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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 called a slut when I was just 12 years old. The girl was mean and brutal and recruited more mean and brutal girls in her plight to break me down. This continued through junior high and most of high school. Daily these girls would corner me and do things like slam my head into the water fountain as I was drinking or body slam me as I walked past them in the hall, head down praying for God to just make me invisible. They were relentless. It was every single day. Not a day went by that they didn't in some way brutalize me and humiliate me in front of everyone. I went running out of classes crying and I would end up being the one in trouble for leaving class. I didn't understand why the adults in charge couldn't see what was happening. They down played it and convinced themselves that "kids will be kids," like it was some kind of rite of passage that everyone goes through. It made every single day dark and heavy and uphill. My grades slipped, I didn't want to go to school, I would skip if I had a chance. And the thing about it is that when this bullying began, I was not a "slut." Not even close. In fact, I was a virgin.
But the result was devastating, though. I became a "slut." I wasn't having sex with everybody, but damn close. If a boy wanted to put his hand up my shirt, I would let him. If he wanted to put his hand down my pants, sure, why not? I know now that what I really wanted was the love and respect of someone, anyone, but I just didn't know how to go about getting that. I thought if I let them put their hand up my shirt then they would give me what I needed. Then when I was 16 I made the fateful decision to sneak out of the house to go hang out with a much older boy, who was actually in his early 30's. At the time that didn't seem disturbing to me at all. I had no idea of the sinister plan that "Bobby" had for me that night. He was going to carry out his end game with or without my consent. That night I was raped. That was the beginning of the end for me. I developed a heroin habit that stayed with me for 17 years. Fast forward and I was released from prison on February 27, 2011. Since then I have been clean & sober for 5 years and have grown exponentially. I wish I could walk into every junior high, every high school, and into every insecure young girl's life and make them see their value. I wish I could make them know that they are worth so much more and that there is so much more to life than that moment and those few years. I wish I could teach them to hold their heads up high when they walk. I wish I could tell them that if they don't want to give their bodies away, they don't have to. I wish I could tell them that the problem is with the girls calling them a slut and not with them. I wish I could prevent those deep psychological wounds from ever being gashed wide open. I know they are hurting, I know they cry alone, I know they sometimes think about ending it all because they can't see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can still vividly recall those feelings as if it were yesterday. Pain and torment like that doesn't ever seem to truly go away, or at least the memory of it doesn't. I don't know why girls make the decision to be cruel but I know that teenage girls can be some of the cruelest creatures on earth. If I could say anything to the girls of the world that suffer the bullying and slut shaming the way I did, it would be to tell them how beautiful they are and that it's okay to talk about what's happening to you. Talk about it to anyone who will listen. Take the power away from the bully. Tell your parents, tell your teachers, tell your principals, tell your friends. Tell someone, anyone. It doesn't make you uncool to tell, it makes you empowered. It sends a message that you will not stand for this treatment and sets the tone for how people will treat you for the rest of your life. You are worth so much more. 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 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 Today is the eighth anniversary of my rape. Some years are harder than others. This year has been exceptionally hard. I've always been the type of person to accommodate other people. So in the aftermath of my attack, it wasn't all that surprising that I let myself be talked into/bullied into letting my best friend continue to invite my rapist's friends to our joint birthday party. I'd bring it up, of course, how uncomfortable it made me, but to no avail. There were my tears, that didn't seem to matter to her. Because, after all, it was a party. And I should have fun. It was a standing rule that our party was an open invite to the world. It never seemed to matter that I had this crippling fear that my rapist would show up at my birthday. This year my friend decided that a girl was 'black-balled' (as she put it) from the party because she was 'an alcoholic who ruined her fun' at the party in years past. I balked. It was, simply, unfair. A child's word. My gut reaction. Unfair. Couldn't she see it? The ridiculousness, the callousness of it all? So I built up my courage for two weeks post-declaration from my friend and invited her to dinner. And I asked about her comment. And then asked if she saw any ironies between the alcoholic friend - and my rapist's friends. and she told me I was 'making her feel shitty.' That I was unfair. That she thought I was over it by now - and that she didn't think it would even be an issue anymore. She'd only invited me to throw the party with her out of pity, really, because what if no one came to celebrate my birthday if it was just a thing for me? When I said I didn't think I could continue on with the party after this year, she replied simply 'okay.' I sat in my car afterwards and cried for an hour, realizing that my friend had chosen a party over me, realizing that she had done it seven years ago - but I never wanted to acknowledge it. I realized we would grow apart after the talk - but I wasn't prepared for the fallout of standing up for myself. In the subsequent months, I've been dropped by our entire friend circle. Unfriended on Facebook. Unfollowed on Instagram. Outright ignored in public and no longer to invited to anything by the people I used to see multiple times a week for over ten years. The girl who was my best friend for thirteen years told these people about my rape (people that I had NEVER told) and how I'd 'overreacted' about the party. She was the fun one, after all. I ran into a guy that I used to speak with on a daily basis, who told me 'This is awkward. It's uncomfortable to see you - and I don't know what to do.' I'm treated as a pariah. No one tells you what the cost is for standing up for yourself when you're little. All they say is 'Stand up for yourself. Do the right thing.' But sometimes, you do the right thing - and you lose everything. And it feels like all you ever have is loss. I try to remind myself that I would rather be alone than to be surrounded by people who would put me in situations that compromise my physical/emotional well being. But some days are harder than others. I'm grateful for forums like these. - Andrea
On August 8th, 2014 while I was still 17, I was sexually assaulted, assaulted in one of the worst ways possible, and I didn't know what to do. I was so angry at myself and so disgusted, I felt worthless, I felt like piece of meat, I still do. I felt as if I was just a vagina to men, that they only wanted me for my body, that I wasn't even a person, like I was just an object. I didn't want to report it, I was trying to move on with it on my own and find my inner peace and harmony since I'm a Taoist. I worked so hard to forget the horrible crime done to me, I built the highest walls trying to forget the memories from the evening. I tried so hard, so hard. But I couldn't beat it, everyday flash backs would come back and I would lose myself, I would cry, I would get so angry, I got disgusted at myself for letting a horrible thing happen to such a strong person like me. I had told few people about my rape because I trusted them, and one day I told my friend because her father was in the same fraternity he's in and she was beyond upset, upset to the point that she dragged me to Victim Services and had me report it. And, I can not explain how grateful I am to her for that. Reporting was so hard and scary, having to relive and remember that night is so sad and heartbreaking. Having to retell the event to strangers isn't easy. It's SO HARD. It's hard because of the fact I'm still scared, I'm scared of men, I don't trust men, I fear walking places and I fear so much. But I'm so glad I did. We got the ball rolling on my case and 2 days ago, we had the hearing and he got away with it. He got away with doing one of the worst crimes ever. It was so hard to see him, to watch him lie about that night, to watch him try to diminish my character, when my character had nothing to do with him raping me. I felt and still feel injustice. I did all I could, I did EVERYTHING I could. I told my story, I went to higher power people to try to help me and I got nothing from it. I'm not bitter, well I am. But there's nothing I can change, the verdict was given and I have to go on with my life. I'm not the same person I was before, I'm forever traumatized, it sucks. It really does. But I'm a firm believer in "the way" and life is going to come back at him and bite him in the ass so hard for the things he did to me. It may be years down the road but he is going to get what he deserves. I can't dwell on the past, all I can do is move forward and live freely. Rape is horrible and it ruins people, it ruined me. - Gabby Winkler
Never in my life have I been branded a 'slut' or a 'whore' or 'bitch'. Nothing like that - because my mother would've found out and definitely put a stop to it. Sure, I have been bullied, but not like that. Because I live in such a small town - everyone in my year have known each other since we were born. It isn't a bad thing, but it isn't a good one either. When I was 16, I had no friends. This was because I was the new kid, and everyone had formed friendships at least over 10 years before I came. Half-way into the year I met a girl (let's call her Evelyn) and we quickly became very good friends. She was pretty, nice, had lovely friends, and was really popular. I was set. In October we were invited to a Halloween party. This wasn't uncommon, but exciting. We arrived and immediately I knew that it felt wrong. I wanted to leave but Evelyn wanted to stay. So I shut my mouth and did as I was told. When everyone around me was tipsy at about midnight, they formed a circle. Evelyn had been making out with a hot guy, and he stopped and threw her into the middle of the circle. They started to remove her clothing, one piece at a time, all whilst calling her names. Disgusting names were called out and spat in her face. Eventually I got through the crowd and took her home. On Monday, everyone had seen the video. Of them taking her clothes off. Of her naked. She was called a slut by her own best friends. Evelyn took her own life a month later. Please, don't slut shame. It is wrong. And if you are a victim, please tell someone so they can help you. If you see it happening, try to help. This needs to be stopped, because it is wrong and disgusting. - Lily Faulkner
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 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 was a camgirl for several years and I was open about it with my boyfriend. He was supportive of me and my expression of my body, he never acted judgmental or degrading towards me. Camming made me feel strong and sexual and dynamic and I enjoyed it. It was safe, legal, and a good source of income in college. One night my boyfriend invited me to a friend's house for a game night, proceeded to get me very drunk, and ended up sharing me with a number of people at the party. I am still not sure how many people. He video taped it and weeks later decided to show it to me as a surprise. He thought I'd like it because I was a camgirl. He thought I'd be okay watching myself get date raped because I took my clothes off on camera. His response when I screamed at him and left him was that if I had a problem being naked and sexual on camera I shouldn't be a camgirl. I quit camming, I've had impossible trust issues ever since, and what is worse is that his words affected me so deeply that I have never felt like I deserved to try and go to the police about it. I feel like I let other women down by being another woman to keep it as my dirty little secret. Well, I'm writing it now. Camming made me feel strong, like a virile sex goddess completely in control of my own body, with control over who had access to it. I let someone take that from me and it took ten years to get it back. Never be afraid to claim your body. Never be afraid to want sex, any way YOU want sex. It's yours. You belong only to you. And anyone that tries to take it from you, or make you feel guilty for claiming your sexuality, they deserve to feel shame, you deserve to be proud.
I was drugged at a party and sexually assaulted in college. The combination of drugs in my drink resulted in long lasting memory problems and the entire experience increased my anxiety and the frequency of panic attacks. I feel horrible asking my professors for extra help and special accommodations because of what was done to my brain by those drugs I never consented to taking. I feel afraid to ask them for help because I am afraid they will judge me. Everyone seems to blame me for taking a drink I was offered by a guy I thought was nice. Guys always say we judge them all too harshly, that not every guy is a rapist, yet when I do trust a man to give me a drink, he drugs it. And it's still my fault for taking it. Do men really not see the paradox here? I'm supposed to trust every man as a good guy, or at least not believe he is a bad one, yet when I do that and he hurts me, it is still MY fault!? It is infuriating. I carry a bitterness in my heart for the "good guy" who forever affected my education because he saw me as nothing more than a sex toy. Well, I will show him. No matter what he gave me, I will graduate with honors. He does not define me, I do.
I thought this year would be better, but it's worse. I hardly knew anyone at Secondary school. At first. I would hang out with Rowan usually, since I met her outside of school and we both didn't know many people. Then slowly as the weeks passed, I made lots of friends, true and fake, and introduced them to Rowan. Months later, our roles have reversed. Then the cyber bullying started. Around this point, I lost most of my girl mates, because they thought I was attention-seeking, so I made a lot of guy friends. Girls 2 years older than me would tell me I was attention-seeking, post stuff about me on Facebook, get their friends involved too, and as they were popular and older, I couldn't do anything. Then people I didn't even know told me to go die and that my parents didn't love me, I was fat, ugly, unloved, poor, a slag, a bitch, a hoe, etc. etc. Then my parents found out and reported them to the police, they left me alone afterwards. I started self harming in November because I was different, and because I felt I was being used and that I was a slag. Because in the previous summer holidays, my friends persuaded me into flashing my boobs on camera to strangers on a website. I felt like I a slut. Then this year, after multiple short relationships with guys I didn't like in that way, I found a guy (Robb) who made me smile, who made me love myself, but it sorrowfully ended. After our on and off relationships, whilst I fancied/dated him, I had a thing for several of his mates. Some of them were dating my best mates. I felt like I was a fake friend and that I was a slut too. Robb told me he loved me and tried persuading me to send him nude pictures of myself and to have sex with him. Because I thought it was love, I said yes. But I didn't send him pictures since I was on my ancient laptop. We had planned to have sex on a camping trip with our two friends who were dating (Declan and Rowan). But since he called me a hoe and fell out with me, sex never happened either. And he obviously told all his friends about our little conversation. Because I had developed faster than most of my mates I was already a C cup, nearly a D cup, whilst most of my friends were B or A. So I obviously became an object of sexual interest to many guys, including older guys. Year 9 guys would message me saying that I had a nice pair, etc. Then another ex, Joseph, asked me for pictures and sex, persuading (but failing) me with, "I'll be a good shag" & "it'll just be two best friends losing their virginity to each other". Then came the sexual touching. He would run up to me and squeeze my boobs against my will or spank me without my permission, in front of his friends of course, or touch me under the table in our lessons together. My next boyfriend, Ben, asked for a camping trip, exactly what Robb said, and I knew he wanted to coerce me into f*cking him. He told all of his mates I would do things with him and I had already done things with him, but a) I didn't plan on doing things with him & b) I hadn't done ANYTHING with him. I feel as if thanks to Robb, I won't find another guy who likes me for me, not for my boobs or for sex. Then yesterday this 14 year old guy from my older friend's primary school added me on Snapchat. He thinks I'm 14 when I'm actually 12. He is constantly asking for pictures. I have never met him in my entire life. My other friend (Ann) has told me people will think I'm a slag and I know most of my friends think it too, but they're just too nice to say so. Ever since Robb, I have been having flings with guys, leading them on, especially his mates or guys he didn't like me hanging out with, because he hurt me and despite that, I irrationally miss him. When I walk in the street, constantly guys look at my cleavage, even grown men. And my parents even think I'm a slut, my mom thinks I use Snapchat to send nudes, and she thinks my cleavage is noticeable because I made It noticeable. I'm starting to question my sexuality, I think I might be bisexual, but my parents are god-fearing people and I hear them talking about homosexuals behind their backs and it isn't nice what their saying and even my friends tell me stuff that is homophobic but they say they don't mind gays. I keep thinking about suicide and self harm. I just want it all to end, the constant judgement, ridicule, slut shaming, etc. I'm also worried about my weight a lot, I've been starving and binging & purging ever since May. For 4-5 months almost, I haven't had proper sleep, I either wake up within a few hours or sleep at 8am. Also school is about to start within a week and I know Robb has set me up as an object of ridicule and slut shaming within his social circles. I'm scared the bullying will return again, just because I had a couple of sexual hollow conversations/promises and because of my multiple short relationships where I just lead the guys on. I feel as I'm a slut because of me leading guys on, and because of the sex/picture chats. I'm sick of myself. I don't know what caused all of the sexual conversations and perversions, but I could've stopped it, I could've told someone, but I was too scared that I would get told "you wanted it" "slut!" "Your clothing was provocative" comments. It's all my fault my life is like this. Sooner or later I'll lose all my friends again, and I will give in to their coercing and persuasion. I'm only 12, yet I feel so alone. -Carol Ann Lynn 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
Because I wrote erotica, the psychologist did not think it would be possible for my ex to rape me.10/14/2019
The psychologist who was involved during the court process I was in assessed me. On the basis that I wrote erotica, she pronounced that I would have been likely to consent to anything. Because I wrote erotica, she did not think it would be possible for my ex to rape me. She used blurbs from my books to illustrate the sort of person she felt me to be - promiscuous, slutty and perverted, and thus felt it was fair to assume that I had said 'yes' to the painful and humiliating things that had been forced on me. That I was doing a job in a paying market never entered the equation, and that authors make stuff up was never considered except in so far that my ex suggested it meant nothing I said could be trusted.
I first heard the word "slut" when I was 8 and my father screamed it at my mother during a late night row. She worked part-time as a waitress and he was forever accusing her of cheating on him. So when, at 11, I was told off at school for sitting with my knees apart because "only sluts sit like that", I knew it was bad. They weren't far apart, and I was wearing tights, and I was in a girls-only school but it was apparently a crime worthy of punishment. That school also taught me that only sluts eat in public and shamed me as dirty for wearing knickers under my nightie (it was a boarding school). The rules are confusing. I grew boobs early and it turned out that made me a slut, too. The worst was when I invited a girl from school to stay over and she wasn't allowed to because her mother thought I was a slut because of the way my breasts looked in my school uniform. The T-shirts clung and the poorly designed blouses popped open if I forgot to safety pin them closed. Boys at school were not that unkind to me, to be honest. I got remarks on my breasts, mostly when I ran (so I stopped doing that). An uncle fondled my breasts when we were alone watching TV one night, on the pretext of petting the cat sitting on my lap. A male friend of my parents stuck his tongue in my mouth when kissing me for the New Year, then mocked me for not having experience. These things I understood were somehow my fault, and my shame. I did not flirt, I did not dress provocatively (I wore a gunmetal grey, drop-waist dress to a school dance for example. Basically a grey sack. I did not get asked to dance). I understood I MUST NOT LEAD BOYS ON or the consequences would be MY FAULT. But it didn't help: I was raped as a 17-year-old virgin. He thanked me afterwards. I didn't tell anyone. - Robyn
People often think that rapists are strangers in dark alleys; they aren't. My rapist happened to be one of my closest friends. He felt guilty, not for raping me, but for cheating on his girlfriend, so he told her we had sex. More and more people found out and soon the whole school was calling me a "whore" and a "slut" and tweeting about how disgusting I was. How was I supposed to tell my school full of strangers that I had been raped and didn't deserve the name calling? Victims should never feel more ashamed than the rapist. After being called these names, I realized no girl deserves to feel that way. You never know what she was pressured into or what she didn't agree to; you never know her side of the story. Regardless of if a girl is raped or if she willingly partakes in sexual activity, she doesn't deserve to be called a slut. If a girl wants to have consensual sex, she should be able to without being bullied. - Taylor
Sophomore year there was a guy I met and felt that I trusted enough to fool around with. We went over things we expected from each other and things we refused to do, as I feel all sexually intimate people should do, and we decided we were going to "do it". When we started, it was okay, but he was off and I felt uncomfortable almost immediately. I didn't stop him, not wanting to upset him, and felt that I had to go through with the encounter because I had already okayed it. However, my unease grew as he started to strip me quickly, not even bothering to try to get me worked up. He bent me over, and forced himself inside of me where I had told him not to without any warning. I begged for him to stop, and eventually stopped begging, instead withdrawing into myself and mentally cut myself off from what was occurring to my body. He did more to me, and eventually finished. Afterward I reached out to a couple of my friends, but they laughed it off, not seeing the pain I was in or the damage it did to me. Even worse was when I lied about my encounter to a police officer who was investigating another girl's rape. It wasn't until this past summer when I told my current boyfriend about it that I found someone who cared and was willing to help me through it. Even so, I still hate myself for it, and I can't help but feel that it was my fault.
Before I was raped, I had been fun loving, dated a lot, went out a lot and enjoyed myself, much to the disdain of a large majority of my church community. After my rape (and still now) I don't go out a lot, I haven't had a relationship with anyone and I don't drink, at all. I suffer with crippling anxiety and it just makes it hard for me to do anything. When I finally felt comfortable enough to share with a member of my church that I had been raped, her first words to me were "I know it seems like this was an awful thing that happened to you, but can't you see that God's hand was in this, He brought you back to the right path." As I sat there shocked beyond belief this lady prayed for me, thanking God that he had allowed me to see the error of my ways. I already carried a lot of guilt over my assault, I had been drunk, I was walking home alone and it was late, but I was working through this with my therapist. Now I'm just back in the dark place where I just feel like I brought this on myself, that God himself was so disgusted with me that he let this happen. If I hadn't been so 'loose', so 'easy', this wouldn't have happened. I can't go back to that church, I don't ever leave the house now unless I have to. I only opened up about what happened to me in the hope that I would be able to further my healing, and now I don't think that I ever will.
I have survived. It has been hard. Let me start at the beginning: I was a happy child of high school sweetheart parents with a happy childhood. I started developing quickly at 11, completely bypassing the training-bra stage and about a foot taller than my classmates. I had frizzy hair, glasses, and a body I didn't know what to do with. I covered myself in baggy T-shirts and pants as much as I could. Partying wasn't in my mind, I did my homework, went to dance class and enjoyed time with my family. School was a torment, teachers loved me, but classmates despised me. One boy, Preston - ugh it still shakes me to this day - filled his sweet time in our math class by slipping his hands across my thighs and 'accidentally' getting good handfuls of my chest all while lowly chanting, "You like that, don't you?" I quietly told him to stop, but I wasn't the type to make a scene and he fully took advantage of that. He liked to whisper about it in the halls to his equally scummy friends when I would walk by.
I did not date until later in high school, the first being a new boy from Arizona who, frankly, I was equally attracted to and scared of, mostly because I had never dated before. He pursued me for an entire school year. I fended off his advances, but his charm finally stuck. He was supposedly a "nice Christian boy," so I after I got my drivers license that summer I went to see him. He told me his parents were home. As he rushed me through his house into his room, I didn't get a chance to see if his parents were absent but I figured they were. I was already feeling put-off. Once in his room he awkwardly sat me on the bed and pushed me down, kissing me. I did want him to like me but I was so disconnected, the innocent kissing quickly turned into his hands down the front of my jeans, which he didn't even bother to unbutton. I lay there completely frozen for what seemed like hours, but it was probably more like 10 minutes. I shot up and out of his house, hopped in my car and went back home, not sure what to do with myself. I was inundated with many angry calls and texts from him telling me to get back there. I finally answered him and said, "No, I'm not comfortable." I cried all night, not sure if what I did was good or bad, maybe I should have stayed, is that what other girls did? It didn't matter. He managed to tell everyone in our circle of friends I was "easy." It escalated from there. Guys were giving me sly grins and girls I had never talked to gave me dirty looks. AIM and MySpace were just beginning and my inbox was full of comments that I deleted left and right. Then and there I chose to never date anyone from my school, quickly changing their harsh comments from "slut" to "tease." Even though it seemed like a lesser term, it still stung. How was I teasing anyone? I started dating an older guy from across town who had already graduated. The slut shaming didn't stop after high school. I went off to college still dating my high school sweetie, but getting restless. I spent my first semester holed up in my dorm room working on art projects. I didn't drink, but I was the unhappy DD most nights for my friends. They berated me and after hearing it for so long I finally said, "Okay." My boyfriend didn't like the fact I was away at college doing God knows what, which ironically wasn't anything at all. So finally I called it quits after 3 years with him during my second semester, and decided to finally have my crazy-college-time. Generally I would wake up in my bed, the sorority couch, or in my car, but there were occasions of waking up next to a male collegiate without his name and my pants either missing or undone and no recollection. This, I assumed, was the "college experience," and for the most part I didn't find it troubling. I had a couple of flings here and there, nothing crazy. One instance, though, will forever haunt me more than the rest. Our annual sorority formal was coming up and I was date-less so the sisters decided to set me up. I knew I could have plenty of fun with just the girls, but they insisted. I met up with him a few days prior to the formal. He picked me up and we went for a drive in his truck and talked for a bit. He seemed cool, but I wasn't really into him. He was quite a bit older, about 33 at the time, back in college after his stint in the military, with thinning hair and a crooked grin. I'm not about stringing guys along but since he seemed genuinely excited to go to the formal, I kept the date. He picked me up in a good mood, from what I could tell. We got there and several of the sisters were already a few drinks in, so they felt I needed to catch up. The night wore on and I didn't manage to drink more than a drink and a half at most, but I was feeling light-headed. We headed to an after party at a frat house and that's where things get hazy. I only mildly recall getting there and nothing about leaving. I woke up in a room I didn't recognize, completely naked, and there he was in the nude lying next to me. I couldn't move for several minutes but when I did, I realized every muscle was sore. I tip-toed to the bathroom in search of my clothes and tried to dress in between getting sick into his toilet. I got out as quietly as I could. It was still in the early morning hours. I went home and quickly tried to put it out of my mind. My grades started slipping, I was drinking every night, slept through most of my classes, and couldn't sleep - pretty much every opposite trait of myself. Finally that summer, I called my parents. I wanted to come home. I hopped around in junior college, still struggling. I also hopped therapists. My first therapist sat me down with my parents and told them about my "alleged rape" and all I could do was cry. I found my third therapist and she completely opened up my thought process. She deals in PDT therapy and works with those dealing with traumatic experiences and she completely helped me save myself. I am now in a successful career as an esthetician, engaged to the most loving and thankful man I have ever met, and I have a bulldog pup that is the light of my life. I still battle demons, but I can tell you IT DOES GET BETTER. - Beth Brasher I have friends I've relied on for 15 years - that's rare for a military brat. Recently, on a girls' weekend, I shared the story of my rape to them. I've learned things don't get smaller till you say them out loud. We worked together when I was raped, and it was someone they knew. It was brutal and I'm embarrassed, and it's still weird for anyone to touch my hair. Interrupting me, one of the girls said, "This girl I knew in college...". I said, "I don't like where this is going..." But she said she was always surprised that this bad, stupid girl never got raped. I want to confront my friend, but I love her. And I don't see ever changing her mind.
I still have nightmares. I was 14 when it happened. I had hardly even kissed a boy. It started out like any normal day. I went to school. I remember being in a really good mood. After school, I walked to the park with my "best friend," who was a guy. It was his birthday. We weren't the kind of friends to give each other presents, but what I didn't know is that he expected one. We got to the park and sat at a picnic table near some trees. People passing by couldn't see us unless they looked really hard. But I didn't think about it . He was my best friend . I trusted him. So I went to the park with him alone. For that, I was "asking for it." Then he surprised me: he kissed me. I didn't run away, I didn't stop him. It was only a kiss. He wanted something I wasn't willing to give him. "I'm your best friend, don't you trust me?" He pressured me over and over. I didn't get up and run away. I trusted him. For that, it was "my fault." I said no. Over and over I said no. I was getting ready to go home. I should have gone sooner. And for that, you guessed it. "It was my fault." And so he raped me. Rape. For the longest time, I never used that word. I hated it. I still do. When he was finished, he went to track practice. He didn't understand or care what he had done to me. I walked home, locked myself in my room. The next day at school, nothing seemed different. I went to my classes like normal. I didn't notice people whispering or giving me dirty looks. Then I went to art class, 5th hour. I was trying so hard to not think about the day before. We were drawing animals that day, I think. I heard two girls at the next table fake coughing out the word "Whore." One of them I had known since kindergarten. I looked up and realized they were looking at me. This was the beginning. My "best friend" had told the whole school that I had willingly done a variety of sexual acts with him. And because he was such a nice guy, and well liked, they high-fived him. Patted him on the back. And believed him. But no one high-fived me for what they THOUGHT I had done. I spent the rest of the year being called a whore, slut, anything you can think of. I was the star of half the rumors in that school. I had nightmares, I got anxiety. I finally got up the courage to tell someone. It was my brother, at the same school. He told me it was my fault. I was so relieved when school let out for the summer, because it would all go away and I could move on. But it followed me, online. Anytime someone saw me. There was no escape. I tried to kill myself. It never went away. When I came back for school the next year it was still happening. People I had known for years saw me crying and would say, "It's your fault." Finally, I switched schools. At first, it followed me there. I was hopeless. Then slowly, it went away. But what never went away is the nightmares. The anxiety. Almost every night I see his face in my sleep. I'm about to graduate high school and I sleep with a nightlight, because no matter how much anxiety medicine I take , he's still there. But he hasn't stolen my voice. This is my first time telling my full story. And not my last. The UnSlut Project has given me hope. It isn't my fault. And I am not what happened to me.
Since "sluts don't get to say no," I didn't even know what had happened until much later.10/11/2019
I'm a 35-year-old woman who still bears the scars from the sexual bullying that I endured for years. I was 12 when it started, long before I had even kissed a boy, and only because I was friends with a lot of guys, and their girlfriends got jealous and hostile. Later people just shared the stories, because that is what you do with gossip. When I finally began to develop it was an overnight thing, one day nada, the next day 36 C, and then people really felt the need to discuss me. The level of rumors that went around stemmed from the relatively normal go-to's of "she's pregnant" or "she cheated" to the completely absurd. I was sexually harassed, sexually assaulted (groped), and even raped, but since "sluts don't get to say no," I didn't even know what had happened until much later. Therefore, when I started talking about it, no one believed me. People also used the story of my rape to further my reputation as a slut, which was re-victimization to a degree that I still don't like thinking about. This went on well past graduation, in fact, when I came home for one of my friend's graduations the year after my own graduation, I was asked by a half dozen people that first day if I was pregnant, because they had heard that I was. I had left home, and they were still talking about me. I stopped coming home to visit, I just couldn't deal with it. My favorite part of the whole ordeal is that people still constantly tell me to "just get over it", like it's no big deal that at the time that I was supposed to be forming my identity, people told vicious lies about my sexual life over and over again, for years, turning me into a pariah! I'd love to ask how you keep that from affecting you? I am stronger for all that I went through, I understand that... However, it has made me hyper-aware of how I'm perceived by others to this day. It isn't that I care about what they think about me or even what they say about me now, and I'm the first person to call out slut-shaming (to the extreme annoyance of everyone that I know), I just can't help but take in the looks and whispers. (I should also share that I had to move back to my hometown recently, bringing it all back to the surface for me, right around the time you started sharing your journals.) The biggest problem for me stems from the fact that it seems like that ugly name follows me without even being said. Men don't want to date me or form a relationship, they only want to sleep with me, and I don't know how to deal with that. It is as if the label permeates to my core, and that scarlet letter glows. Within relatively recent history I have been groped at work, my perceived sex life has been discussed, and I've even been coerced into sexual activity, something that I thought I was past as an adult... What all of this has taught me is that I do not let anyone tell me who I am now. I know that I'm a loyal friend who is intelligent and funny, that I deserve good things from life, and no one can take that away from me. My sexuality is my own, and it is not up for discussion. My history is just that, history, but some of it still stings, as past hurts often do. Unfortunately, it took me a really long time to get there, and there are still times as mentioned above where some of that strength slips from me. Thank you for everything you do! - B
This is you now because this is what everyone keeps telling you you are. And it's your fault.10/10/2019
PTSD feels like a black hole. One that you try your best to climb out from only to feel yourself sink back into. You open your eyes everyday and want to turn off the sun. The mirrors in your house become enemies, showing you how tired and worthless you feel. Your skin crawls and feels heavy every time you go outside. Every time someone brushes up against you, every social interaction feels disgusting. It feels like you've just dunked yourself into the filthiest, most repugnant dumpster you've ever had the misfortune to smell in your life, you run a mile with the slime against your skin, you sleep in it for two weeks, and then try to just go on with your daily life without the ability to wash it off. Because you can't. Because this is you now - repulsive trash. This is you now because this is what everyone keeps telling you you are. And it's your fault. And you had better just stop crying about it. That's what PTSD felt like to me. I had gone through a year and a half of therapy to repair the trauma of a sexual assault against me by a teacher when I was seven, only to be raped by a friend in a state of vulnerability in the middle of my healing. I wanted to be angry for a long time. At my parents, at my friends, at anyone who told me they were "so sorry". It all seemed very hopeless. I tried to file a report with the police but they scoffed at my inability to speak in full sentences about my experiences. I tried to tell my family but they were so ashamed of themselves they couldn't bear to keep on about the subject. I tried to tell my friends but they were at a loss for words apart from their apologies. I just wanted to find him. I wanted to find this teacher and tell him what a piece of shit he was. I wanted to find him and tell the world what a monster he was. But I couldn't find him and no one could help me find him. One friend actually told me he could find him. I was drunk and crying, spilling my guts. Next thing I know, I'm passed out waking up periodically, trying to put my clothes back on only to have him take them off again. This time I wasn't going to let this go. While I was still too fragile to go to the police again (what with the way they reacted the first time), I decided to find help sooner another way. I told my friends. I found support. And when I was ready I found him and I told him everything I wanted to tell my first attacker. I told him that I wished scum like him didn't walk the earth. That if there were fewer people like him everyone could sleep easier. That no one knows what he is but I did and I felt sorry for the people he was fooling because they wouldn't realize what he was until it's too late. That I know in my heart he will die alone and with no one to genuinely love him because he has a rancid soul. And as I walked away, I could breath a sigh of relief. It wasn't jail time, it wasn't a formal punishment, but it was enough for me for the time being. Yes, it was so hard for people to understand. I felt alone for a long time. After years of recounting the tale no one wanted to listen any more. Everyone just wanted me to be okay. At this point in my life I don't hold these things against those people. I wish still some days that I had gotten formal justice for the crimes that were committed against me. I support causes such as this one and blog about my recovery in an attempt to dole out consolation and advice. Because for me, while my struggle was long and the healing arduous, I have come to accept that the things (though many) that have occurred in my life do not define who I am. I don't stand by the label of "survivor" because to be a survivor at one point you must have been a victim. I also don't care to victimize myself. Yes, these things that have happened to me were horrible. But the events are no longer occurring, and to fully progress and move forward I can't sit here and beg justice from a world that can never provide it. I find justice now solely in my own recovery, happiness, and peace. I win everyday that I continue to move on with my life, what I want, without revolving around what has happened. I'm not a victim, a survivor, or a hero. I was raped twice in my life and I've come to terms with that fact. I know that our flawed laws, judicial systems, and society need help in achieving ways to prevent these things from happening. But until then, I'm happy knowing that what's happened is now behind me and that I can be of some comfort to those who need it as they're healing. There are always going to be bad people in the world. The best thing you can do is find the good ones and support each other.
When I was 22, I became friends with a dangerous man, JC. At the time, I was trying to escape an abusive relationship with a man I'll call SP that had gone on since high school. JC saw the vulnerable position I was in and how I was completely isolated without any support system. We were platonic for months until he pushed me to become sexually involved with him. The first time was not consensual since I was too intoxicated to resist or remember. I never intended to start sleeping with him. However, my abusive long-term partner, SP, had called me a slut so many years, I automatically blamed myself. I convinced myself JC and I must have romantic feelings for each other for the first incident to happen. This toxic new "friendship" with JC continued as I became increasingly aware that he is a dangerous felon with violent, jealous tendencies, even more vitriolic than SP. I would tell JC I no longer wanted to sleep with him but he would wear me down every time. I was afraid of both men and that, if either became enraged, someone was going to get hurt. Having been abused by SP for so long, I was completely isolated and saw nowhere to get help. Finally, after trying to back away slowly for months from both of these men, I told JC I was cutting off our physical involvement for good. That night, he sent SP a text message to incite a jealous rage. JC then took my phone and keys and hid them saying I wouldn't be safe leaving since SP would get me. JC knew if I left I'd have nowhere else to go. He then trapped me against my will for over 12 hours. In that time, he demanded sex over and over, dozens of times. As I refused, he became increasingly violent until I feared for my life. I had to stop resisting if I wanted to survive. JC then proceeded to rape me repeatedly as the night went on. I was too afraid to go to the police. I also blamed myself, that none of this would have happened if I wasn't a slut. SP finally left me alone and moved away. However, JC continues to stalk me, re-traumatizing me every time. I've received an official PTSD diagnosis and symptoms persist almost four years after the worst incident. Two summers ago, JC came to my professional school to become a patient as soon as I entered the clinical portion of my doctorate program. By then, the protective order laws had changed in my home state to allow someone to take one out against a previous romantic partner without having to share children or a residence with the person, and without having to press additional charges. Before I testified in court to get a protective order, I was warned the judge was extremely disapproving of premarital sex. The commonwealth attorney told the judge she believed me and was ready to prosecute for the abduction and rape. JC had an attorney who didn't even deny that the rape occurred. The attorney actually said, "Some may say rape is an injury, but he didn't actually hurt her." The judge was buying none of it and was on my side until JC brought a witness forward who said I "kind of had another boyfriend." At that point the judge said, "You put him in that situation. You can't really stop him if he wants to come to your school." He then dismissed the protection order, all because the judge agreed that I'm a slut, undeserving of any protection or sympathy. Now I'm about to become a licensed healthcare professional. Wherever I work will be public knowledge. All JC will have to do is search my name online to find me the next time. I have no confidence he wouldn't hurt me again. Regardless, the PTSD symptoms are a still a daily struggle, especially knowing I am still vulnerable.
Hi my name is Caitlyn and this is my story: I am currently in the 8th grade and I am 13. A few years ago I was raped by my mom's ex and his best friend. My mom never found out until last summer. In 7th grade I told one of my "best friends" about it and then it spread around the whole school like a wildfire. People were calling me "slut," "whore," "nasty," "gross," "useless," so I started self-harming. Nobody liked me. Nobody talked to me or anything. During last summer someone started a hate page on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram about me and it got back to my mom. She immediately called the police and they got involved so I had to go in for questioning and that's when I had to tell my mom. She was disappointed that I didn't tell her but she understood. Well, during the summer we ended up moving to a different county, hoping that it would help, but it didn't. It caught up with me. I get bullied every day and I cry myself to sleep. I cut numerous times a day (which no one knows). I just don't wanna live but I don't wanna give my bullies the satisfaction of killing myself. I have to go to court next week and face my rapists which is scary, but I have to. If they are found guilty (which they are) they will be sentenced to 25 years in prison plus more if they raped anyone else. I know this is nothing like your story which I am currently reading, but it's similar. The hate page is still up and the police are currently trying to figure out who started it and take it down and that's my story.
I went to the University of Toronto hoping to have a wonderful college experience. Unfortunately, that wasn't at all what came to be. I was at a party in my first semester where I was sexually assaulted. I only had sex once in my life prior and completely blamed myself for the situation because I froze. I didn't realize at the time that I was acting on instinct, him being 6'4 and myself under 5'4. Yet immediately after the rumours spread throughout the college, and for a long time, I believed them. I was called a slut for having sex in the washroom by both girls and guys, by people who knew me and people I'd never met. A man started harassing me, encouraging the older students to chant 'slut' at me at parties. The man who sexually assaulted me started harassing me in public, yelling at me. When I went to my friends for support, they demonstrated how cruel girls can be, and sided with him. They carried on about how nice he was, how he would never do anything like that. I lost all my friends, I lost respect from others and for myself. Always described as an outgoing, warm and bubbly person, I spiraled into a deep depression and waking up and continuing with school and life seemed impossible. He was in my program and I was forced to see him in classes, at exams, and in my residence. I moved back home, I transferred to a different campus and have very few positive memories from my university experience. Four years later and after treatment, I have finally overcome what happened. I graduated my program in 4 years and graduated with lots of job offers and am so happy with where I am in life. I refuse to let those people be anything more in my life than they already have. What bothers me now, is that even today so many young women and men do not understand the severity of sexual assault. That highly educated young people can be so ignorant and forgiving. Rapists are criminals and sexual assault is criminal behaviour, however to me, the support of rape culture was almost just as horrible as the assault itself. Thank you very much for your work here.
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