i am alive. i live and breath life. i was fifteen. he was my boyfriend of six months. month two was when i was first bruised. this started my long dark road of drugs to avoid reality. month six was when i was slammed on my back and raped. it was not the most brutal rape ever. and i am not the most scarred person from being raped. two months later i realized i was pregnant. a doctor confirmed it. a month later i woke in the middle of the night. bleeding. my baby was miscarried. docotor said the drugs had not helped. a month later i broke up with him. he never knew of the baby. he moved away a short while later. i had been okay after the rape. i managed to fake living. but the miscarrage i could not handle. i locked myself up inside. i started at a new school for unrelated reason. no friends were made. i watched the floor when i walked, fearful eye contact with anyone would lead to bad things. i managed to get over it. i dated some goofy guy for few weeks. i even allowed him to kiss me. then i was faced with a serious relationship. it ultimatly lasted a year and a half. when things first got truly sexual between us, i told him about the rape, not the baby. things slowed down on that level (sexual). he took everything so slow. but when he said he loved me (and i believe he did) i freaked. the guy who raped me was the only one to ever say that. and i didnt freak in an obvious way. i just slow sunk back into that hole. he began to see. he took me away to minnesota (from GA where we lived). we didnt tell people we were leaving, so there is no need to mention the trouble we faced when we returned. but those five days while we were gone, i managed to fear all the demons in me from the rape and most of the ones form the baby. and i was able to make love with him (much to his suprise). on return we were not allowed to see each other (Romeo and Juliet?). and seperation changed him. we are no longer together. our break up sent me spinning. i ended up reckless sleeping with another guy. and the act with him was terrifying. no other guy gives me the comfort he did. i am back to where i was before almost. and i am again afraid....
 

***If you are a SRA survivor, please take a moment to decided whether to read this story. It may trigger.***

Right now I am using all the courage I can muster to put this story into words that I know someone else might read. I will try to make this coherent.

The first time I accused anyone of sexually abusing me, I accused my father. I told two friends (one of which would later become my husband) that I thought I was pregnant with my father's child. Somewhere deep inside I knew this wasn't true. Plus, I didn't have any real memories of ever being abused by my father. I didn't have any memories of being abused by anyone, and I knew that I hadn't been sexually active. So, it was just the only thing I knew to say. They bought me a test, and I told them it came out negative and swore them to secrecy.

Later on that year, I took myself to the ER begging to be admitted to the hospital. I told them I was suicidal to get myself admitted. So, for the next two months, I was In-patient in a wonderful adolescent psych unit. I wasn't like other teens there though. I didn't want out. They had to FORCE me to leave the unit. It was the only safe place I knew (even though I didn't understand what I was being kept safe from). Well, my friends told my mother about my father abusing me. It was terrible. Nobody believed me when I said I made it up. I had to swear in writing before they would drop criminal charges. Everyone was so sure that he had done this terrible thing. Luckily, he was not mad at me. We did struggle, but he somehow understood that there was something going on that didn't have anything to do with him. They let me go home and transferred me to a Partial hospitalization program for a couple of months. I really trusted these people though. They were like the only family I ever wanted.

They broke my trust by sending me to a Residential treatment facility to finish High School. I did not fit there in MAJOR ways. I was terrified. This was nothing like the hospital. If anyone has ever lived in a place like this, then they understand what I mean. You are always on your best behavior 'cause if you do anything wrong, you either get your privileges taken away by the staff, or even worse - you have to face the wrath of your peers. Halfway through my stay there I started self- mutilating. I have heard that described as "silent screams". I would say that description is appropriate. I was withering and shrinking into myself.

A few weeks after I was released from the Residential program, I attempted suicide. I was admitted again to the same hospital. While I was there I told them that I was starting to have memories of a boy that had raped me and having a miscarriage. I was having pictures in my head that I couldn't quite make out, but were scaring me. I pleaded with my doctor to do hypnosis or something. I was willing to do anything to get help. He said, "...to stop focusing on my problems and start getting ready for college." So, I did.

Three years later, I married. I was in college, and he was in the Navy. It seemed great. He was very supportive and understanding of all my problems. Of course, he only had to really deal with things a couple of weeks at a time when he had leave and could visit. He held me through flashbacks, and tried to teach me that it was okay to be sexual (as I had never been with anyone willingly before). He was even the one who had introduced me to Tori Amos' music.

Towards the end of that school year, I started falling apart again. I decided to move to where my husband's ship was stationed for the summer and I withdrew from school. At first, things were as they had always been. He had to go to work, but it was okay. Being a housewife actually appealed to me (even thought I was only 20). However, the calm did not last. I was "switching" all the time. All of a sudden I would be acting like a three year old. Then, a teen-ager, a prostitute, a run-away, etc... When I started leaving the house in the middle of the night and fighting with my husband to the point of violence, he pretty much insisted that I get help.

Suddenly, I had all these different parts of me acting out one by one. They were like different people altogether. Soon enough, we found out that they were different people. These were all parts of me created and separated from each other at different times in my life to deal with situations that I could not. The twenty- four thousand dollar question was, "What could have been THAT bad that I couldn't deal with?" I couldn't remember.

I left my husband a year later. He had won my trust, and the trust of these different parts of me, but had used me (and them),and abused me (and them). He was uncannily manipulative. I was torn in pieces not being able to reconcile his behavior with what he had shown me in the past.

He followed me a short while later. I let him back into my life for whatever stupid reason. After he had been back a while, I was ready to call it quits but couldn't. It was so hard to do it the first time when I could put distance between us! He gave me reason to. He told me that while we had been separated, he had cheated on me. He said that I was selfish in our sexual relationship and that I bored him. I took this in, and even agreed with him! ("sick, sick. holding onto his picture...dressing up everyday") A few weeks later, he raped me. No excuses. He didn't even know he had done anything wrong! He probably just thought I was giving him what he wanted for a change. I never saw him after that. I told him over the phone that I didn't want to see him, and then I filed for divorce.

I was in therapy again by then. WITHOUT digging for anything (using hypnosis, or doing any other type or recovery work), I finally started to remember what had happened to me. All the pieces started falling into place for the first time.

What I remember is called "ritual abuse". This means that I was involved in, or witness to, rituals involving rape, torture, murder, cannibalism, and abuse. If you don't understand how this could happen, I am telling you that it does. If you don't believe it happens, I ask you only to respect that this was my experience. Since the age of four, this was the part of my life I had no memory of. The cult taught you what they wanted you to know in harsh and permanent ways. It is very common in child abuse to threaten to kill you if you told what was going on. Well, in the cult, they would kill someone in front of you, or make you participate in their death so that you would feel that threat in every fiber of your being. For me, I know that there was also self-destruct programming if I told anyone what happened to me. Every time I tell, I have strong (and sometimes unbearable) urges to kill myself. You see, they try to make things as surreal as possible, so that even if you remember, you won't believe it. It is very hard to share with others because if you don't always understand or believe, why would anyone else? How could you expect rescue if you didn't even think anybody would believe you? I had to forget these things in order to survive. Moving up in the ranks of these sick people meant greater amounts of pain, and more parts of myself being shattered. When I told my therapist, she was relieved in a way. You see, she had been suspecting this, but unable to say anything for fear of corrupting my memories. She told me not to be surprised if I remembered things even worse than this, however. I thought she was nuts!!! What could be worse than being manipulated by pure evil?

What I thought wasn't possible happened. I remembered something worse. I learned how I "ôescaped" the cult at the age of sixteen, and why I checked myself in to the hospital. I took a set of memories that were very conflicting and pulled them into a reality I wish I could forget again. For days I had a nagging thought in my mind that I had given birth to a baby. My accusations against my father were present in my head, as were the "memories" I had of the boy from the hospital and having the miscarriage. However, I knew that I had not been abused by my father, and there were things about the other memories that were just not right. I had to understand that when I accused these others it was to protect my memories of what really happened. I don't know what the effects could have been if I had originally know the truth. I mean, I remember being raped, and I remembered blood, but the boy didn't fit. It wasn't the boy. The blood wasn't right either. I just knew that I had a BABY. In a rush, I realized what happened. It was a boy from the cult who had raped me (kind of like a date-rape), and a leader who had beaten me so badly that I went into labor. After the "labor" he took my baby away. I was still lying on the floor very disoriented. When they came back with her she was screaming (so I know she was alive), and he smashed her head into the rock (of the floor, or the wall - I can't decipher which). She was dead. I had never even held her, and she was dead. I was forced to "clean up the mess", and then paraded around as an example. I was being punished for getting pregnant outside of ritual. They banished me and left me for dead, bleeding figuratively and literally. No wonder I needed an escape.

It has been more than a year since I have recalled all of this. I am on disability because I cannot work or go to school. I still have extreme bouts of depression and times when I am suicidal. I still self-mutilate. The flashbacks are just as vivid. Sometimes I can feel the ropes around my wrists and ankles. I can go into a sort of psychosis where I do not even know where I am. I do not call myself a survivor because I am still living with it. I have not yet survived what has happened to me. When I read other survivor's stories and they feel hopeless, there is nothing more I can give except the knowledge that they are not alone.

I needed to write this because in my time on the internet I have run into other SRA survivors, but never do I run into any Tori-philes who speak of it. I know you are out there, and I want you to know that you are not alone. Thank you for reading my story and letting me speak.

blue girl
blue_girl_@hotmail.com
 

"everyone has the right to tell the truth about her own life" ellen bass and laura davis

Last April we moved to this town, this beautiful little haven in northern canada, somebody's heaven, my personal hell, the eighth move in three years. I didn't go back to school. Sixteen was a hard year for me and it was about to get infinitely worse. I had always had this reputation, as a "bad girl" and it didn't change here. I was just very forward with my knowledge about and enjoyment of sex.

We met him at church. My mom was in search of someone to cook for the soup kitchen. And he was there, saying he was a professional chef and could make something. But he was living in a tent, so needed a kitchen. My mom gave him our number. And he called. I can't even remember how it came about, but next thing I knew he was moving in with us. (vaguely it may have had to do with the cold and the fact he lived in a tent)My mother converted the dining room and suddenly he was a part of my everyday. It was May..the worst month of my life.

He was 30. He smoked pot. He took me along on his fake "jobs". This meant a trip across the river, where he would smoke up with me as a witness that he went to work (whatever that was)He was interested in my boyfriend, whether i was a virgin, if i liked sex, everything. He asked the same questions of my friends. To my friends, he was just a guy who lived at my house who was sometime mean to me and my brother. My mom goes out of town on business trips every two weeks. He was the babysitter.. and he loved the power.

I will never forget that first night she was gone. My brother had gone camping with his class.I slept in my mother's bed that night. He raped me in my own mother's bed. This continued for three weeks, increasing in intensity.

I broke up with my boyfriend. I tried to sneak out of my house, to escape him. He seemed to try to justify his actions by saying he was going to take me away and marry me.. I could not imagine a worse fate. My mom could probably sense something was off in her home.

He would betray us all.. we allowed him into our home, to be a part of our family and he did this. Then one day, he was gone. Driving the family truck out of town while we were out of the house. Gone. I wandered around this quaint town and saw the ugly in everyone. And I killed what was left in me, whatever he hadn't stolen.

It took me seven days to go to the police, thanks to the encouragement of a friend. More humiliation, with the doctor searching for physical evidence i had long since washed away and the police requiring every detail for their files. I was picked apart. I fell apart. But he was gone. Disappeared. To hurt others. Then the possibilities began to course through me.."did he do this to my brother? my mom? my friends? did he have diseases?"

And God has always been one to kick me when i was down. I spiralled into drunken despair and one day while drunk i was assaulted again, by a also drunk tourist on the street. I had never felt dirtier. So sex became my weapon. I was already dead, what could they do to me. It was my suicide attempt. My victim support worker was strength for me.

I am not healed so maybe as yet i am still not a survivor. And i know this story deteriorated in its descriptiveness as i went along but it hurts still.

Please visit my web page
 

Names have not been changed, no way in hell will I protect these guys.

It was late November, ten days after my sixteenth birthday. I was standing in the school parking lot waiting for my friend to give me a ride when a red car pulled up beside me. Damon, a "friend" of mine, jumps out and starts talking to me, telling me Matt (my ex) was looking for me, that they had something special to show me. I wasn't a total innocent, I thought they were referring to drugs. I hopped in the car with them, and we rode off to Matt's house. I imagined the new mind- expanding substance we were about to take.

We got to Matt's and Damon puls out a bag of pot. I was very disappointed, but smoked with them anyway. We went to Matt's bedroom and they started playing guitar, Pink Floyd, Nirvana (I should have known what was up when they played "Polly") and then Damon put the guitar down and sat beside me, put his arm around me asked me to stay a while. I made excuses, my mom was expecting me home, I had to go to work, etc. Matt sat on the other side of me, arm across my shoulder, telling me how he knew I'd always wanted two guys at once. He kissed me, and I kissed him back, after all, he was my ex-boyfriend, I was stoned, and I was sure he wouldn't let anything bad happen to me. I almost didn't realize he had undone my overalls. Then Damon was over me with a bullwhip, trying to tie my hands together. It was still a joke to me, but my fear was growing. Damon made a reference to me giving him oral sex, I said something about biting it off, and then he showed me his knife. "I'd slit your throat if you did anything like that." Then he changed, he was trying to coax me into sex. I kept saying no, I had to get home. "Well," he said, "I am your ride, how will you get home if I don't take you?" After seeing the knife, I was scared he really would hurt me, so I didn't say a word as he took my clothes off. And Matt didn't say a word as he watched us, strumming his guitar, while tears streaming down my face, eyes closed, not wanting to remember Damon's body over mine, his face as he did it. I still don't know whether he used a condom. They took me home, I thought it was over. I called some friends and freaked, while they cried with me and told me it wasn't my fault. One of my friend's sister told me to go to the police, but I doubted they would have believed me, two against one, and I was high.

Some people I told didn't try to keep quiet, and eventually the whole extended group knew. Some taunted me, said I was a lying slut. Some didn't say anything, some were supportive. The day after, when I started my new job, Matt had heard what I was saying. He called me at work and informed me that I hadn't been raped. His definition of rape: "Rape is when three guys kidnap you out of your bed, throw you in a ditch and two of them hold you down while the other one fucks you." Even though I was somewhat blaming myself, I knew that was twisted and totally untrue.

So charges were never filed, I was in therapy for two years, and I lost many of my so-called friends. But I am stronger now, and less trusting, which is a blessing and a curse. But if I ever see them again, I know I will break down and sob, be just as vulnerable as the day it happened. But I don't feel weak for that, because it's just a release, and it will never all be released. What upsets me the most is that EVERY GIRL I KNOW HAS BEEN RAPED OR MOLESTED. It doesn't matter what their upbringing or lifestyle, this is a problem that must be stopped. So if you have been raped or molested, GO TO THE HOSPITAL TO GET IT ON FILE!!!!!! You don't have to file charges right away, and even though you're scared and upset, you will feel better in the long run for doing it.

~~~WE MUST PUT A STOP TO THIS~~~