anything for me, and that I should “stop being so emotional and grow up.” Then she sent me back to class. I never went to her again. I think I only went to one other teacher after that. So many of them had seen and heard things – they had to have! – and said nothing. The orchestra teacher was standing right behind the boy in that class who joked that I was “so big, she makes the mountains jealous” but she said nothing. The science teacher sat at her desk when I got up to give an oral report on George Washington Carver and couldn’t get more than halfway through it because of the boys throwing paper, hissing “slut” and laughing. She said nothing. (I didn’t give another oral report after that until 10th grade. I took Fs rather than stand in front of the class.) The reading teacher saw “[my name] is a SLUT!!!” scrawled on a desk in her classroom – she called me out of another class to ask me if I wrote it, and kept me there, asking me over and over again, until I started crying in front of the class she had in there at the time. Why would I have written that? But after the meeting with the guidance counselor, I went to my history teacher and ask if I could move my seat away from the girl who had thrown the rocks. He was strict – no one messed around in his class, so I don’t know if he heard or saw anything. He was the type of teacher who kept his ears and eyes open, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew what was happening. He asked me why I wanted to move my seat, but I couldn’t imagine explaining everything to a man, especially after the meeting with the guidance counselor. I think I just said, “because she hates me”. I remember he looked at me for the longest time before finally giving permission for me to move. That was the most help I got from any teacher in that school during those three years. That was the year I started cutting. I had had a ganglion cyst removed from my wrist in the 6th grade, but the surgery apparently didn’t get it all, and it would pop back up from time to time. So I had a wrist brace for my left wrist. When I wanted to cut, I did it on my left wrist and covered it with the brace, making the excuse that the cyst was bothering me. I did that throughout the 8th grade too. I remember contemplating suicide. I couldn’t see any other way out of the harassment. I felt like it would never end. And then – it did. Middle school ended. The high school was bigger, more crowded, and full of older girls who looked more grown up than I did. Most of the girls in my grade had finally hit puberty by 9th grade – after that, I think the flat-chested girls got picked on more. I made a few friends in 9th, and while I was still mostly a loner, and I there were still a few girls who said mean things whenever they could (including one who walked up to me and slapped me in the face in the middle of a class – another time when a teacher was in the room, and had to have seen it, but did absolutely nothing) but for the most part, I was just left alone. Which was fine by me. And then in 10th grade, things changed basically overnight. I didn’t change, not really – I was a tiny bit taller, I had less baby fat, and I got contacts (that was a big thing) – but I don’t really think it was that. My few friends broadened into a group of tight friends, including some boys. Guys started asking me out (seriously, not just to laugh in my face) and the harassment ceased entirely. It was just over. If 6th-8th grades were the worst years of my life, 10th-12th were absolutely the best. I was never one of the “popular” kids, but suddenly I had at least a little respect for being smart, people thought I was pretty, and no one called me a slut. Slut-shaming did happen, I’m sad to say, but not to me. And the girls I knew – some of whom were friends of mine – who dealt with "slut" shaming in our later teenage years were some of the first women that I ever heard say things like, “If boys can enjoy sex, why can’t we? Why are we sluts while they get to be players? We’re allowed to enjoy sex too.” They fought back against the shaming and the double standards. They were brave, and they embodied sex-positivity before I ever actually heard that phrase. With that attitude floating around, I think we all felt a bit more empowered. Two more things. One: you may be wondering why I never told my mom what I was dealing with. With time, and distance, and an adult perspective, I truly wish that I had. In instances not related to bullying, when someone was unfair to me, my mother always defended me. Had she known the kind of hell I was going through, I have no doubts – now – that she would have raised hell. She’d have pulled me out, if that was what it took, but she probably would have taken some teachers and parents with her. But at the time, I had two thoughts on the matter. One was that my mom was already busy and stressed with work and school and single parenting, and I didn’t want to put any more stress on her. And two was that my mother – my petite, thin, beautiful, outgoing mother – was the social butterfly that I never would or could be. She was the life of every party, everyone loved her, and I felt she didn’t understand my introversion and bookworminess as it was. I thought that she’d be ashamed of me. I couldn’t imagine telling her that her daughter was not just a shy little mouse, she was actually a reviled freak at school. I had the awful feeling that she might agree that I deserved what I was getting. I want to reiterate that my mother is not a terrible person or a bad mother, and I know NOW that she’d have helped me. But I wasn’t thinking like an adult then. I was thinking like the traumatized child that I was. And it didn’t help that every adult that I DID try to talk to brushed me off or threw me to the wolves. I would advise girls who have a safe, non-abusive parent to tell that parent about bullying, even if you're afraid they won't understand. They may surprise you. Two: I want girls out there to know that it does get better. I’ve wanted so much to reach back in time and tell some of the girls whose suicides have made headlines that if they could just have held out a little longer, things will get better. That's an important message. But – without taking away from that hopeful message – I want bullies out there to know that just because things can get better, doesn’t mean that you’re not causing permanent harm. I am 35 years old and a married mother of 3. I look nothing like what I did in middle school, but when I close my eyes and try to picture myself, what I see is the 7th grade me with the greasy hair and bad glasses. I need to look in the mirror to reassure myself that I’m not her anymore. In my 20s, I had a panic attack while working at a summer camp when I was put in charge of a group of 11 year old boys. I had to remind myself daily that I was an adult now, and that they couldn’t hurt me. I don’t remember ever not hating my breasts – I still do, even now. I probably always will. And that word “slut” stayed in my head for years, and it affected decisions I made about my sexual behavior, even when I knew better. It affected relationships, it affected my ability to enjoy sex, it affected my self-esteem. For years. Even though I knew that it shouldn’t. People don’t just “get over” protracted periods of bullying. It stays with you. It changes your life. And bullies become this ugly scar on your life. You should think about whether or not you want to be remembered as someone’s ugly scar in 20 years before you decide to tease and taunt and spread rumors call names. When I was 11, I sent my first naked picture. I can't exactly remember why I didn't it, but it wasn't that bad. I sent it to someone that I had trusted, and he kept that trust - as far as I know. The bullying didn't start until 2014, when I was 12. I sent a picture of my "ass" to someone. I sent it because he'd shown me a picture of another girl, and I wanted to impress him. He respected me, but deep down I knew it would get into the wrong hands. I should've known not to trust somebody who sent me someone else's pictures. He sent it to someone who disliked me, and they posted it on my social media, which luckily wasn't linked to any of my family or school friends as it was just for "online friends." You'd think after that I would learn, right? I didn't. I met this guy online, we'll call him B, it was August 2014 and he was 18. I told him I was 16 because I didn't want him to judge me by my age, and I really liked him. We started to date and we really hit it off. After a month into the relationship we had a sexual conversation. I didn't mind. I told him I was turned on and masturbating, and he said "proof." I sent two pictures. Now I had sent three inappropriate pictures to strangers on the internet. B and I broke up; it was a bad break up. We had an argument and I couldn't take it anymore, so, and I quote, I told him to "go fuck a goat." This made him mad. He told me I didn't want to mess with him, but I did. He spread my pictures. Again, luckily, not getting to my family nor my school friends. I find myself repeating myself, but by now you'd think, "Ah she's learnt her lesson, she'll be fine." Oh no. God no. It hasn't even started yet. Since the pictures got spread, I started to lose respect for myself and my body everyday. Every time someone would say something insulting about the pictures, my self esteem would drop lower until I felt unwanted and unloved. People called me "easy" and "slut" and I started to believe it. By 2015, I'd sent more naked pictures than I can count. And I am not proud.
My 13th birthday was January 5th 2015, and my granddad had died 4 days before. I was going through a very hard time. I met another guy online, this time he was 20. We'll call him L. L helped me get through this time, but it was not long before he started asking for more than an innocent relationship. He started asking for pictures, he'd also ask for "Skype sex," which is when he masturbates on webcam, and so do I. I did it. Little did I know, L recorded it. He also saved every picture and video I sent him. He used it against me. I gave him my password to my Facebook account, and it was the same password for all of my other accounts. I was so stupid. He found a chat I'd had with a guy while we were dating and he overreacted. I can remember having to shower that night but I couldn't because L was threatening me. He wouldn't let me go and by then I was in tears. He told me to call him so I did. L told me he had my parents' contact details and that he would tell them all about their "precious little daughter." I knew these were empty threats but they still upset me. I couldn't stop crying and I begged L to stop. "I'll do anything, please." I remembering crying into my phone. He finally calmed down and I remember him saying something about loving him and I agreed. I was now in a long distance relationship I couldn't get out of. He had my passwords, he had my family (which I later found out to be not true, but I still was scared in case he really did), and he had naked pictures and videos of me. I broke up with him finally in the middle of February, and I met M. M helped me get away from L, but L warned me about M, telling me M was worse than him. I didn't listen. But I should've listened. M and I had a long distance relationship on and off for 3 months. He cheated on me and I broke up with him. He begged for me back and I forgave him, stupidly. A few weeks later I broke up with him again because we argued too much. He attempted being nice to me to get me back, and I think he realised this didn't work. He became really nasty. He had a picture of my boobs that he could use against me. He also had my sister's Twitter username. He told me I had to cut "M" into my wrist and take a picture of it and send it to him, otherwise he would send the nude to my sister. I did the self harm. M wanted more. He attempted to force me into having a relationship and I wasn't going to do that again. I decided I would rather die. So that's what I did. The next morning, after M had messaged my sister, I read the messages. She didn't believe the picture was me. I felt relieved. Yet I still couldn't face her and I still wanted to die. I overdosed on painkillers that day, 14th April 2015, the day I could've died. My sister found me when she came home from her study group. My mum was also home and I don't know what happened because I was unconscious and it's all a blur really. I had to spend 3 days in hospital, I had to be assessed without them asking for my consent, and I had to see a psychiatric doctor (who is lovely and I still see today), to discuss my treatment and also why I did it. I now am on the waiting list for therapy, I have a family that understands, I have really supportive friends that know a bit of what happened, and I can honestly say I'm becoming happier. I need to work on some things but I'm getting better. And I can also honestly say, no more nudes to random strangers online!!! Your diary entries really helped me, knowing that your younger brain worked the same way as mine once did, and still does at times. Thank you. - Holly I live in Saudi Arabia. I am an Arab with Kenyan nationality which confuses most people since they believe all Africans are 'black'. I have seven sisters and an adopted brother. We were one happy family, although dad's relatives opposed dad's marriage to my mom since they despised my late grandmother. We were, in a way, bullied by them but dad never acknowledged it. My mom was always kind to them even when they accused her of cheating on my dad. We were never treated fairly. I joined school first in 2003. My elder sisters made sure to let people know not to mess with me and I was grateful, although I could stand up for myself. I wasn't bullied but I couldn't stand seeing my classmates bully a chubby kid in my class who wasn't exactly mentally stable (I don't know what he exactly suffered from). I tried to make them stop but almost half of the class was against me so it was futile attempt. He sat alone in the corner. One day, I was left alone in class with him so I tried befriending him, but he started panicking and put his arms around himself as if shielding himself from the hit. I was too scared to move since I was only 9. I tried to tell him I wouldn't hurt him but he suddenly unzipped his pants and let it fall. I couldn't take it anymore so I left him there. I never tried being his friend again, but I never stopped trying to make the bullying stop. A year later, he died in a car accident. I always felt sad that I couldn't be of much help to him.
I was also molested by my uncle. I didn't know what he was doing that time but it always scared me too much to tell anyone. I was also molested by a worker that dad hired in my home. Then, again, I was molested when I would go to the shop. I never said a thing and I know it was a stupid move but I was always scared of the outcome. After my sixth sister was born, dad started drinking. He came home drunk and yelled all night long. I went to school the next day acting. No one knew about it, and even thought I was in one happy family. I really enjoyed school because it made me escape my home, but dad got worse and locked us home sometimes, even during exams. When people asked we always gave them an excuse. One day dad hit my second elder sister but it ended badly for him, since my eldest sister and mom stopped him. My eldest sister hit him so bad that he crawled to his room and locked the door. I don't know how she got the strength to do so but I am not complaining, since she put a stop to him. Later we decided the best way to avoid him was to leave home and return when he was asleep. So we ended up doing just that. We couldn't go to the police since it is Saudi Arabia. I gained weight and friends started to bully me, but I immediately stood up for myself, not giving them a chance to get worse. I was known to act more mature than my age and I gave the impression of not to be messed with. Although I tried not to let their words affect me, it did ruin my self confidence. After few years I went to Kenya to study there. I got a boyfriend, he was really good. But dad found out and my relatives told him more lies and by the end he called me a slut whom mom never raised right. I broke up with him because I didn't want my family to involve him in our problems. My relatives lied all about what I do, so by the end I was called a slut by dad and he put all the blame on my mom. Although all that happened I had never disrespected anyone and always smiled at people, even though I was labelled as mannerless. I contacted my friend from Saudi Arabia, my former classmate was great guy to talk to. We became close. I told him almost everything about my life. Later dad decided it would be best to not let me or my sisters study since we were all sluts, according to him. So I was brought back to Saudi Arabia. He stopped drinking but he became worse. He took our phones and watched our every moves like a hawk (which he still does). I bought a secret phone and contacted my friends. I started liking the guy (former classmate) but did nothing since he had a girlfriend and she was also a friend of mine. When they broke up, I still never planned on acting on my feelings but it all ended when I started talking to my old crush. The guy I liked was jealous but didn't accept it and we fought. I decided to tell him how I felt to move on and when I did he simply answered 'I don't care.' Although it hurt I let it go and did what I always seem to do. Act like nothing is wrong and I wasn't hurting. Later he went and spread lies to his friends and again I got called a slut. I always get called hot and sexy but I never believe these words. I burst out laughing when I am told. I am not good at responding to compliments because deep down I never believed it. It sucks that after going through all that and seeming strong, funny, helpful, and sarcastic I still get betrayed by people I really trusted and I still keep caring. I don't know if I am crazy or not, I still haven't given up on being myself and helping others. It helps me feel like there are really good reasons to keep moving. - Lin Monet I am 55 years old now. This has been in my background forever and I have never shared this with anyone but my son's therapist. I was the baby of my family and the only girl. I grew up with my brothers and their friends talking about "those girls", the "sluts" who were easy and had sex. I was first molested by a friend of my oldest brother when I was 5. He fondled me and performed oral sex on me. I was too ashamed to say anything to anyone as only those "sluts" had sex. It happened again when I was 12 and this time it was by a friend of my middle brother. Again I thought I was to blame as only "sluts" had sex. I became very promiscuous and found out that I actually enjoyed sex. I always felt bad I didn't tell anyone because I worried about others that were molested by these guys. I have two children and when they would speak of young ladies and start to refer to them as sluts, I told them just because someone enjoyed sex and determined when and where they would have it did not make that individual a slut or loose or a whore. Both of them, a girl and a boy, knew it was a woman's right to call the shots in her sexual life.
When I was 13 I moved from Massachusetts to New Hampshire and for some reason it was made very clear from day one that I was unwelcome by everyone, especially the girls. Suddenly boys started noticing me and they would ask me out, which had never happened before because I was always known as the "bookworm" and for some reason the term "freak" started circulating the school. I was fighting off girls everyday for no reason and one got pissed when I won the fight and said, "It doesn't matter, everyone knows you are a stupid slut anyway." I never understood why she said that because at that point I had never even been kissed by a boy and she didn't know me anyway. That is when the boys started asking me out and I didn't put two and two together until later. It started getting to the point where I was having to fight off being groped in the hallway and three girls at once (because I had no trouble with two, thanks to my father teaching me how to fight, but that is also when I got myself into martial arts). It got so bad with the slut remarks that I went to my counselor and told her I was very depressed and couldn't take much more. Unbeknownst to me right across the way was another school, but it looked like a house, and it was a boys' school but it did have one other girl in it, and I guess it was supposed to be for the kids who had trouble in school for one reason or another. The other girl and I became best friends on day 1 and still are to this day. Unfortunately we had a few friends die for different reasons and one of them was a suicide. The person who had killed himself actually lived with me for a little while and my parents to help him out, because him and his parents were not getting along. They were like my dad and considered the school a failure and both referred to it as a school for "sweat hogs". A few days after he killed himself and after the funeral a bunch of us got together at his parents house and had a party in his honor. Let's just say his dad didn't care we were underage and we did drink and smoke at the time. There was a boy there I didn't know very well but I always had a crush on, but he was with one of the girls who had bullied me beyond belief when I was at my regular high school. He motioned for me to sit on his lap and before I did I asked him, "What about Ellen?" and he had told me they had broken up and I told him thank goodness and did sit on his lap. That night we all told stories about our friend and try to remember the good times and the whole time he was stroking my hair and a few times when tears came to my eyes he wiped them away so gently and I guess I just got swept up in it all. I hadn't even thought about a ride home and because I had been drinking and smoking I did not want to call my parents and he offered me a ride home. To be honest I wasn't really ready to go home, especially when he offered for us to sit and talk at this very romantic spot that everyone went to when they wanted to chat or do other things. We talked for a little while and he was holding my hand and stroking my face and I guess I got caught up in the attention because things were not great at my home, and anyway we made love in the car. I thought it was special and I waited for him to call me but I knew there would be another party celebrating our friend the next day at his girlfriend's house and I knew he would be there. We were all having fun, there was loud music and we were drinking... again... and I remember looking for him all night waiting for him to show up. All of a sudden the room went quiet because someone had turned off the music. I turned my head like everyone else did to see why and it was Ellen! I just remember my heart sinking because she was the one who had started the "slut" rumor and she had tried to fight me and when she lost she would bring another girl with her and then another girl until I couldn't fight so many. She would trap me in the ladies room and call me a whore when I was at the other high school, amongst other things, and to be honest I only had a few friends at this party and the rest of them I did not know and there must have been at least 50 people there. Suddenly my eyes caught the boy I was with the other night standing on the stairs, but he was looking down at the ground. Then she started talking to me so everyone's heads whipped around and were staring at me. I will never forget what she said to this day. I should probably mention that I made the mistake of telling my best friend's friend what had happened with him and I just had a feeling it was a bad idea. It turns out she was Ellen's best friend. Ellen began with, "I heard you are telling everyone that you fucked my boyfriend." Believe me that is not how I worded it to the girl and my best friend, who had been there, since it was her house, since if you have been paying attention there was a reason why it was very special to me. She continued on with the words, "Why on earth would he waste his time with an ugly, disgusting, repulsive, scumbag tramp and slut like you when he has someone like me?" I remember turning to look over at him my eyes pleading for something to come out of his mouth in my defense, and he was still looking at the floor. My best friend was somewhere else in the house or I know she would have said something, so I was pretty much on my own with all these people staring at me and I felt like I had been used, and with everything she had called me I felt like nothing and a fool. Then my eyes caught the girl who I had told and she had a smirk on her face. I couldn't take it because I was so humiliated in front of so many people. I ran up the stairs into the main level of the house and found the master bathroom. I looked through the cabinet for any kind of pills I could take because I knew this girl's mother was on things and I found a bottle of something that said "Take one each night for sleep." From my estimate the bottle was almost full. I took the bottle and put it in my pocket and went into the kitchen and drank as many beers as I could fit into my stomach as fast as I could. I went looking for my best friend but I could not find her. I then began looking through the kitchen drawers for a sharp knife and I saw the kitchen block and grabbed a big knife from there. I went back into the master bathroom and with the beer that was in my hand I took the bottle of pills and began running the cold water in the sink and a slit both my wrists. I then went through the other door that went straight into the girl who owned the house's parents' bedroom and I crawled under their bed. Darkness came pretty quickly and I do remember thinking, thank goodness this will all be over. When I came to in the hospital the doctor told me he had no idea how I had survived. I guess my friend went looking for me and found one of my feet sticking out from under the bed. When she told someone they all panicked and I guess instead of calling 911 they threw me into the back of someone's truck and dumped me on my parents' lawn and took off. They would not let my friend call 911 so she went into the back of the truck and when they dumped me on the lawn she jumped out and began punching and kicking my parents' door and pointed to me on the lawn. I guess the only thing that really saved me was that I didn't manage to cut into my wrists deep enough, so they bled very slowly, but the doctors still said they did not understand how I lived between the pills and the alcohol and my wrists, because they drove right past the hospital to dump me on my parents' lawn. The doctor told me I must have had a guardian angel and at the time I remember laughing and thinking that if I had I would have died. I was in the hospital for a long time between healing and the psychiatric part of it but to this day it still hurts. No one said anything when I went back to my new school but the people who were there, there was only a few of them at the party and those were the ones that were my friends. I just remember to this day the names she called me and all the things she did to me and more than anything that when I looked over to plead with him to help me, he couldn't even look at me or anyone else in the eye. I am sharing this because I regret not being stronger to this day and I don't want this to ever happen to anyone else. I also hope if anything like this does happen to someone else that they don't make the same mistake I did and they do what I should have done and stand up for themselves right when it all starts like I tried to do when I was at the regular high school. When it became too much I feel a little bit like I ran away from the problem when I switched schools but that did help me because there was only 38 of us in the school and none of them treated me like that. I let them call me names and I let it circulate that I was a slut when I wasn't and now, I would have found a way to be a smart ass and own it even if it wasn't true, just to make them shocked and have to figure out something else to call me or leave me alone. I can't say for sure that would have worked or if anything would have worked, and I can't say I don't feel like I ran away when I changed schools but I can say I gave her too much power by doing what I did that night and I bet to this day she doesn't even remember any of it or even me, but I can say I remember her name and I will never forget it. I let the word "slut" make me do one of the most stupid things in my life and I let that simple little word wreck me for a long time. All it is is a word and even if it had been true I should have never let it have the power that it did and neither should anyone else. Thank you for listening to anyone who has read this to the end. - Calissta
When I was in high school I was called a slut because I told my boyfriend at the time "no." That Monday, I was a "slut" and had slept with the entire football team. I was a virgin at the time. A guy I went to school with found out where I lived and broke into my house and raped me when I was 15 years old. After that, I would carve the word "slut" into my arm. My family also calls me a slut because I want to wear short skirts, swim suits, or shorts. I try to laugh it off but it is impossible. I have such self esteem issues it's not funny. I cut myself because my own family calls me a slut and a whore. They have gone so far as to ask what corner I was working. I am 21 years old with a son and I am still getting called a slut. - Candace Stoneking
I was slut shamed when I was 13-15 years old. I am now 35. I overcame it. When I was 13, I wanted to be liked because I didn't get the attention from my parents that I needed. A boy acted like he liked me and talked me into meeting him. When I meet him he had his best friend there and talked me into sleeping with both of them. After that the entire group slut shamed me. I was never the same. I became very depressed and lost many friends. Eventually I became very promiscuous, trying to prove to myself that I wasn't a slut but that I could be sexual and it wasn't a bad thing. I love what you are doing! I have 3 daughters and I don't want what happened to me to happen to them. - Regina
I am no stranger to the word "slut". People have called me it before when the word never bothered me, not knowing what it meant. My sister has called me a slut before and causally blames "sluts" for everyday problems. But the reason why I am writing this isn't about me, but about people making "silly" jokes about this term. In 7th grade I had already been dealing with problems of my own, making me shy, henceforth nobody listening to me. Which I thought was fine in the beginning. It was only whispers from the guys across the room so I thought it would blow over. Boy was I wrong! Only a little time passed before this boy (who shall remain nameless) decided to push me over the fence, and into the water below when he told a good friend of mine as he pointed to a girl wearing a skirt, "If she wears a short skirt, she is asking for it!" That sentence will forever be in my memory as the day I started to take it all seriously. I tried to speak up from that day on about everything that happened, but as always I am the the shy one, the one nobody listens to so I am never heard at all. There was one thing I could have done and I suggest to anyone reading this, tell an adult and make sure they are aware of everything going on. Once I told my teacher the kids who made the jokes got in trouble and I was moved from the boy that made the comment's class. I am now making friends and I am feeling better about who I am. - Raven
I was a happy 12 year old. I was overweight and I loved myself. I had everything - adoring parents, a great hobby, and a sustainable allowance for everything I could have asked for. He was not a bad person. I knew it. His mother had cancer and passed away, and he didn't have a penny on him to eat. We were friends, we liked teasing one another, we hung out... until one day, he asked me to meet him at the lift lobby. He said something about giving me a gift and wanting to show me something, and I thought nothing of it. What would a twelve year old child do with me anyway? I could take care of myself, or so I thought. I thought nothing of it. I left my classroom curious about what his gift could be. I wish I had suspected something was amiss. The boy who barely had fifty cents for a plate of noodles wanted to buy me a gift. I did meet him, and he said a string of horrible things that all fade into the words "whore" and "prostitute" and then he touched me. My confidence was shattered. I went home and showered until my skin was raw, and I felt dirty. It was as if I got a layer of grime on my skin and a sticker on my forehead that screamed "dirty" or "prostitute". I believed every single one of his words. I told my mother a few days later and I remember her laughing about it with my dad. I did not understand what was going on, and I thought that it was all just a phase I was going through. The next day at school people called me a slut. My friends left. My team turned on me. People said I had sex with him for cash. The teachers who knew warned me against saying anything, intimidating me into silence and hoping that things would blow over, but the scars are still open and have been for a while. I am suicidal. I then got depression, anorexia and insomnia. I left the school for a new one and the lies followed. My relationships with my parents are in the gutter. I've been depressed and anorexic for three years and things are not looking up. I've been touched so many times in my new school I've lost count. This has been going on for three years and I am on my last legs, and it is not going to stop soon. Please share my story so people understand the horrible consequences of slut shaming. - Katrina North Note to the Katrina: You are NOT alone, and this is NOT your fault. You can overcome it, just like the women who have shared their stories here before you. Please call 1-800-273-8255. I am always here to talk, as well. Love, Emily.
I'm depressed. And that's all I ever was before year 7, I was just a tad bit depressed, self conscious, with low self esteem. But then I got my first boyfriend. And I got another. Then the next year, I got a boyfriend every single month - no exceptions. Then some boys decided to ask if we could go further and sext or actually have sex. I was constantly groped by them, they squeezed my ass or boobs against my consent whenever they had the chance. Now, I'm in year 8. I realised I'm bisexual, have a fear of being alone and I was in love with my girl best friend. And due to my fear of being alone, I'm going through boys at an even quicker rate, flirting constantly, because I'm scared it's the only love I'll ever get. My parents know a brief outline of the sexual harassment that's happened (one of my exes decided to spread around school that he only dated me coz I'm "easy" and that I have "big tits") but they, too, think I'm a slut. Constantly telling me over and over again I'm not good enough and that I shouldn't teach my "tricks" to my younger friends. Then everyone in my entire year knows my bra size, which is 34DD. And just from those simple things, everyone believes all the sexual content surrounding me. Now, I've lost 90% of my friends, and trust only 3 people in my entire school. Now I'm depressed, suicidal, a self harmer, and a slut. Note to the author: Since you submitted this account anonymously, I don't have your contact information. Please reach out to a parent or teacher for help immediately. You are NOT alone, and this is NOT your fault. You can overcome it, just like the women who have shared their stories here before you. Judging from your language, I am guessing you're in the UK. Please visit www.samaritans.org and check out the resources available to you. I am always here to talk, as well. Love, Emily
Back in my hometown in Upstate New York, I didn't really have a problem with any bullying or slut shaming. Sure, there were a select few, but because I lived in a small town and grew up with a close-knit circle of friends, they protected me and never let it get me down. But when I was in my Sophomore year of high school, my parents told me I was moving to Maryland. I was devastated, as were my friends. To this day, I only talk to two of my closest friends from back home. When we finally settled into our home in the summer of 2012, I was actually excited to get a fresh start, to redefine myself like I've always wanted to. That was very quickly shut down within the first month of attending a new school as a Junior. Everyone else around me was preppy and very clique-y; they didn't want to accept the new kid who was very laid back and was more of a "T-shirt and Jeans" kind of girl. But none the less, I tried to fit in and started dating. Within the first year of living here, I had dated four boys, three of whom were younger than I was, and each relationship lasted no longer than 2-3 weeks because they bored me. I didn't see it as an issue since it never got past a kiss, I didn't do anything sexual with them. I just saw it as going through a deck of cards to find my ace, to find "the one." But nobody else saw it that way. I was labeled as a whore. A slut. A succubus that everyone had to stay away from. Rumors flew around school that I had blown this guy, f*cked that guy, slept with half of this team, flirted with half of that team. In my senior year of high school, destructive behaviors began. How could I have been a slut when I've never slept with anyone in my life? What did I do to deserve that reputation? I made myself mute in high school and began going to college part-time just to get away from it all. I drowned myself in school work just so I could have an excuse not to talk to anyone outside of my family. In October of 2013, a boy I fell in love with broke up with me the day of our six month anniversary all because I was "too emotional" and "he couldn't take that I didn't have any friends." That was my breaking point. I began cutting my thighs, slowly cutting myself off of food, and obsessed over how bloody and irritated the skin around my cuts were what I thought was "beautiful" at the time. My parents found out a month after and helped me stop, helped me to realize I didn't have to do this on my own. It took me a year to fully recover from all of the depression and suicidal thoughts. At that time, I found the man that I'm in love with today. He treats me like a princess, makes sure that I'm happy, and makes it a point to help me work on my communications skills (as you may have put together, I don't like talking to people about my issues as a result of the bullying). My point in my tale is this: It will get better, even if it may not seem like it now. I've been through it all. I know what it feels like to not want to be here anymore. I still have days where I get depressed, but I'm lucky enough to have a supportive family and a supportive, loving boyfriend. I am 18 years old now, and I do not let my bullying experience and slut shaming high school years define the woman I am today. - Miranda Cardillo
We forget that emotional stresses and traumas related to feelings of shame, or guilt, can often have physical consequences that are very real, and detrimental to our health, sexually, and otherwise.
Growing up, sex was treated as a dirty word in our household. There was no particular reason for this, other than the fact that I grew up with a parental figure who held to old-fashioned notions of what was appropriate or acceptable. Certain subjects were taboo, and sex, or anything having to do with sexuality was definitely taboo. As a result, there were never any conversations about what to do, or not do, or how to deal with the changes that one deals with in going through adolescence. When sex education began in 5th grade, I brought materials home that were deemed to be completely inappropriate and thrown away. As a result I felt ashamed that I was even being subjected to such information at school, but at the same time relieved that I was learning something about this mysterious aspect of human life. When I was fifteen, I remember watching a nightly news show with my family when there was a guest speaker brought in for an interview who was a sexual expert. She was discussing various aspects related to sexuality that were often misunderstood, one of which was masturbation. I was immediately told by my parent how what I had just heard I should forget about completely, and the only thing I should remember is that masturbation was a bad thing and I should never do it. When I was sixteen the blockbuster movie Titanic came out. I went to see it with my family, and was asked to cover my eyes every time there was a scene of a sexual nature. I had to leave the room whenever we watched a movie and anyone started kissing. I felt embarrassed, and confused as to why this obviously natural part of life was something that I couldn’t be allowed to experience in any way, even as a spectator. I lived a very sheltered life, and was homeschooled for a portion of my middle school and high school years, and had a practically non-existent social life until I was in college. When I was nineteen, I was still living at home, but attending a community college full-time. I finally had my first boyfriend and my first kiss. When we started dating seriously, and the relationship became sexual, and my family found out, I was accosted with screaming fits and called a “slut.” When birth control pills were found in my dresser drawer, I was subjected to looks of great disapproval for even possessing something like that. And I overheard a phone conversation where a family friend said, "If she were in my home and had done that, she would be kicked out." I was an outstanding student - straight A's, honor's list, and ultimately graduated summa cum laude, while working full-time all the way through school. I reasoned with myself that I should disregard the disapproval I was receiving, and the shaming I was experiencing, because I really was a "good kid." I was a hard-worker, and not falling into a life of depravity, simply because I had a boyfriend and was sexually active. Even though I could reason logically, it was hard to completely dismiss the nagging voice inside that was recalling everything I had heard growing up that was telling me I must be doing something wrong. I must actually be a bad person, and a slutty woman. Over the years, when I realized that I wasn’t going to get any sexual education from my family, I had tried to educate myself through reading, even if it was a romance novel I found in the bookstore, or research I did online. By the time I was an adult, I felt that I was strong enough to overcome the years of sexual shaming I had experienced, and was determined not to let it govern my life moving forward. Even so, I was filled with a lot of internal confusion, and ingrained subconscious shame about being sexual. So when I was called a slut at age nineteen, it hurt deeply. Years of repressed sexuality, and unintentional shaming from someone who loved me and thought they were doing what was right did take a toll. It has taken years for me to work through subconscious psychological issues that have also resulted in physical manifestations in my body. We forget that emotional stresses and traumas related to feelings of shame, or guilt, can often have physical consequences that are very real, and detrimental to our health, sexually, and otherwise. It’s so important for our society to have an open dialogue about this topic, because often sexual bullying doesn’t even come from external society – it can start right in our own homes, with our own family, because parents don’t understand how to approach a topic that should be as natural as any other aspect of growing up. I was born 30 years ago, at 26 wks. My parents were in shock, uncertain of what to do with a preemie & so exhausted. During my stay in the NICU that lasted a few months, my parents went to Florida, and apparently needed to get away from the stress. That's when the neglect began. As a toddler I was diagnosed with CP. I defied numerous odds, as I was not supposed to live. My father travelled a lot for work, & my mother was an alcoholic, stressed, & bulimic. She took her stress out on me - physically, emotionally, & eventually sexually... She believed I was helpless because of my CP, so she insisted on bathing me and taking care of all hygiene needs - until I was 19 & left the house for college. It was a consistent battle to escape her anger, wrath, & abuse. I'd been taking care of her, in her drunken state since I was young. I'd do all that I could to sneak a shower on my own. She always noticed though & that made things worse for me. I developed an eating disorder & began to self-harm, wanting to control SOMETHING of my own. There was no space to breathe. I was both suffocated & neglected (during her blackouts, lack of fresh food, etc.) for years. If things weren't exactly her way, there were major repercussions for me. I was exposed to porn & her sex with multiple partners. She strategically placed items & sex toys where I'd see them. As with many survivors, I was told to never say anything... That bathing me was normal, that I was dirty & could never clean myself as well as she could. I never told anyone about the abuse until I was in residential treatment for my ED during college. It had to be reported because of my CP & that things happened when I was a minor. She's never let me live that down. Ever. Years later, assault would continue, but from a female 'best friend'. Thankfully, I've been able to work through this over the years and am a therapist myself. I'm still uncertain about sex & intimacy - waiting to be hurt, expecting it. It's often crippling. I know this is something I'll be working through for the rest of my life, or at least it seems so.
When I was 11 years old and in 6th grade, I had my first real boyfriend. It was very innocent between us, just holding hands and kissing. One day, my boyfriend was hanging out with some older boys and they asked him if we had had sex and he just laughed, but never denied that we hadn't. Well, word spread fast that I was no longer a virgin and it didn't help that when an 8th grader asked my best friend if I was a virgin, she responded, "I don't know", which was taken to mean that I wasn't. I remember hearing older kids refer to me as a slut or "hooker" when I was around them. I will never forget walking down the hall by myself to go to the restroom during class time and the 8th grade girls were working on a project in the hall. I thought about turning back but I knew that they saw me and I really had to go pee. As I approached them, I avoided all eye contact and looked straight ahead because I could feel my fear about to turn into tears at any moment. As I passed them, I could hear each of them call me "hooker" and "slut" with an emphasize on the "t". I could feel the lump in my throat about to burst and I did all I could to make it to the bathroom before the tears started to flow. I stood in that bathroom until they left. I had to tell my teacher why I took so long in the bathroom and started to cry. I remember she yelled at my boyfriend and my brother because my brother was part of the 8th grade class that was calling me names and he said nothing to defend me. I never understood why my boyfriend or best friend would allow people to think I was sexually active. I hate those 8th grade girls to this day and was so happy to see them graduate...from Catholic School.
I was raised in a culture where women were not allowed to have any kind of physical or sexual relationship until they were married. When I was molested, my body began to develop faster than normal. I thought people would know that I wasn't a virgin anymore. Later on there were incidents where I was groped in public. In the winter of 2002 I went to Rockefeller Center with my family and a man sexually assaulted me. An undercover police officer had seen the assault and arrested the man. I thought that it was just the man's keys as the place was very crowded. I had no idea that the man was erect as he was rubbing himself on my buttocks. My mother had told me not to continue with the report because she did not want me to have a permanent record of the incident. At this point my mother had no idea about the molestation when I was eight years old. At the time, this experience made me feel like I was in trouble; like it was all my fault and I felt worthless. I slowly fell into depression because my innocence, my femininity, were stolen from me. I was robbed of myself. It wasn't easy for me. My mental health declined and I had surrendered to depression. From that point on I continuously fell victim to sexual assault - it feels as though these men know who their victims are. Although society is becoming more and more aware and disapproving of sexual assault, it is very real and very painful. It scars you for life. The truth is, it is a painful process, you will cry sometimes, you will wish you had lost your virginity just like everyone else did. But some girls who had a choice still regret it. I think women need to understand that they are stronger than that, they are powerful, that our bodies and sexuality are our power. We should never surrender our power to anyone. Even after being violated, don't think "Now my life is over." It's not over! What helped me gain my power was the power to say No! The power to choose my boyfriends wisely. The power to choose who I want to share my body with. I hope that one day my son will grow up in a world where assaulters are thrown into prison and the victims have a humane trial and get the closure they need to move on. If I could give advice to any young woman it would be: You are beautiful! You are pure! You are feminine! You control your destiny! You have control over yourself! Don't let anyone gain power over you! You have the power to love yourself! You are in control of your life and your happiness. And one day you WILL meet someone very special who will see you as a strong woman!
It took me a long time to accept that I was being bullied at all. I didn't want to think about it.10/17/2019
It all started when I was in Year 8. My class was on the bus coming back from a field trip to a police academy. I went to go take a seat with my friend at the time when one of the boys called out my name and said, "Hey! Why don't you come sit on my lap?!" I didn't reply, I just blushed and sat down with my friend. I was actually a very shy person back in high school. I only really talked to my friends. I was loud in class, but that was only because I was used to everyone in that class - I felt comfortable with them all. This boy was not from my class. They all laughed about it and I felt like crying, I had never felt so uncomfortable in my life. I thought it had ended until the boy ended up moving into my class in Year 9. On the first day back, he had started to harass me and make sexual remarks. I left school that day crying and just made out to my mum that I was sick. I ended up having three weeks off before coming back due to my grandfather dying and family problems with my dad. Once again first day back, I was getting harassed. My friends didn't even bother to help me even though they all saw and heard what he would say to me. I wanted to die. I had thought of all the ways to kill myself and looking back at it now, I'm glad I didn't. I just had felt so alone! I'd come home, go straight to my room and just cry. I wouldn't physically hurt myself or anything like that because I had already seen enough of that at home. My father was the reason why I wouldn't self-harm since he did himself, and I refused to be anything like him. It just got worse and worse until one day one of the boy's friends came over to me and said, "(Name of boy) wants your vagina." I once again went home early and when I saw my mum I broke down into tears and told her everything about the bullying. I remember my mum getting so angry and she went and immediately called up the school and started yelling at them. She threatened to sue the school if they didn't do anything about the harassment. The boy didn't show up for a few days and I later found out that he had been suspended. I was so let down that he had only been suspended! I didn't feel safe at school at all! That was a part of the reason why I had started to skip school and just wouldn't show up. I didn't want to be there in the same room as him. He ended up leaving me alone, obviously feeling scared of the prospect of being sued. It actually took me along time to accept the fact that I was being sexually bullied. In fact it took me a long time to accept that I was being bullied at all. I didn't want to think about it. But now I have chosen to share my story and this is the first time I have talked about it in years. I still cringe today when I hear that asshole's name.
I was 17 when I first met him. He was tall and extremely handsome, well spoken and had just finished his CPL (Commercial Pilots License) training. But I thought nothing of it, till few months later we met at my university. He was a charmer. But there was no connection. I had never had a boyfriend before and just wanted to concentrate on my education. He invited me to join him and his friends to watch Joe Satriani play and since JS was one of my favourite musicians, I didn't refuse. From then on, his friends became mine and our social circle emerged. Few weeks after my 18th birthday, my mum told me his family had asked for my hand in marriage. (It's quite normal to have an arranged marriage in my culture. I am part Pakistani and part Indian.) My father wasn't too keen but my maternal family pressured my mum into getting my dad to agree. I said yes. He was extremely caring and thoughtful at first. He would drive me to university and even pick me up. On the weekends we would hang out on campus. However, I wanted to do things on my own and he didn't like that. We hadn't had sex. We were Muslims and I thought Muslim girls should have sex after marriage. (I was not taught this by my parents, though.) He would get sad if I suggested we should not hang out every weekend as I wanted to study and sometimes hang out with my other friends. At first I thought he loved me and wanted to be with me, but slowly I began to realise, he's actually controlling me. One weekend I went home to my parents and texted him to say so. He replied Okay.xx and I thought nothing of it. But when I went back to campus, I realised nothing was okay. He was angry and abusive and I couldn't understand why. 'How dare you go without my permission?' By then, he had isolated me from most of my friends, and the ones which still stayed around were his best buddies. I felt trapped and abused. I told him he was scaring me and he would always make promises to not do it again. He would promise to build my dream home, take me on trips to anywhere in the world; we are not taught to look at these behaviours as signs of manipulation. But soon, it wasn't verbal anymore. My best friend invited me to a halloween party and I dressed up. As soon as he saw me, he dragged me by my arm and pushed me into his car. In the car he slapped me. That was the first time he had hit me like that. I didn't know who to tell. I felt if I told my parents I would be in trouble. I am not sure why I thought that because my parents were both feminists. But I was scared. I was an 18 year old, scared to death by a man who she was engaged to marry. However, the next day he was apologetic again. The same evening, he came into my place and started to touch me. We had kissed, but this was more intimate and I told him, I didn't want to have sex. That was the first time he raped me. And it went on for 2 further years. Every day he would make me give him a blowjob. But his real pleasure came from me blowing him whilst crying. If I didn't cry, he would slap me and continue to slap me till I did. This stopped only when my father found out. You see, my ex fiance was not a British citizen. He was here to study and was originally from Pakistan. When my father found out and confronted him, he left England and went back to Pakistan. It took me 6 years before I dated again. Only to be emotionally be traumatised again. I am 28 years old now. I really don't think I can ever trust a man again. - Maheen Najeeb
I come from a Vietnamese Catholic family, so purity is a major thing for girls and women.10/15/2019
My younger sister just called me a slut because I show normal affection to my boyfriend whom I love. Seriously, what is wrong with a girl hugging, playing with, and kissing her boyfriend? He is my first boyfriend too, so it is a new experience for my family to go through. I have never displayed it publicly to the most extreme degree. It sucks since I have never been called that by anyone else, not even from strangers. Out of all people, my own blood would say something that vile about me to my own face. If strangers say that, they don't really know me so they would judge however they want, but family who have been with me since birth should know me better. It hurts that they are the ones who say it since they should know and believe in me the most. And she wonders why I "never" talk about anything with her. Of course I would, being her older sister, but she is too closed-minded. It is hard to get through people who push you away. I'm fortunate enough that his family is accepting and understanding while my family is more traditional and believes that purity makes a person good and doing something 'impure' makes them bad. I come from a Vietnamese Catholic family, so purity is a major thing for girls and women. Although my parents understand that times and people have changed, the only people that bother me are my younger sister and grandmother. My grandmother called me a slut for wearing shorts in my own home. What have I done to her to be disrespected? When I do things for him, I do it by choice and not because I have no self-respect nor self-control. Of course I have my own voice and he respects that too, it's just too bad my own family doesn't. Whatever happens between us should not concern anyone else unless it concerns our own and others' safety. Whenever I want to just be in the moment with him, to be happy, their words just haunt me and it makes things difficult for me to do anything. Whenever this happens, he feels as if I'm rejecting him or losing interest, which is untrue. My feelings still grow as I am with him but their firm views and opinions are making it difficult for me to be open about it. They make me feel shameful about myself and my actions. He makes me feel happy and loved. I have no problems with him but they just need to shut up. Being affectionate should not make anyone feel guilt. No one should have control over what I choose to do or how I feel. If there are people unhappy about me, please do not hate or show disrespect to me. I would prefer if they just ignored me. It would benefit both sides since I don't need anyone to bring me down and they gain nothing but bitterness if they continue with this.
I finally came out and told my mom. She asked why I waited all this time if it happened in late October. I told her I was scared. The next day we tried to press charges, but the police officer practically laughed in my face because I waited so long.
When I was 13 years old, I agreed to go out with a pretty popular boy at school. He seemed like, at the time, the most perfect boy ever, so I felt like I was "forever in debt" almost to him. About 2-3 months into the relationship (so about March or April of 2011) he started to become more and more controlling and started resorting to violence, which I kept telling myself many of the famous excuses, because I didn't want to believe he was doing this: "It was a one time thing..." or later one "I made him angry, so I deserved it.." and many others. By September, I began hearing rumors about him going after other girls (at this point we were no longer in the same school. I was in middle school, 8th grade, and he had moved to the high school, 9th grade) and trying to make sexual advances towards them. He then also began making the same advances towards me, but I blew it off. I was 13, he had just turned 15. I didn't know what that was all about, I believed sex was just kissing and stuff for people who were married, like I was tough being raised Catholic. He seemed to have calmed down for a couple of weeks, no more hitting, no more talking bad about me, and no more "dirty talk". He asked me if I wanted to go to the Homecoming game and dance. Well, of course I said yes. Homecoming and football in general is really big in Texas. Well, when the day of the game rolled around I went over to his house and he had his grandmother help pin a mum his mom made to my shirt. I didn't think anything bad would happen ever again. But when we got to the game, we sat my aunt on the left, me in the middle and him to my right. He started touching me in ways I knew weren't okay, but every time I tried to pull away, he'd tighten his grip on my wrist. After what felt like forever, my aunt said her son was getting tired and cold, so she was going to take us home. I had never felt so relieved, but I never told anyone. I knew that with how I ranked on the social- scale of the Texas City middle school/high school, 1) no one would believe me, and 2) he'd turn it around to make me look like a slut. So, I did the next best thing (well, what I thought was the next best thing). I tried to fake being sick to get out of the dance, but my mom told me, "Come on, Liz. I can tell he really likes you and would be heart broken if you didn't go." So reluctantly, I went. When we got there he immediately found his group of friends and started making sexual comments about them and me. "Wow your girlfriend's so pretty. You're lucky to have her," one said. He laughed and said, "Damn right I am. Just look at her tits!" (I immediately crossed my arms in an attempt to hide them, because I was extremely self-conscious about them, since I was 13 and a 36D.) Long story short, after attempting to make a move on some other girls, he suggested we leave and walk around the area for a bit. Of course, me not wanting any trouble, agreed to go along. So we sneak out the back door, and start walking along the side of the building, towards the front. He suddenly stopped and forced me against the wall, and started running his hands up my shirt. I begged him to stop, but he wouldn't. I started to scream because I was scared, I didn't know what was happening, only that I was terrified, and he bit me. Hard. And covered my mouth and very forcefully whispered, "Shut up." And then he raped me... It happened pretty quick, he didn't want to get caught. And when he decided he was done, he told me to fix my skirt, and he pulled me up. He tightened his grip on my wrist and told me to stop crying like a baby. I wiped my face on my shirt and he walked us to his grandmother's car. His GRANDMOTHER'S car. And when she asked how it went, he said "It went great. It really was the perfect night." I started feeling sick all the time, faking sick to get out of school, and just doing everything to avoid people. One day about 2-3 weeks later, my parents had a meeting with the local pastor, and he found out I'd been "sick" and decided to pay me a visit. I opened the door and told him my parents weren't home, that I would be ok and he couldn't stay. I tried to close the door but of course, me being the naive "kid" I was, when he said wait, I opened it again, and let him in. He played it real cool, acting genuinely concerned, but then he flipped and attacked again. When he finished, he said, "Oh, by the way, my mom doesn't want me seeing you anymore. So, this is goodbye." That was the day I started cutting, not to die at first. I ended up in Deveruex, the local inpatient facility for teens who are violent, suicidal, cutting or off their psych meds. I asked hypothetical questions about rape and rapists, but no one caught on, nor did I say anything. I still loved him, and I thought he still loved me, and just didn't want his mom to be mad. I was put in Deveruex in early November 2011, but I was out before my birthday on the 14th. I expected him to call, or message me or something, but I got nothing. I went into Deveruex two more times between December 2011 and February 2012. February 4th or so I finally came out and told my mom. She asked why I waited all this time if it happened in late October. I told her I was scared. The next day we tried to press charges, but the police officer practically laughed in my face because I waited so long, but the reaction from school was a lot worse. I had to drop to home school for the rest of 8th grade. I attempted public school again the next year, but after 2 1/2 months of verbal, mental and physical abuse by fellow students, I eventually went to homebound (teacher came to me), then the principal said "I can't keep you on homebound, and I can't do anything about the abuse. Come back or drop out." So I went back to home school. Then I went to the Connections Academy (online school; 10th), now I'm in K-12's online school (11th grade, yay!) and I'm doing so much better. I FINALLY found a guy worth something (not in it for anything sexual) and we've been together 1 year, 2 years on July 10th, I am doing everything I possibly can do as a 17 year old to educate girls about the dangers of controlling relationships and sexual abuse. I hope maybe someone (or many someones!) will hear my story, and it will help them. Your site and project give me hope <3 - Elizabeth Ever since I can remember, I have been the odd one out in the midst of my extended family. I am the only child of my generation to have tattoos, to be anything other than heterosexual, to express my sexuality outside of monogamous heterosexual relationships. My adoptive father began sexually abusing me before I turned 1 year old. When I finally came clean about this to other members of my extended family, they flat-out refused to believe me. Moreover, they made it clear that my membership in their clan was predicated upon my adherence to their party line. He was the golden boy - the one with the doctorate, the successful boy made good. They immediately began to ostracize me while adopting an external attitude that I was a victim of insanity, that my mind could not be trusted. My mother, meanwhile, acted as though I was some seductress whore who had fantasized the whole thing. To this day, I do not feel comfortable expressing my sexuality with men. I hate being stared at; I am afraid even to leave the house for fear of the flashbacks that come from my interactions with men. I have spent years trying to ease the hatred I developed as a teen for my body, believing it to be the site of all this pain. My mother still refuses to believe me, all the while actively trying to quite literally talk me out of my own memories. Though no qualified professional has reported me incapable of recognizing reality, she persists in her determination to rid me of my last sense of security - my trust in myself. Thanks to all of this, I have come to realize that I do not have parents - that I in fact never did. Rather, I have two individuals who I cannot trust to have my back or to take care of me. I am alone. One day, I know I will be able to ease my way to the other side of this. However, I also know that I have lost years of my life to events that I had no control over. Thanks to feminism, I am beginning to recognize that no one "asks for it." Women who wish to have sex freely say so; women who are raped are never given a chance to say one way or the other, or are not listened to when we do. It is not our faults. It never was. - Bekha Scharlach
When I was 14 years old, I was gang raped by 4 older boys who went to my high school. A few of which I had really trusted and thought of as my friends. It totally destroyed me. I didn't want to tell anyone what happened but when the men started telling their side of the story, that I was a slut, I told my best friend what really happened and she convinced me to go to the police. I tried, they tried, but ultimately there wasn't enough evidence to press charges. I lived in a small town at the time - everyone knew everything and everyone in my town was convinced I lied about being raped. They ripped me apart. Brianna Lumb became a household name, the definition of slut. I couldn't go to a party without being bullied right back out of it. I dropped out of school because I couldn't take all the whispers and the pain of everyone thinking they knew me. I was afraid to leave my house, when I used to go out with my parents I would literally hide in the back seat of the car because I was so afraid of being seen. Even now, almost 7 years later, people still think of me that way.... It never goes away once you get that reputation. But what has changed is me. Even if the people in my town haven't. I don't live there anymore, I am traveling, seeing the world meeting good people who love me and respect me and BELIEVE ME. The people in my town might never change but my hope is that some day soon, slut shaming will stop and no girl will ever have to feel the way I felt in high school because it changes you and sometimes it makes you stronger, but sometimes it also kills you. - Brianna Lumb
I am from India. A country which is bound by certain restrictions which are considered a part of our culture. We need to think twice before falling in love with someone, be it in high school or after graduation. Arranged marriages are a common norm here, wherein the parents decide the spouse of their son or daughter. Although this norm is changing with time, as the parents are becoming more open to children finding their own partners, the concept of 'dating' someone is a HUGE deal here. I feel people don't really get the meaning of the word 'slut'. It is a curse which you can just give a girl. There was a girl in my school and rumour had it that she had dated about five guys, she was labeled a 'slut'. She never made out or slept with anyone. But yet, she was 'the slut'. No one talked to her and she was deserted for no fault of hers. No one knew or even gave a thought to her side of the story. Why do people take this word so lightly. Calling girls 'slut' and 'prostitute'?! We need to bring changes in our attitudes towards girls. Unless we know their story we HAVE NO RIGHT to judge them. I strongly resent this.
I'm only 16 now, and I still have a ton to learn about life, but I think I've learned all that there is to learn about sexual harassment. So far, I've grown up in a broken household. My father came to the table with a child that he had already had at 16. My parents divorced when I was three, six months after having my little brother, and cannot for the life of them get along. Through me, they would try to regain power over one another. I was the victim of my parents' divorce. Now, I know, they both thought they were doing the right thing. Mother protected me from father and father protected me from mother, but that doesn't justify your actions. My mother met a man who ended up being a terrible alcoholic. My youngest brother was a product of that disaster of a relationship. My father however, remarried. And then divorced. And recently remarried again. I have no problem with my new stepmother. It's just... I don't... know her. She kind of showed up one day. Growing up so far, I've been pretty artsy. And when I wanted the sketch book and art kit set, my brother got it for his birthday. When I told everyone I was going to grow up to go to Julliard School of Acting, my mother told me it wasn't enough. I never ended up taking the classes I wanted to. My older brother has never been around much. When he was 17, and I was 9, I met his girlfriend. She was naked in his bed. It didn't really bother me much. On Christmas of my 7th grade year, I ended up going out with a boy who, for all intents and purposes, will be named Leo. He was really nice to me, and I lied to my mother about where I was going to be so that I could go to his house and just make out. But he really wanted more. There were several occasions where he would try to rip my shirt off, or touch my boobs or get into my pants. Mind you, I was 11 years old. I was scared out of my mind. He would show up at my house and take me back to his, or tie me to his bed and try to rape me. Thank god he never did, but he hurt me pretty bad. When I would refuse to put out, he would slap me. Or grab me so hard it would leave hand prints, pull my hair, and he had even broken several bones in my fingers and fractured my ribs. I thought that was what men expected. Sex. And only sex. I wish someone had told me differently. I think it was because of him that I ended up self harming and doing a lot of drugs. No fear, I have gotten help for it. (However, anyone experiencing feelings of depression or thoughts of suicide or self harm, please contact a suicide hotline or tell a trusted adult and get help.) When I finally got the guts to tell him to "fuck off" a year and a half of this torture later, I had already cheated on him several times. And I never held a solid relationship after that. I had many "hook ups," but never a boyfriend. This got me the name "slut." Or "whore." Everyone had their theory, that I paid for it. That they paid for me. And so on. Just after I broke up with him, I started basically living with another guy at 12 years old, who started doing the same thing that Leo did to me. I don't know why I never told anybody. By the time it was too late to do anything about it, I told a school guidance counselor. I went under intensive therapy for 3 years, and I'm still going through some flashback moments. My very best friend had broken up with his girlfriend at the end of ninth grade. And two days later, he kissed me. I felt really bad because his now ex-girlfriend was my best friend, too. So I told her and she was cool with it. She even told me to go out with him. I did, but I wanted her to know that it if she wanted me to break up with him, I would. A week later every single friend that I might've once had or would've had, disappeared. She told them lies about me. I tried really hard to make it up to them, whatever I had done wrong. But they wouldn't buy anything I tried to say. They even tried to get me to kill myself by sending me nasty messages on Facebook and asking me if I would please, ever so kindly go kill myself because nobody wants a whore around to ruin people's lives. I ended up going to intensive therapy for that, too. Me and the girl have since "made up," but I don't think that we could ever be the same. I've not had a friend in almost two years, and I'm still dating her ex-boyfriend. He knows the story and is very understanding when it comes to my fear of guys and anger in general. I still flinch when someone moves too fast, and it's kind of upsetting. I think it shaped me to be the person that I am today. However horrible the experience, I've made it through and am still working through it. I think I may be for the rest of my life. I just wanted to share my story for the younger girls out there.
I've read many stories about people that have been taught from a parental figure about equality between genders/races/equalities/religions etc. from the learner's point of view, but I've never stumbled upon a story where it was from the adult or parental figure's point of view. And mine kind of is. The point is, both parties learn something new. I learnt something new about gender equality and feminism, because even though I always prided myself for being a feminist, I understood that even if I though I knew what feminism was... I really didn't. It all started with my four-year-old cousin who started kindergarten this year. I guess you could say she looked up to me - still does - and she always sought advice from me. Akrivi, Viv for short, was always a bit tomboyish, as society would put it. She preferred footy (soccer) to dolls. Action figures to clothes. She initially didn't like any of these, but grew to love them because she's 100% Greek and Greeks aren't only known for their hospitality, they're known for their prejudices too, which means: Most Greek families want boys, not girls, and actually in villages they will call the boy "the kid" and the girl, well... "the girl." When saying you have a kid, it is immediately assumed you have a son, not a daughter, and that is plain awful, especially when you're a female. At the age of thirty, if you haven't been married yet, you'll "stay on the shelf." The phrase is extremely degrading for the female because it does not only insult her relationship skills, but also it says that the sole purpose of a woman on planet Earth is reproduction. No. Just no. So you see, Viv thought that "acting like a boy" would make her a better person in everybody's eyes! Right? Imagine her disappointment and hurt when her family started saying that what she did brought shame to the family name. It broke her little heart and she was only two years old. However, since then I became her wingman and advised her in every aspect of her life. Sometimes, I did it wrongly and I feel bad for those times. One of the many wrong pieces of advice I gave her was the day before I took her to the first day to school. It was on my road to school, so there was no problem in me taking her, due to both of our parents having to go really early to work. I had bent down so we were on eye level and told her, "Akrivi, you really like footy right?" She bobbed her head, brunette curls bouncing up and down. "Now that you're older, you're going to school. If you play with the other kids they'll make fun of you." I beat myself over that because I just wanted to protect her from all the bullies by doing something really wrong, and I understood that when I went to take her home the day after and saw her longingly staring at some children who played footy. I understood that no matter what, I couldn't take it away from her. So, when we arrived home I told her that she could play footy again. "Why?" she had asked, "Won't the other kids make fun of me anymore?" "Some will, but you know what? They push at you, you push back harder." Through this Akrivi learnt that she shouldn't base her actions on stereotypical and prejudicial beliefs. But, I learnt something important, too. Do what you love no matter what people say. "Akrivi" means precious. And she is, precious I mean. She's truly and irrevocably precious. - Mennie Jay
I was three years old. This has been my life ever since. Always labeled a slut, undesirable, and less than human. The first time I heard the word "slut" I thought it was good, because the man said to my mother, "She is a beautiful little slut." But soon I was to learn that this is not good to be. My horror starts here. I had always wondered where it was my sister would go when this man who smelled like cigar came and put her in his car and brought her back with tears that had dried onto her cheeks. She would always tell me to hide when the car would come up the dirt path. On March 11, 1973 I found out where she went and what had cause her tears. On this day, two cars came. One for my sister and one for me. I remember this man got out of the car and went to my mother. She gave him something and then they both looked at me. I turned away to watch the car that held my sister drive back down the path. No words were said when the man walked towards me and took my hand. I looked at the place that my mother once stood, but she was gone. We walked to the car. He picked me up opened the door and put me inside the car. When he got inside the car he looked at me in the mirror and smiled at me then said, "Ah, such a pretty little slut." When the car stopped, the man got out and closed the door. He then came and opened my door, held out his hand for me to take and helped me out of the car. We walked to a building with a door. I saw the car that once held my sister parked close to the one I just got out of. Inside this building a man walked up to us and handed the man a paper. He wrote something on it and I was handed off to the new man. He took me down a long hallway with doors on both sides, all the way down. We stopped at one of the doors and went inside. There was a mat on the floor, a toilet, a sink, and a bathtub. I was three years old. This has been my life ever since. Always labeled a slut, undesirable, and less than human. Four months ago, I escaped his torture and began to try and learn how to live free from abuse. But it is a life I am unfamiliar with. A life that is lonely because I had no friends and a life full of confusion and fear. If there is help for me out there somewhere, it has not found me yet. - Amanii To the author: If you haven't yet found help, please use these resources at WomensLaw.org. Most cities have programs to help survivors of sexual exploitation lead healthy, happy lives - there is help for you and you will make it through this.
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