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Okay, firstly: I am British and the school system is different over here: it's in years, like year 1 is 5-6, year 2 is 6-7, etc. Secondly: I was a child who was taught to be herself and 'myself' was someone who told on everyone about everything. There were 3 girls in my year group when I was 9, one was kind of my friend and the other was a girl (call her Sadey) whose home wasn't the most stable. Back then I blamed her but the environment she was living in can't have helped. My friend left to go to a private (paying) school while I was left with Sadey who was my 'friend' one day then the next she was something else entirely. People started to dislike me for constantly telling on them (fair enough) but when I was around 10 or 11, Sadey began to push me away completely. She began to spread rumours that I sold sex. At 11. People believed her and she told them I murdered people and that I would stop at nothing to get the best grades, then she turned my friends against me by telling them I talked behind their backs. Around the same time all of them mysteriously 'weren't allowed to play with me'. They began to call me 'morbid skank' and 'killer slut'. I told my mum but as I was always telling on people, she didn't believe me. Within the last few weeks of primary school I couldn't take it anymore and I felt like I needed her to believe me so I began to cut. I felt so guilty afterwards that I wouldn't sleep and I'd black out in class. Not once did anyone question Sadey as the cause, she hasn't been confronted. I hope her family life is better now, I hope she hasn't done this to anyone else. It was no ones fault, just that I had been selfish in the past and when I needed help nobody believed me. Now I go to the private school where my friend went, I've lost a lot of empathy but that girl had such a hard time at home it can't be her fault. It shouldn't be an excuse, talk to someone only when it's important and don't force yourself to do something like I did to make them believe. - Izzy B.
This all happened when I was 17 and was a senior in high school. It was about a month into my senior year when all of the "popular" seniors got together and threw a Senior Party. Me and my 3 best friends all attended this party together. There was, of course, A LOT of alcohol. Everyone there had been drinking. Me and one of the girls decided to go off on our own and hang out. We drank a little (not too much, we were by no means drunk). Some at the guys at the party were hitting on us and we even flirted back a little here and there. The boys kept asking us to do things to them and were being really pushy. Eventually me and her went to my car to go call my mom and ask her to pick us up since we had been drinking and didn't need to drive. There were 5 other guys that went out to their car, which was right behind mine. We didn't even associate with them at all. When we looked for my phone in the car we realized that it wasn't in there. About an hour after trying to find my phone my mom and dad showed up and they were really angry at me. They took me home and called the other girls' parents to come and get them too. Apparently one of the people at the party called my mom and told her that we were super drunk and that we were sleeping with all kinds of guys. (Which by no means was true. We hadn't even kissed anyone!) I explained to my mom that none of this was true and that all of those kids were just bullies because they were so "popular". She believed me and supported me 100%. The next day at school as soon as I walked in I saw all of the stares and whispering. I even saw a couple of guys making really inappropriate gestures toward me. When I saw my friend that I was at the party with, I ran up to her and she was crying. She explained to me what all of the people were saying about us. Calling us sluts, hoes, whores, and everything else in the book. They said that we had a train run on us by 5 different guys at one time... I was horrified. We ran straight into the bathroom and cried together. When we got out of the bathroom we saw our other 2 best friends that we attended the party with and they looked at us like we were completely crazy and made a big scene about how they didn't want to be seen associating with the biggest sluts in school. I was so upset that I called my mom and told her what was going on, she was so angry she came up to the school. All of those boys that were telling people that we did things to them denied it to the principal. I never wanted to go to school again. I started skipping class just to avoid all of them. Things eventually got a little better for the two of us.. Our friends apologized and even started sticking up for us, along with a few other people. I met a guy that treated me like a queen. He helped me get through all of that and always stood up for me even though he didn't know me very well at the time. He knew about all of the rumors but he still gave me a chance and never listened to anything disgusting anyone ever said about me. 4 years later, he and I are married and have a beautiful son! - Brooke
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. Reading your diary had me thinking a lot of things. Mostly about how I would be in the other situation, and it kind of resurfaced memories. when I was younger, I was the opposite of you. I had previously lived in florida, where my life was not perfect, but good. I was tall, slightly more developed than my peers and a nice-ish person, so I might've had it good if I had actually stayed. Then, in 4th grade, I moved to Jamaica where I experienced a massive culture shift. whereas in America, everything about me from my huge eyes to my natural cheekbones were greatly admired, down there they were shunned. The other kids would constantly make fun of me, teasing me and picking at me. I used to cry at least one time a day. That's also when I first developed an interest in science and started making poisons for myself. In 5th grade, it got better and I started liking boys. But they were relentless in their scorn because they upheld their memory of the weird, sniveling girl they once knew. It was a small school so word travels fast and where as in your case, you were either lusted after or loathed, I was either scorned or shunned. The first suicide attempt of a girl who was, only years before, a happy ray of sunshine, took place this year. By 6th grade I started to make up rumors, telling the girls in my class that I had a boyfriend, even when I knew I didn't. It was obvious that they didn't believe me, but I kept up the charade. We all went off to high school in 7th grade. Over the summer, I made myself promise that the suicidal thoughts would stop. However, the lies got worse because more and more girls were becoming more outward with sexuality and dating, so I had to play the part. Some of my old classmates were in my class, unfortunately, and saw right through my lies. I guess what I'm trying to say is, while you had it bad, other people were dealing with the exact opposite in just as bad a situation. I used to think that all the girls who acted like Emily wrote in her diary were sluts and that's it, but reading it has helped me to understand. I have made some real friends in the process of getting to know the "sluts" in class, regardless of my mothers disdain for them.
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.
When I was 8 I was sexually molested by my best friend for over a year and at that time my family wasn't really there for me, or I just didn't want to burden them with something that seemed so confusing and disturbing, so instead I turned to self harm. It wasn't like I woke up one morning and said to myself "let's cut". It was actually an accident: I was washing the dishes when I dropped a glass and when I was cleaning it up, I cut my hand on the sharp part of the broken glass piece, and that numbing feeling that I had had for so long disappeared, but then came back after a while, so I thought that if I cut I don't have to cry, I don't have to tell anyone and everything would be fine. But even though I had gotten over the molesting and even though I had forgiven in my heart my ex-best friend, I still cut. Probably because I reprogrammed my brain so that when I wanted to cry I would feel ashamed for being weak and I would hate myself, so instead I cut. Every time something emotional happened in my life I would turn to cutting. But when I turned 17 I had finally gotten to a point where I couldn't keep it a secret from my mother anymore because she was my everything, my best friend, so I told and I asked her for help. I went to group therapy, which helped a lot, and now I am two years free of cutting so I am really happy to have finally gotten over the past. I hope everyone finds their mother figure and finds the hope and help that they need. But I can tell you this: with belief and love YOU will get through, it just takes time. - Katrina Kiss
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
I have always been a very sexual person, ever since my mom first told me about sex (when I was in kindergarten). My mom's one of those spiritual, earthy, I guess you could say hippie moms. She protested the Vietnam war and all that jazz. So she was very open when it came to sex. It was a natural, beautiful thing that should be done all the time. I was raised that it was healthy to have sex a lot, as long as you were protected. So when I was 14 I experienced foreplay for the first time. Rumors started to go all around town, I live in a small town by the way, about how "Katie got fisted!" Or "He stuck his entire fist up her!" I cried and cried, but didn't want to tell my mom because, well, I was 14 and I was shy and embarrassed. Now the rumors weren't true, but as I gradually progressed so did they. I had experienced lust and I wanted more. I lost my virginity when I turned 15. The big time word for slut in our town at the time was, "trout," and of course since my last name started with a 'T,' I had the nickname, "Katie trout." Still to this day (I am almost 21 now) people will ask me if my last name is trout. I started to dabble in drugs. First marijuana, then ecstasy, followed by cocaine. When I turned 16 I went to a rehab/behavioral center called Provo Canyon School for 10 months. Every time I got to go on a visit with my family I would text this guy that I had a crush on. Now, having just turned 17, and having been locked in an all girls facility for 10 months, I was dying for some male attention but I had a bad feeling. I get a phone call from this kid at 3am saying, "Hey I'm right down the street, wanna smoke a bowl?" So I walked down there and he was belligerently drunk. He asked if I wanted to have sex and only having had sex a few times, I declined. So he grabbed me and threw me in a bent over position. I tried to get up but he kept throwing my head down and it kept hitting a concrete brick. So I gave up. I got anal raped that night. After that my drug use spiraled out of control. I began to smoke methamphetamines daily just to forget what had happened. How I was violated. At this point I was 18. I went to another rehab/mental hospital. What they call dual diagnosis programs. I have bipolar and severe PTSD, and was self medicating with the crystal meth. Eventually I got out and ended up going to an amazing high school called North County Academy, which is basically a school for kids on probation or with severe mood problems or drug programs. I graduated in 2013, ASB president, a peer mentor, prom queen, and I established the first ever prom at the school. One day I decided, since I was doing so well and I was so stable, to contact my rapist and confront him. He told me that I was a dirty slut and I had wanted it and, "Go back to the mental hospital, Katie trout." That night I relapsed. I went to one more rehab, who referred me to my therapist whom I have now. She is truly my lifesaver. Now I am 20 years old in a stable relationship with the man I am absolutely in love with, I go to a outpatient drug program, I go to college, and I work at a residential drug rehab as an intern so that I can get my drug and alcohol counseling certificate. I don't believe in calling women sluts. Because we just don't know what goes on behind closed doors. We can't experience their lives, their pain, their pleasure. So might as well let them live the way they are going to, all judgment aside. - Katie Traugh
I was raped and brutally assaulted the summer going into my senior year of high school. For weeks after the incident I kept it a secret for fear of judgement, but eventually the fear of pregnancy or disease was too great that I told my mother and was taken to the hospital for a rape kit. I chose not to press charges because I didn't want it to get in the way of my senior year and college application process, but more so because in the back of my mind, I thought it was my fault. Society had taught me that no matter how many bruises and cuts I had to prove the assault, that because I was intoxicated it was just as much my fault. For anyone considering pressing charges, please do, it is my biggest regret. Rape is the only crime where the victim can be blamed, don't let this continue. Rape is rape and we need justice. - Megan K.
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
Anyone who has a need to call a female who is younger than 18 a slut has problems. I've had my own personal experiences with wrongful slut shaming. The first time was when I was 11, in 5th grade. A girl called me a slut for not having a boyfriend (obviously she needs to go find out what it actually means) and for the next few years I was pressured into thinking not having a boyfriend was bad. In 6th grade, I was deemed a slut by my ex-boyfriend for wearing a pair of shorts that reached mid-thigh. The most recent one, in 8th grade, was cursed at me from a fellow female who was jealous that I could be simple friends with a group of guys and claimed that I was secretly planning on seducing them with witchcraft (someone really needs to lay off those fictional romance novels). I dealt with them with a mixture of telling my mom (sometimes it's awkward telling your dad or your 40 year old male principal) and getting support from my friends, both male and female. I would just like to say that calling someone a slut is always hurtful, no matter your age or the situation it is being used in. If anyone ever feels uncomfortable, say it. Don't keep those thoughts to yourself- otherwise you'll start believing in them. - Myra Sangster
The shift from elementary school to middle school can be very traumatic. Girls can be very mean, especially girls in Junior High. I was twelve years old and kind of a loner. I became friends with this girl Lisa who was confident and dressed in fun, flamboyant clothing. We had a blast expressing ourselves though our clothing. We loved Hollywood, bright colors, vintage & leopard print, we also loved feathers and glitter. Neither of us had breasts so there wasn't any cleavage involved. We didn't pay attention to boys because we were too busy having too much fun. We were unique and I guess people didn't like that. The first comments we heard were that we were lesbians. This was in 1973 during a time when people were very closeted. Then another group started spreading a rumor that we were sluts and whores. The truth of the matter is that neither of us had ever even kissed a guy and we had no interest in each other like that. Lisa left that school the next year. We continued to be friends (and still are). I remember feeling very isolated and out of place. I continued at that school for two more years. I was very depressed. I wrote poems, I remember part of one: "they treat me like I'm from Mars but, I'm not! I'm human, I have feelings too." I used to think about ways that I could kill myself. Luckily, I was never successful. I had very low self esteem and nervous ticks. My mom took me to a therapist who prescribed Valium. This label of "slut" stuck with me internally and later in my life, I was free with my body. I was looking for love but at times I was used. It took me many years to battle my depression and low self-esteem. I am 54 now and I can honestly say, I've managed to heal myself. I am a strong woman and I no longer have negative self talk. This is a terrible thing that children do to each other. My daughter was bullied this way too but, together we worked through it and she is a strong, happy and successful woman. - Cynthia
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.
As a seventh grader and a new kid in my school, I was labeled "slut" for not liking a boy back. I had not even had my first kiss. The bullying seriously impacted my desire to go to school and interact with my peers. In high school I was broken up with and labeled a "prude" for not wanting anything to go beyond kissing. I was afraid of being called a slut and still I was made fun of for another reason! A group of adults also labeled me a slut for being closer with the boys on a leadership council. Adults!!!! I cried for weeks. As a freshman in college, I was drugged at a party, brought back to a senior's apartment, and raped. The only person I tried to tell called me a slut. I struggled alone for 5 years until I had the courage to talk about it with my best friend and mom. The word "slut" has seriously impacted my life. I am now a middle school teacher who is committed to stopping bullying and finding ways to make kids feel great about themselves. - Catherine
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!
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
I live in a small town. I am currently 14. My story started in fourth grade when a girl from a big city moved here. The boy she had a crush on liked me so she told everyone I was a slut. All my childhood friends believed her and joined in on calling me a slut. This killed me inside. In sixth grade when everything got worse, I told my mom about what was going on. We put a stop to it but apparently that didn't last. When I went into seventh grade everything got worse because we don't have a middle school - we get thrown right in with the high schoolers. So when I started dating a guy a grade above me, all hell broke loose. The girl who started the rumours ganged up with my boyfriend's ex who was two years older than me. They started some of the worst rumours I've heard about me. Those rumours sent me into a deep, deep depression. I told my mom about everything and all she did was tell me she raised me to be stronger. It was terrible. I never got any help so my cry for help was telling someone I wanted to kill myself. My parents found out and were devastated. I was on suicide watch for a year. That is the year I figured out my life wasn't really just my life. My life is also my parents, my friends, and everyone else. So here I am a year later with the same rumours getting spread around about me but I don't let it get to me. I hope eventually they'll go away but at this point I'm more worried about making sure I don't fall down into a depression again and so far I've been doing fine. So there's my story.
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.
I've known about The UnSlut Project for a couple of years now and only recently decided to share my story. I guess I had to come to terms with it personally before I felt confident enough to let others know about my experiences with slut shaming and bullying. I do want to remain anonymous, though. My reputation in the eighth grade was that I was a pretentious, unlikable girl when really I was just shy and struggling with serious social anxiety and depression. When I got my first "real" boyfriend that year, I started to come out of my shell. While I did have a lot of friends, there was an equal number of girls who just didn't like me for one reason or another. I kept dating this boy on and off throughout the first couple years of high school, and during my sophomore year I got pregnant and my life snowballed. The day I found out I was pregnant, I decided to tell a couple of my friends in confidence about the news. I wasn't prepared to tell my parents yet. I was only sixteen - I could barely understand it myself, let alone know how to tell such devastating news to my mother. I never got the chance to tell her myself. I went to school the next day and rumors started swirling, which I quickly denied. I went to my boyfriend's house after school ended and on the drive home, my mother called me. Four girls, one of which I considered a good friend, had put a note on my porch that said "your slut daughter is preggo!" My mom asked me if it was true, I broke down and told her, and she walked away from me. Our relationship was in shambles for five months, at least until I found out that the baby I decided to keep was a girl. I found out I was pregnant in March of 2008, with only several months left of my sophomore year. That time period was a nightmare. Nearly all of my friends abandoned me because they simply couldn't understand what I was going through and how much I needed their support. The girls who didn't like me were even worse. They screamed "slut!" at me in the hallways, spread rumors that I got pregnant on purpose, and some even 'joked' that they would push me down a flight of stairs. I was the school pariah, the "dumb slut." My boyfriend, who attended a different high school at this point, faced no social repercussions, whereas my little sister was constantly asked what it was like to have a slutty knocked-up sister. The shame and torment I faced was so overwhelming that I completed my junior year via online schooling. Removing myself from the environment was the best decision I could make for myself at the time, allowing me to continue furthering my education while being able to stay home with my daughter, Addison, who was born in November of 2008. I went back to school for senior year and most of the bullying had subsided, but I was still known as "that girl with the baby." In retrospect, I don't regret anything. I made the right decision for me. I am now 22, a single mom, and a full-time student. The years following the birth of my daughter were filled with support from my family and I have made lifelong friends who accept me. But the awful, undeserved torment I received is unforgivable. I still have trouble trusting people and face the same social stigma of being a young mom. I hope that my daughter never has to feel the way I felt when I was a teenager - that having sex (and possibly facing an unplanned pregnancy) makes you a whore. There is no such thing.
I was a duckling who became a duck - a nice looking duck - I’m not going to say a swan, because let’s face it, it was middle school.
Hi my name is Gabby and you inspired me to write this entry. I hesitated before at the thought of writing this, to post it online; I thought it was something I should be embarrassed of but it's the past. Every girl goes through stages we try to figure out who we are and it seems like during that process you come in contact with a lot of negativity. I began to change in middle school. I was going through puberty like other girls at that age, and I lost weight. I was an obese kid and elementary was really hard because of that, but I want to talk about a time where I was labeled a "ho". (In the urban community we don’t so much say "slut" so they called me a "ho".) I was very anti-social in sixth grade, I could fit into a medium, but I still wore my oversized clothes, and I wasn’t into fashion or pretty, girly things. I hung out with guys because they accepted me, and girls didn’t. I dressed like a boy and laughed at their jokes. It was comfortable for a while. Nobody hit on me besides the real perverts that just wanted to be around breasts. In seventh grade, I made female friends. My clothes got more fitted but I still considered myself an ugly duckling. I had that awkward middle school hair - I went to school with cornrows. But my friends thought I was pretty, they followed me, I was the leader. Each day I made a change, not with appearance really, but personality. I made more friends. Here it comes: eighth grade, the year you're more mature, you think you understand yourself; you basically blossom, you have boobs now, you’re trying different styles, boys are interested. I was a duckling who became a duck - a nice looking duck - I’m not going to say a swan, because let’s face it, it was middle school. No more braids, I put on tight clothes and gained superficial confidence. When a guy would ask for my number, I began to think that was what I was worth. The amount of guys that tried to talk to me, if a lot, did that mean I was pretty? My group shrank a little, friends I called my besties decided they didn’t like me as much anymore. To them I had changed, but I just thought I had just gotten prettier and more likable. (Forgive my arrogance - oh my god, I was so conceited, but I really didn’t even like myself. I just knew other people liked how I looked, so I tried to suit them.) The boys around me at school would slap my legs when I wore a short skirt. Grab me, squeeze me, pull at my top and grope me. I always tried defending myself but never realized why it didn't work. They thought I was easy, a "ho", because of my clothes. Oddly I got use to it, and if it was from a guy I knew, I wouldn't say much. My old friends started talking about me, spreading rumors. It hurt a lot because they would smile in my face. My mother hated the way I dressed, and my older sister thought I was having sex because of it. I’d say things like, “When I was fat I couldn’t dream of fitting this, so while I’m skinny I want to wear whatever I can fit.” I never slept with anyone, but my family thought I was looking for trouble. I had my first kiss a year later. Cars would honk their horns, men would stop driving to talk to me. All of that was scary but my mindset was so out of place. I got a boyfriend. He was sixteen, I had just turned 14, and he was the worst. Leroy would drink and smoke - he actually brought alcohol to school in Arizona bottles. We dated for six months. He followed me to high school but broke up with me because we never even kissed. I didn’t trust him; he used to cheat with older girls. I even almost got into a fight over him, and all he wanted was my virginity. I knew that, but I still liked him so much. He made me laugh, he was easy going and he said the sweetest things, but when I look back I had just wanted a boyfriend to replace my friends who had left me out. I couldn't relate to them so I dated Leroy. He didn't defend me against the other boys; he’d let them feel me up because he didn't want to fight and everything was a joke to him. I must have looked like the dumbest thing. Leroy even had problems with the law. He took another girl to prom. He even asked out my friend when we broke up. I was cyberbullied: the girls who didn't like me wrote things like "look at that ho" on my MySpace pictures - "she became such a ho, always got the boys touching up on her." After the break up I decided I couldn't trust boys. I didn't want to have sex. My mother raised me up thinking sex was bad, sex is for adults, and if I did it she said she would know. I’m now 18, still living with those words. I understood why she told me things like that and I prefer to stay a virgin until I’m officially ready, maybe after marriage or whenever. I dealt with a lot towards the ending of eighth grade. I tried keeping my weight low, and I ended up with a eating disorder. I was eating under 700 calories a day. That number kept shrinking. I was always dizzy, passing out in the train, I was so afraid to be fat again that I did drastic things. But a beautiful lady named Eva - I’m using her real name - she was my mentor, my friend, my guidance counselor for three years until she moved. She helped me eat again slowly, she worked with me, I’m not sure how she did it. My arms were like sticks but I saw a whale in the mirror, but she helped me. I owe her my life. I didn't even know how bad not eating could be. My mother still doesn't know about anything. I damaged my metabolism and in 11th grade I gained thirty pounds in one year - I’m chubby again, but I accept my body. I’m happier with meat on my bones.(This time I mean it - I’m not fat, I’m just bigger in some places!) I just graduated and I start college in January. Wish me luck. Let's not judge each other; girl power is the best thing in life, besides lasagna. Well, I'm 12, and I've had a memorable past 2 years. I would get bullied about the way I looked, everyone said I was ugly and fat and I basically had no friends for all of Year 5. Then in Year 6, I would get pinned down by these girls and they would yell at one of the other girls to slap me. I ran, obviously. I would think a lot about suicide. My parents were constantly comparing me to my friends and call me fat and ugly. Year 7 is not any better. I have started cutting, I've got a whole wrist full of scars, whenever I wear a comfortable top and skinny jeans, guys stare at my only just noticeable cleavage. Year 9 students message me saying I have a 'nice pair'. My mum says I should be proud that I'm a 34C at my age, but if I was flat chested, I wouldn't be stared at by boys. Also, there was this rumour that I had shagged 3 boys, presumably my 3 previous exes. That caused Year 8's and Year 7's to look at me in a new light. For example, a Year 8 walked past me and my boy best friend, who is coincidentally his best mate, and said to him, "You're in". It's stopped, *thank effing god*, but now year 8 and 9 girls slag me off, on Facebook and to each other, and I feel really uncomfortable nowadays about myself. For the past few weeks I've been trying to get ahold of fags (cigarettes), sleeping pills, etc. I feel as if I'm deliberately making my life worse for myself. With friends I'm fun and outgoing and we joke about getting drunk and high (we aren't actually into that stuff) and I don't know what to do anymore. Also my ex boyfriend is slagging me off, calling me a whore, when he was the one who played me twice. And I'm sure as hell I'm turning into a slut. Which doesn't work out for me since all the boys who are interested in me are creeps. - C
I am glad you are trying to help girls navigate through issues and heal. I wish someone had been there for me. I gave consent and I am the person who revealed what happened to my classmates, but it still was a traumatic experience. I am in my 40s now with two daughters. During my teenage years, I felt a lot of shame and was bullied as a result of a choice I made at 13. I am thankful we didn't have smart phones and other mobile recording devices. I am sure that would have made it worse. It affected my sexuality for years. - Syinly
When I was 12 I had more boys as friends than girls. I had two girl friends that I felt would always be a part of my life - we were always together. All of our mutual friends would always hang out together. I lived next to a river so we always had people out going fishing and my house was the "fun" house (my mom was like a mom to everyone). I went down to the river one day with a couple of guys out there. One said, "Hey, what's back there?" I replied, "A bunch of trees." He said, "Let's check it out." He was dating a friend so I didn't think anything of it until he "accidentally" tripped me and pulled my shirt up and started licking my chest. I said no and he shoved his hand down my pants. It hurt, it burned, it was horrible. As soon as he was done I went straight home and took a shower. I didn't tell my mom or anyone. Monday at school the "friend" he was dating had told everyone I had come onto her guy and not to leave your boyfriends around me since I was easy. That was my very first sexual encounter. I was told by her mom that I was a slut and that I could no longer be a friend of her daughters if I was that kind of example. No one even asked me what happened.
Three years later as a freshman I was dating a junior from another school. He pressured me for sex a lot. I was a virgin - he was not. I finally gave in two days before my 16th birthday. I hated it. It hurt, I felt so used and so low. I told my best friend and she was like, "You just now did it? I thought you did a long time ago." I was with him another two years after and he was extremely controlling and had several other girls he slept with but he told me that was how he knew I loved him - by sleeping with him. Once we broke up, one of his friends apologized to me. He said their group of friends told the guy I was with to stay with me until I "gave it up" and then he should dump me. He said he never thought it would be so bad for me. A month after we broke up, I joined the wrestling team. My mom told me I had "anger issues" and made me go to one counseling session that she sat in on. I answered questions the way they wanted not by telling the truth. I was told if the wrestling helped to keep it up and was started on an antidepressant to level my moods. My neighbor, a senior that I'd known for ten years, also wrestled. My mom would make food for the team and he'd hang around after the rest left. On December 26, 2003 we were in my room talking and joking and watching movies we had gotten for Christmas. I fell asleep and woke up with him on me, one hand up my shorts and the other over my mouth. He told me he had wanted me for years and he knew I did, too. But I didn't. When I tried to shove him off he told me he'd hurt me and how embarrassed my mom would be if she found out how easy I was. The next day we had a wrestling tournament and when I got home I told my mom. She told me, "If it's true, tell your coach and leave the team." I did. No one believed me. I got spit on, I had chocolate milk poured in my locker, my car was keyed and egged. Our house was toilet-papered. Someone even put a dead deer in our yard. I cried all the time. I begged my mom to let me switch schools and she said no. He graduated that spring but no one ever let me forget it. Just last week my mom asked in the car, "What ever happened to that boy that was our neighbor you had sex with?" It hit me like a ton of bricks. I almost threw up. And I said I don't know and I don't care. Anyway, I'm 27 now, married with two beautiful girls with my husband now. I'm terrified for them. I know how bad it was for me before social media and now I'm even more worried for them. I can just try to help other girls know it's not okay what happened, but you CAN get through it. Life gets better after high school. You can go to college and get to start over! Don't let them win! Don't respond with negativity, just ignore it. I know it's so hard but when they see no reaction they move on! Just remember you are beautiful no matter what and you are NOT alone. I remember when my daughter received a hickey from her first boyfriend, it was in a very obvious spot on her neck. I was upset, even though I thought I would be a lot "cooler" about her foray into sexual experiences. But I wasn't, I was concerned about what people would say to her, or about her - she was 15 years old. On the tip of my tongue, I remember thinking in my mind, "People are going to think you are a slut!" And then I stopped... was I about to slut-shame my own daughter?! I took a step back and realized the script I was playing into. My daughter was not a slut. She was experimenting with sexual things with her first boyfriend and she hadn't realized that a mark was left. We talked about hickeys and what they are, why people give them and why they receive them, and I was honest about the possible backlash that she could encounter if people noticed that she was beginning sexual activity. And in the context of this very conversation, I talked with her about "slut-shaming" and what it meant to be "a slut" and how these ideas are shaped by the mixed and confusing messages young women receive about being a sexual person in today's society. Even for myself... how hard it was to go against that script when all of a sudden it was my daughter showing the beginning of her sexual self. Thankfully, I used this opportunity to really talk about these issues with her. It was also an eye-opener for me, because I've always thought I'm very open minded about sexuality and feminist issues. But... these things run deep. The best tools against this insidious mental conditioning are education and communication. Kudos to The UnSlut Project for opening up and continuing a dialogue about this issue.
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