After he got cut off at the bar, I dragged him home, and mentioned that I liked his friend Sheri we had met up with that night. He slurred back at me, "Sheri's a slut, just like you". I wish I could say that I dropped his drunk ass in the street there, told him that "slut" was a word made up by men to control and shame women, packed a suitcase and left that night, but I didn't. Instead I took him home, brought him water and some toast by the bedside ("I don't need this, I just need to sleep") and lay down next to him. In the morning he remembered nothing, and I recited this incident. He said "sorry", but nothing about this being a problem, that this had happened before, and that he wanted to change his behavior. And this was a pattern. There was the time he yelled and me and then started crying because I was "slutting up for x", a friend who I had previously been involved with, the time that our friends came over and we spent half the time screaming at each other in the laundry room before he shoved me and threw a laundry basket back at me. None of these incidents ever registered to me as "abuse" because they "weren't that bad". But I was constantly scared. Scared of provoking him, especially when he was drunk, scared of doing something wrong, constantly placating, and then being ashamed and embarrassed that I had to do so. It was only after we broke up how much of an anxious shell of myself I had become. Returning to feeling alive, worthy, and a participant in the world took me a long time, but I have never known a better feeling. I had to reckon with why I thought this relationship was all that I deserved, and how my self deprecating tendencies probably contributed, but more than anything, that this was not on me, that it was not a personal embarrassment. And then I got angry at all the work I had to do because he was an asshole.
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
I had just moved in with my partner of 2 years. He was going through an episode of depression which ended up lasting over 10 years. I had just moved to a new city with him to start college. Because of his depression, he used me as his only outlet. I was the only person in the city he knew and he would take his anger out on me. I would be left with bruises up and down my arms. Police would come and threaten to arrest me too if I pressed charges. I guess women in that neighborhood would lie about abuse to get their partners in jail. I had no escape or help. It was terrifying to go home, not only for the physical abuse, but the mental/emotional abuse as well. I had to finally ask him to move out, but he'd wait for me outside the house after school. I called the police again but they merely said if his mail was coming there he was allowed to be around. My trust in law enforcement has never recovered. Eventually he moved back home to another city.
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
When I was groped by my Lyft driver after a night out at the bars, near-passed out in the passenger seat from the late hour, I was shocked something like that could happen to me (I was wearing a casual shirt and jacket, so, no, I was not “asking for it”). I learned that safe places don’t really exist and to always keep my guard up. When a boy at a college party, whose main intent was to get me so drunk he could have his way with me, kissed me even after I repeatedly pushed him back, told him “NO,” and politely informed him I was seeing someone, I was embarrassed that it happened, in disbelief as I had to hear it from my friends, and for the first time I felt such hatred towards someone I knew so little. I learned to downgrade my opinions and expectations of boys and desensitized myself to their atrocious nature. When I was physically forced, in tears, by a boy I thought I loved and who loved me and told me I was the world to him, the fine line between love and hate became blurred lines, and all disintegrated into passion. I was hurt, I was betrayed, I was afraid… but I loved him, and he loved me even more, so it was okay, wasn’t it? Unfortunately, I did not learn, as this repeated itself multiple times, each incident with the same conclusion of a teary face, swollen eyes, and broken spirit. I did not learn because of his emotional manipulation and the damage I had suffered through that had me hooked on “one and only,” that made me believe no one would love me more than he, that coerced me to hold on to the fragile string of hope I had, hope in him that he would change and hope in our relationship that things would get better (this was only one of our many problems). I learned much later. But I finally learned to stand my ground and speak up for myself. I learned to not feel guilty if I must hurt another for my own happiness. I learned to value myself and respect myself because if I don’t, then who will? This is only part of my story. My lessons may not be the “truth” of the world, but they have shaped the core grains of my mind and of my being. These experiences are mine; these words are my own. And now, they are yours to hold onto as well.
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
The first time I was "hit" was by my stepdad and my mother said it didn't happen. In our culture "hitting" children isn't a big deal. My first relationship, I was "pushed" and he said it wouldn't happen again. That was only the beginning; I had my head bashed into the passenger dashboard and fell unconscious, I had been strangled, and had been thrown around screaming but no one came to help. My second relationship was verbal abuse; I couldn't be around other males without him being present or jealous to the extent of taking all of my belongings and throwing them in the dirt... I thought, "well, at least he doesn't hit me." My last relationship has taken a long time to get over. I was pushed to the ground, kicked, and walked on but he stated he didn't actually "hit" me. He held me down and spit on my face, but again stated that he didn't "hit" me. Various times he had indirectly had objects hit me but again... he said he never "closed his fist and hit me." I always wanted to see the good in people and forgive. Then it turned to thoughts that maybe it wasn't as bad as I was thinking it was. Worst of all it turned into thoughts that somehow I am to blame and I caused or provoked men to treat me this way. I am thankful to my friends telling me it wasn't my fault and that I didn't deserve the things that happened to me. For a long time I couldn't build up the courage to be in another relationship because I was terrified of having this happen again.
I want to pass on these words in hopes that it will help someone else:
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
I want to pass on these words in hopes that it will help someone else:
- It is NOT your fault, you did NOT "make" anyone hit you
- Please do NOT second guess yourself, an act of aggressive physical contact is ABUSE! It applies whether it is a fist, kick, slap, grab, etc...
- The person can be sorry but that does NOT mean you need to stay around.
- It starts somewhere, if he is pushing you now, then please think of down the road... I didn't realize how horrible things could get over a year or two.
- REPORT IT! I never could because I didn't want anyone to get in trouble. Without reporting it, there is no consequence to their actions. PLEASE REPORT!
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
We were from the same hometown so I thought I could trust you. I was so naïve. You took advantage of me because I was weaker than you, physically. I had to push and yell at you to stop for several minutes before you finally realized what you were doing. When you finally got off me, my mind kept telling me to run away but I couldn’t move. I laid there immobilized for several minutes, listening to you try to make me feel better, before I was finally able to get up and leave. When I got home I sat in the shower and cried. I told myself that to get it all out then, so that I could put the memory behind me and try, somehow, to move on. I did my best, I focused on school, and I was genuinely doing ok until I started to experience the symptoms. After a humiliating visit to the clinic, I learned that you had infected with a disease that I’d have to carry with me for the rest of my life. Now, each time I experience a recurrence, I remember your god damn face, and I hate it. I experience overwhelming anxiety each time something gets serious with a partner that I’m convinced I’ll never be in a serious relationship again. Hell, I even feel intense anxiety each time I examine a patient, because the thought of touching another human now freaks me out. But I won’t let you take over my life. I can’t let you affect my education, and I certainly won’t let you affect my relationships with other people. So, what now? I guess I’ll do the therapy, and I’ll share my experience with other folks, because I hope the day will come where you will be nothing more than a distant memory.
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
- UCSF Community Member, 2018
We were friends in the same college sports club - he was a graduate student, warm, slightly awkward, fascinated by the languages he was studying and self-confident, with a large, close group of friends from the club. I was a sophomore and that was my group, too: my weekends traveling to games, Sunday evenings cooking together in somebody’s kitchen, and weekday afternoons hanging out in the club room. The club room had all our gear - spare jerseys and socks in the back, old metal dressers with shorts and warm-ups, a loosely organized pile of cleats in a corner. It also had a desk, a coffee table on which we piled our Secret Santa gifts each December, and a sagging blue and white futon that fit anywhere from one to five people, depending on how cozy you wanted to be. I’d taken naps there, watched tv with friends, and piled into a massive collection of bodies in blankets at a slumber party. One night, he and I were the only people in the club office. We were quiet, sitting on the sofa, then slowly his hand was in my pants, then I was very still, then his hand was inside me, then a few minutes later he removed his hand, then we said some meaningless things that I can’t recall - I didn’t want to make him feel awkward - then I left. I was 19 and he was, I think, 27. I had slept with nobody, I had kissed maybe one person by then, briefly, at a party. It’s still hard for me to piece together my thoughts about this. Thinking about it now, I am confident that if I had said stop, he would have stopped. But also, afterwards I wanted to throw up. Violated is a loaded word, but it’s the closest, I think, to describing how I felt - like he’d reached inside me and turned something that was me into something that wasn’t. The next day, I told a close friend, who knew us both. She characterized it as an awkward, fumbling encounter, but not one in which I’d been taken advantage of. I nodded; I couldn’t shake how horrible I felt, but I didn’t have much romantic or sexual experience and figured it would feel better in time. For the rest of college, I alternated between being nonchalant about seeing him (if it was fine to see him, then surely whatever happened wasn’t too bad), and steadfastly avoiding any gathering he might be at - difficult, when this was my primary social group. I found it excruciating to be in that club room, didn’t want to sit on the futon, found excuses to avoid the dinners and hangouts I’d loved before. I don’t know if I can use the word assault. Is it enough that I froze? Maybe he thought that his touch was a form of asking, and my stillness was an invitation to continue. I want a word that reflects how I felt -- and feel -- but I don’t want to claim an experience that doesn’t belong to me. And years later, there are still times when I’ve been convinced I’ve made a fuss about nothing, and times where I can’t sleep because I feel sick thinking about it. I’ve still told almost nobody else, because I don’t know what to say.
We were dating for two months. We went out for drinks, came back to my room and went to sleep. I woke up to him groping me and shoving his penis inside of me. My roommate was in the room, and I was scared to make any noise that would wake her up and have her think we would have the indecency to have sex with her in the room. I tried hitting him in the face multiple times to get him to stop, but he wouldn't. So I just shut down and took it. Afterward, I immediately got up and took a shower... it must have been 3 in the morning. The next morning when we got up, my roommate was still asleep. I told him quietly, calmly: "you raped me." And he asked, equally calm, yet confused: "but didn't you enjoy it?"
- UCSF Community Member, 2017
- UCSF Community Member, 2017
I was waiting by the muni stop on 2nd and Irving waiting for the N after class. It was sunny and there was about 20 other people beside me waiting to go home (it was about 2pm during the week). I was on the phone with my friend who recently had a breakup and I noticed a guy about 5’8” tall, bald head, Caucasian male in his late 20s. He was pacing back and forth across the street and shouting words I could not make out. Then something (or someone) caught his attention and he started running towards the crowd across the street. Trying to avoid eye contact I put my head down. The next thing I know the guy came up to me and put both his hands around my neck and starting choking me. I dropped my phone, and went into flight or fight mode. Having taken a kickboxing class in undergrad I was able to get him off of me by stepping back and swinging my arm across. He immediately ran away. I believe the man was on drugs and this literally was the one day I forgot to grab my keys with my pepper spray on it, but after all this what surprised me the most was that nobody around me helped. There were students, families, even athletic guys right next to me, and no one helped get him off of me, no one said anything. The muni finally arrived and a nurse made her way towards me and asked if I was okay, but that was it. I debated whether or not to report this, but with midterms that week I couldn’t afford to lose the time it would take. I promised myself that if I saw him again I would notify the police and I promised to never forget my pepper spray again. I am blessed that there are no physical scars, but there will always be an emotional one every time I wait for the N to go home from school.
- UCSF Community Member, 2017
- UCSF Community Member, 2017
My ex-husband choked our teenage son with the phone cord as our son tried to call for help.
- UCSF Community Member, 2017 |
I thought it was justified for a father to hit his children. I did not question it until he turned on our mother. I don't think I can ever forgive him.
- UCSF Community Member, 2017 |
The boss would send me suggestive texts late at night and start massaging my shoulders whenever he passed me. He always complimented my "young, fresh-out-of-college body". I hated it. It made me feel unsafe at work. I know others at work noticed this but they didn't do anything about it. It made me ashamed to know that others knew. I soon left that position and transferred to another team. I reported the incidents to HR and didn't look back. I wanted to shake off the unclean experiences and look forward to a brighter future. I hope actions were taken against him so no one else would have to experience what I did.
- UCSF Community Member, 2017
- UCSF Community Member, 2017
My ex significant other was roofied and sexually assaulted. They were initially uncomfortable sharing this information with me, and they waited a long time before telling me. Under the circumstances in which I was told, I initially reacted negatively. Reflecting back, even though I had the correct type of education to know how to be their support system, I became blinded when this type of sexual violence affected me on such a personal level. And while that negative reaction was only for a very brief moment, and I actively worked to support my SO from that point forward, I know that both the sexual violence and my initial reaction to it led to the eventual downfall of our relationship. We were together for a long time, and I deeply loved this person, so it's still something that I think about a lot, and it's one of my biggest regrets in life. I only hope that the conversation and training can focus even more on how to be a support system for those who suffer from sexual violence. Even when people receive the "correct" type of training on these issues, this type of violence often doesn't seem real until it personally affects your life.
- UCSF Community Member, 2017
- UCSF Community Member, 2017
"My Brother part 1:
Alone in a room playing as my brother who is six years older entered who looked for way to catch me doing something wrong so he could put me in his lap and punish me. He sat me in the middle of his lap and pressed me into him. At first it seemed fun, like an easy punishment for being mischievous but then I began to feel tingly. I didn’t understand and although it seemed strange I thought it was okay since he was my older brother. Once day, he showed me his private area and now my punishment was to massage him. It took forever to make something come out I didn’t like this punishment. It seemed strange but I thought it was okay since he was my older brother. Things seemed to die down and fade off. I was only seven.
The babysitter:
In fifth grade, my mother was mad that I was becoming close with my great aunt and to avoid me sharing of my abuse she changed my babysitter from my aunt to an old man. The old man looked to be in his 70’s and coughed a lot. One day he pulled out his private area and began to massage it in front of me. Of course I thought it was strange but no different from my brother. Since I didn’t say anything he one day asked for me to put my mouth on his private and I told him no. He said I will pay you if you massage it. Since I do it for free for my brother it sounded like a good deal and so I did. One day I believe his son came home early from work and saw the old man with his private area out. He asked me if he had hurt me and I told him he asks me to massage it and he give me money. I didn’t go there anymore after that. I had to go home and be alone at the house.
My neighbor:
My neighbor one day knocked on the patio door. I knew him because he was friends with my brother so I let him in. My mother was upstairs. He said he left something in my brother’s room and asked if he could look. He called out my name and said he had something to show me. I entered into the room and he had his private area out and was massaging it and asked me to put my mouth on it. I told him that doesn’t belong in my mouth. My mother comes to the top of the stairs and asks who I am talking to. I told her no one because I am tired of getting beatings for breathing and didn’t want another one. Unfortunately, just as I was saying no one he walked out the bedroom zipping his pants.
My Mother:
My mother questioned what the neighbor and I were doing in the bedroom and I was afraid to tell her. I wanted this to go away since nothing really happened. She asked me if he touched me and I said no. She didn’t believe me. She forced me to take off all my clothes and I begged her to stop. She had a belt and was beating me through the process. When I was naked she made me lie on the bed as she took her hands and spread my private are open as she yelled at me and said it looked red. I scream and cried and asked her to stop. I felt raped by my mother’s investigation. I was afraid to have her see me naked again. I was only eleven. See scene from Introducing Dorothy Dandridge from 10:40 minute of the of movie to 12:10 min. This is was happened. https://youtu.be/ui9XVu4NGv8
My Brother part 2:
Shortly after being raped by my mother, I saw a figure in my room and I was afraid. I was nervous but he kissed my neck and chest and it felt good. He massaged himself until he released and he left. I was relieved. The next few nights again he appeared from the darkness and began to kissed my neck and chest. It felt good however the thought of this from my brother made me feel dirty. It was wrong. He wanted me to massage him and I thought let me hurry so this will be over. After a while, I began to say no and the pressure from him to continue began. I was tired and I needed sleep and I wanted to be left alone. He wanted his release and pressured me over and over for hours. I repeatedly said no but he said it’s fine it won’t be long. As the years went I was so glad when he had girlfriends because I had peace. I tried to tell my middle school teacher by writing in my journal that “my friend” was being molested by her brother but no one asked. I went to child protective service but the first person I saw was the daughter of my mother’s best friend. She said go home; I’m not going to help you. I asked my mother for a lock on my door but she insisted the door should be open and my privacy was not her concern. I wasn’t allowed to shut to door to the bathroom either. She knew, he knew and everyone else knew it was wrong but no one helped. Everyone who turned an eye molested me over and over again and after my high school graduation I left. It took me over 10 years to learn how to lightly sleep at night with others in the house.
My Coworker:
I was so excited that my coworker asked me out. We had flirted on the job. During my visit he got a call and said he would be right back and asked me to wait. Just as I was about to leave he returned and asked me to stay. He returned and was overly affectionate. I learned he had gone out to drink and when it turned sexual I asked him to stop. He continued, he was a very large man and I was unable to get him off of me or have him stop. When he finished I put my clothes on and told him he had violated me. That Monday when I came in I was told I had been let go. He took my body, my job and later the child that was never born. I was alone, no one to share with and I thought it was late, I waited for him and who would believe me, would you?"
-UCSF Community Member 2016
Alone in a room playing as my brother who is six years older entered who looked for way to catch me doing something wrong so he could put me in his lap and punish me. He sat me in the middle of his lap and pressed me into him. At first it seemed fun, like an easy punishment for being mischievous but then I began to feel tingly. I didn’t understand and although it seemed strange I thought it was okay since he was my older brother. Once day, he showed me his private area and now my punishment was to massage him. It took forever to make something come out I didn’t like this punishment. It seemed strange but I thought it was okay since he was my older brother. Things seemed to die down and fade off. I was only seven.
The babysitter:
In fifth grade, my mother was mad that I was becoming close with my great aunt and to avoid me sharing of my abuse she changed my babysitter from my aunt to an old man. The old man looked to be in his 70’s and coughed a lot. One day he pulled out his private area and began to massage it in front of me. Of course I thought it was strange but no different from my brother. Since I didn’t say anything he one day asked for me to put my mouth on his private and I told him no. He said I will pay you if you massage it. Since I do it for free for my brother it sounded like a good deal and so I did. One day I believe his son came home early from work and saw the old man with his private area out. He asked me if he had hurt me and I told him he asks me to massage it and he give me money. I didn’t go there anymore after that. I had to go home and be alone at the house.
My neighbor:
My neighbor one day knocked on the patio door. I knew him because he was friends with my brother so I let him in. My mother was upstairs. He said he left something in my brother’s room and asked if he could look. He called out my name and said he had something to show me. I entered into the room and he had his private area out and was massaging it and asked me to put my mouth on it. I told him that doesn’t belong in my mouth. My mother comes to the top of the stairs and asks who I am talking to. I told her no one because I am tired of getting beatings for breathing and didn’t want another one. Unfortunately, just as I was saying no one he walked out the bedroom zipping his pants.
My Mother:
My mother questioned what the neighbor and I were doing in the bedroom and I was afraid to tell her. I wanted this to go away since nothing really happened. She asked me if he touched me and I said no. She didn’t believe me. She forced me to take off all my clothes and I begged her to stop. She had a belt and was beating me through the process. When I was naked she made me lie on the bed as she took her hands and spread my private are open as she yelled at me and said it looked red. I scream and cried and asked her to stop. I felt raped by my mother’s investigation. I was afraid to have her see me naked again. I was only eleven. See scene from Introducing Dorothy Dandridge from 10:40 minute of the of movie to 12:10 min. This is was happened. https://youtu.be/ui9XVu4NGv8
My Brother part 2:
Shortly after being raped by my mother, I saw a figure in my room and I was afraid. I was nervous but he kissed my neck and chest and it felt good. He massaged himself until he released and he left. I was relieved. The next few nights again he appeared from the darkness and began to kissed my neck and chest. It felt good however the thought of this from my brother made me feel dirty. It was wrong. He wanted me to massage him and I thought let me hurry so this will be over. After a while, I began to say no and the pressure from him to continue began. I was tired and I needed sleep and I wanted to be left alone. He wanted his release and pressured me over and over for hours. I repeatedly said no but he said it’s fine it won’t be long. As the years went I was so glad when he had girlfriends because I had peace. I tried to tell my middle school teacher by writing in my journal that “my friend” was being molested by her brother but no one asked. I went to child protective service but the first person I saw was the daughter of my mother’s best friend. She said go home; I’m not going to help you. I asked my mother for a lock on my door but she insisted the door should be open and my privacy was not her concern. I wasn’t allowed to shut to door to the bathroom either. She knew, he knew and everyone else knew it was wrong but no one helped. Everyone who turned an eye molested me over and over again and after my high school graduation I left. It took me over 10 years to learn how to lightly sleep at night with others in the house.
My Coworker:
I was so excited that my coworker asked me out. We had flirted on the job. During my visit he got a call and said he would be right back and asked me to wait. Just as I was about to leave he returned and asked me to stay. He returned and was overly affectionate. I learned he had gone out to drink and when it turned sexual I asked him to stop. He continued, he was a very large man and I was unable to get him off of me or have him stop. When he finished I put my clothes on and told him he had violated me. That Monday when I came in I was told I had been let go. He took my body, my job and later the child that was never born. I was alone, no one to share with and I thought it was late, I waited for him and who would believe me, would you?"
-UCSF Community Member 2016
"Dear younger me,
"Andrew" is a future classmate whom you will meet in your freshman year of college. You will be drawn to his fun-loving, charismatic personality and will start dating him within a few weeks of knowing him. The first time he will hit you on the butt will occur within the first month of the relationship. It won’t be a flirty, playful tap--he’ll swing his arm all the way back and hit you hard enough to knock you off balance. You will firmly tell him to stop, that it hurts you, and to never do it again under any circumstance. Still, he will continue to hit you this way on a regular basis, between 20 and 30 times over the course of a year. He will hit you at the most unexpected times--whether he is intoxicated or sober, whether you are in public or in private, whether you are clothed or unclothed, or whether you are fighting or on good terms. He will always justify his actions by saying you should take it as a compliment, because other girls seem to like it. He will continue to hit you even after you break up.
Andrew will also harass you in nonphysical ways. He will pressure you by saying you're not having enough sex with him, and that if the frequency does not increase, he will need to look for sex elsewhere "to make up for it." He will also tell you that you're being “too high-maintenance” by requesting certain changes to make sex more enjoyable and comfortable for you. After you break up, he will continue to ask you for sex despite your firm statements that you are not interested. Beyond the sexual realm, he will shame you for spending time with out-of-town friends without him, for wearing certain clothes or makeup when going out with your female friends, for not sharing your passwords with him, or for not wanting to sleep at his apartment when he is intoxicated. Sometimes he will scold you for these things in front of your friends and classmates, in an effort to further humiliate you and to gain their support.
Andrew will develop a habit of waking you up at late hours by calling your cell phone repeatedly, throwing rocks at your window, and trying to force his way into your apartment--often depriving you of sleep when you need it the most. One night in the middle of finals week, he will call you around midnight demanding that you open the door of your dorm suite. You will be hesitant to do so, because you'll know he wants to fight and you need to sleep. Fearing he might start ringing the doorbell and wake up your roommates, you will open the door a few inches, just enough that you can talk but he can't enter. You will see that he's intoxicated--drunk or high or maybe both. He will try to physically force his way into your apartment by pushing the door open against your will. You'll try to hold him back and push him away, and tell him you’ll call the police if he doesn’t leave. He'll say, “Yeah, I'd like to see you call the police on me.” You'll somehow manage to dial the number on your phone while struggling to keep him outside. Once he sees the call ringing, he'll back away and leave your apartment. You'll be so relieved he's gone that you'll hang up before the operator answers.
The last time he hits you will be at a football game tailgate, a few months after you've broken up. He will arrive at the tailgate so wasted that he'll have trouble speaking. After the tailgate, your friend Mark will offer to drive you and Andrew back to campus. While the three of you are walking to Mark's car, Andrew will become belligerent and start shouting, running, screaming “I love you” and that you're being “mean” for not responding to these desperate cries for attention. You'll try your best to ignore him and eventually he'll start to lag behind. Suddenly, he'll run up from behind you and use the full force of his momentum to slap your butt as hard as he can, almost knocking you over and leaving you sore for days. The next morning, Andrew will have no memory of what he did to you. When someone finally tells him what happened, he'll try to apologize to you in a text message, but will blame his actions on his level of inebriation.
Throughout that year, you will watch Andrew's behavior frequently oscillate from loving and caring, to destructive and harassing. This will be confusing, and you'll feel guilty for thinking about breaking up with him because he will keep reminding you of all the nice things he has done for you (and conveniently leave out the abuse, or deny that it ever happened, and tell you there's something wrong with your memory). Fortunately, you will begin to notice certain patterns to his behavior: he will be much more likely to harass you when he has an upcoming exam (he will be heavily triggered by exam-related stress, though he will never admit this or ask for help) and when he is using drugs--anything ranging from weed to cocaine to prescription painkillers, alone or in combination. Andrew will confide to you that he is never able to stop drinking once he starts. He will know he has a problem, but will be too afraid to admit this to himself, or to seek treatment.
Perhaps the hardest part of navigating through your complicated relationship with Andrew will be the way your mutual friends react when you try to tell them what's happening. They'll tell you to brush it off; that it's just a part of his nature to get a little wild and carried away; and that you just need to try harder to set better boundaries. You'll run home and break down in tears after these conversations. You will feel isolated, ashamed, and misunderstood. No one will be willing to consider the possibility that Andrew, the "life of the party" in his public persona, is entirely different behind closed doors.
Finally, many months after the breakup, you'll start seeing a therapist who will help you process these experiences. After lots of talking, crying, and thinking, you will decide to report Andrew to the school administration on the grounds of sexual harassment. Be thankful for the few people in your life at this time who believe and support you through such an exhausting and devastating experience.
Throughout this year, you will slowly come to the painful realization that anyone can be a target of abuse. As an intelligent, successful, self-aware individual, you’ll grow up thinking that you could recognize an abusive situation and remove yourself from it without a problem. You’ll reassure yourself that only desperate women with no sense of self-worth would ever choose to stay with an abusive partner. And so, you will deny the nagging feeling that something feels wrong in your relationship, and even defend Andrew’s actions at first. You will keep telling yourself that if you were to be just a little more patient, or a little more careful, Andrew would eventually recognize your devotion and transform into a loving, supportive partner. Sadly, this could not be further from the truth.
So--bright, kind-hearted, hopeful, resilient younger me--never doubt yourself when your heart tells you something isn’t quite right. And never doubt those who are brave enough to share their own survival stories with you. When you’ve gone through hell and back, collect your broken pieces and build them into a lighthouse for others who are lost. Love yourself fiercely and unconditionally, and do not accept anything less from anyone else."
-UCSF Community Member 2016
"Andrew" is a future classmate whom you will meet in your freshman year of college. You will be drawn to his fun-loving, charismatic personality and will start dating him within a few weeks of knowing him. The first time he will hit you on the butt will occur within the first month of the relationship. It won’t be a flirty, playful tap--he’ll swing his arm all the way back and hit you hard enough to knock you off balance. You will firmly tell him to stop, that it hurts you, and to never do it again under any circumstance. Still, he will continue to hit you this way on a regular basis, between 20 and 30 times over the course of a year. He will hit you at the most unexpected times--whether he is intoxicated or sober, whether you are in public or in private, whether you are clothed or unclothed, or whether you are fighting or on good terms. He will always justify his actions by saying you should take it as a compliment, because other girls seem to like it. He will continue to hit you even after you break up.
Andrew will also harass you in nonphysical ways. He will pressure you by saying you're not having enough sex with him, and that if the frequency does not increase, he will need to look for sex elsewhere "to make up for it." He will also tell you that you're being “too high-maintenance” by requesting certain changes to make sex more enjoyable and comfortable for you. After you break up, he will continue to ask you for sex despite your firm statements that you are not interested. Beyond the sexual realm, he will shame you for spending time with out-of-town friends without him, for wearing certain clothes or makeup when going out with your female friends, for not sharing your passwords with him, or for not wanting to sleep at his apartment when he is intoxicated. Sometimes he will scold you for these things in front of your friends and classmates, in an effort to further humiliate you and to gain their support.
Andrew will develop a habit of waking you up at late hours by calling your cell phone repeatedly, throwing rocks at your window, and trying to force his way into your apartment--often depriving you of sleep when you need it the most. One night in the middle of finals week, he will call you around midnight demanding that you open the door of your dorm suite. You will be hesitant to do so, because you'll know he wants to fight and you need to sleep. Fearing he might start ringing the doorbell and wake up your roommates, you will open the door a few inches, just enough that you can talk but he can't enter. You will see that he's intoxicated--drunk or high or maybe both. He will try to physically force his way into your apartment by pushing the door open against your will. You'll try to hold him back and push him away, and tell him you’ll call the police if he doesn’t leave. He'll say, “Yeah, I'd like to see you call the police on me.” You'll somehow manage to dial the number on your phone while struggling to keep him outside. Once he sees the call ringing, he'll back away and leave your apartment. You'll be so relieved he's gone that you'll hang up before the operator answers.
The last time he hits you will be at a football game tailgate, a few months after you've broken up. He will arrive at the tailgate so wasted that he'll have trouble speaking. After the tailgate, your friend Mark will offer to drive you and Andrew back to campus. While the three of you are walking to Mark's car, Andrew will become belligerent and start shouting, running, screaming “I love you” and that you're being “mean” for not responding to these desperate cries for attention. You'll try your best to ignore him and eventually he'll start to lag behind. Suddenly, he'll run up from behind you and use the full force of his momentum to slap your butt as hard as he can, almost knocking you over and leaving you sore for days. The next morning, Andrew will have no memory of what he did to you. When someone finally tells him what happened, he'll try to apologize to you in a text message, but will blame his actions on his level of inebriation.
Throughout that year, you will watch Andrew's behavior frequently oscillate from loving and caring, to destructive and harassing. This will be confusing, and you'll feel guilty for thinking about breaking up with him because he will keep reminding you of all the nice things he has done for you (and conveniently leave out the abuse, or deny that it ever happened, and tell you there's something wrong with your memory). Fortunately, you will begin to notice certain patterns to his behavior: he will be much more likely to harass you when he has an upcoming exam (he will be heavily triggered by exam-related stress, though he will never admit this or ask for help) and when he is using drugs--anything ranging from weed to cocaine to prescription painkillers, alone or in combination. Andrew will confide to you that he is never able to stop drinking once he starts. He will know he has a problem, but will be too afraid to admit this to himself, or to seek treatment.
Perhaps the hardest part of navigating through your complicated relationship with Andrew will be the way your mutual friends react when you try to tell them what's happening. They'll tell you to brush it off; that it's just a part of his nature to get a little wild and carried away; and that you just need to try harder to set better boundaries. You'll run home and break down in tears after these conversations. You will feel isolated, ashamed, and misunderstood. No one will be willing to consider the possibility that Andrew, the "life of the party" in his public persona, is entirely different behind closed doors.
Finally, many months after the breakup, you'll start seeing a therapist who will help you process these experiences. After lots of talking, crying, and thinking, you will decide to report Andrew to the school administration on the grounds of sexual harassment. Be thankful for the few people in your life at this time who believe and support you through such an exhausting and devastating experience.
Throughout this year, you will slowly come to the painful realization that anyone can be a target of abuse. As an intelligent, successful, self-aware individual, you’ll grow up thinking that you could recognize an abusive situation and remove yourself from it without a problem. You’ll reassure yourself that only desperate women with no sense of self-worth would ever choose to stay with an abusive partner. And so, you will deny the nagging feeling that something feels wrong in your relationship, and even defend Andrew’s actions at first. You will keep telling yourself that if you were to be just a little more patient, or a little more careful, Andrew would eventually recognize your devotion and transform into a loving, supportive partner. Sadly, this could not be further from the truth.
So--bright, kind-hearted, hopeful, resilient younger me--never doubt yourself when your heart tells you something isn’t quite right. And never doubt those who are brave enough to share their own survival stories with you. When you’ve gone through hell and back, collect your broken pieces and build them into a lighthouse for others who are lost. Love yourself fiercely and unconditionally, and do not accept anything less from anyone else."
-UCSF Community Member 2016
"I’ll never forget the day. I was 13 years old and I loved him. He wanted me to do something I wasn’t ready to do. I pleaded with him no because I was scared. My refusal angered him and he reacted with violence. I will never forget that day. How stunned I felt when he slapped me so hard all I could hear was a ringing in my ear. When he pushed me to the ground and screamed at me as I got up. Knowing my mother’s own experience with domestic violence, I had always thought that if something like that ever happened to me I would walk away, but I didn’t. He intimidated me and I feared him. Eventually, I just learned to give in even if it meant doing something when I didn’t want to. That day set the tone for the 10 years that I would spend in a relationship with this man. Repeated emotional and physical abuse instigated by jealousy and a need for control. Broken phones and windows. His friends witnessing but turning the other way. Feeling too ashamed to speak up. I would tell myself all sorts of things to justify why I had no reason to ask for help. “He didn’t leave me bruises,” “it wasn’t that bad,” “other people go through so much worse,” “maybe I shouldn’t be so difficult.” For 10 years this continued, throughout middle school, high school, and college. My parents never knew and still don’t. It was such a complicated feeling of wanting it to end and wanting to get away, but not wanting him to get in trouble. Even if I wanted to leave, I didn’t know how. Though it has been four years since it has ended I struggle with the feelings of being used, broken and depleted of self-worth. But positive relationships with family and friends centered on love and support have helped me and I am determined to end the cycle."
-UCSF Community Member 2016 |
"I had been drinking. The last thing I remember was talking to him at the party. I woke up naked in his bed early in the morning. He told me he didn't want to wear a condom, and that I would have to get plan B. I had to ask him later over text if he had any STDs. It was my first time having sex. I can't remember it at all. I haven't thought of it as rape until only recently. I guess that's what it technically was. Within days after that I started having chronic abdominal pain, constipation, and losing weight. I had many medical visits and tests - stool samples, colonoscopy/endoscopy, food allergies - nothing was "wrong" with me. I remember being asked about the possibility I was pregnant and if I was "sexually active", but nothing about sexual assault. Months later a doctor suggested focusing on stress reduction. Years later I wonder if my body remembered what my mind did not."
-UCSF Community Member 2016 |
"The first time I remember someone, ‘grabbed me by the pussy,’ I was a child. About five or six years old. Two older neighborhood boys were instructed to watch me, while our parents went out to get supplies for a party later that evening. One of the boys mothers had just got a TV, a big thing in our faculty family housing complex at UC Santa Cruz. Most parents didn’t let their kids watch things like TV. It might stunt cognitive development or in other ways, narrow the mind.
I could tell something was off. Something about a look one of the boys gave me, a look I didn’t recognize, but somehow registered deep inside. Danger. I sensed danger in his eyes. “Let’s grab her and touch between her legs,” he said eagerly. A chase followed. With me at first running and kind of laughing, then terrified. Screaming. They pinned me down and pushed my dress up around my waist. The ‘leader’ held my arms against the bed. I cried. Frightened. Begged them to let me go. The one on my lower half, a boy himself, asked, “now what do I do?” The slightly older boy, maybe 12, said, “Kiss it! Kiss between her legs!” He protested, “I can’t find it” leading them to awkwardly switch places, managing somehow to keep me trapped in the exchange. As the leader now ripped off my undies I kicked my legs and screamed. He found ‘it’ and triumphantly kissed my vagina, touching it with his mouth and fingers. Then they let me go. I grabbed my torn underwear and ran outside. Crying. Waiting in the dark night. Sitting on the curb with the certainty that these boys would be punished when our moms came home. Comforted in that knowledge.
The moms found me there on the curb, still clutching my torn undies. I chocked out the story, knowing this was a Big Deal. My mama held me. Comforted me. I got to watch the TV. The boys had to stay in their rooms. The party was somber. People did not really know what to do about this, this assault between children. The boys stayed in one room, me in the other.
And that was it.
I kept sharing my Big Deal story after that night. Looking for comfort in the sand box. Wanting hugs from other parents. Schooling other young kids on the terrifying experience. Eventually I was told to stop talking about what happened. The boys were going to get a Bad Reputation. Their parents had asked my mom to tell me not to speak about it anymore.
I wish I could say that was the only time I was molested. But it continued for the rest of my youth.
And I never said anything to anyone again.
The second time someone ‘grabbed me by the pussy’ I was about 8 years old, at a spa with my mom. A man at the pool took an interest in playing with me. He swirled me around the water on his lap, pushing my bathing suit aside to press in between my legs in a way that felt new, pleasurable, and definitely wrong. A kind of touching I had done myself but never this, not another person, not an Adult. Something felt bad about it. And also secret.
The third time I remember someone ‘grabbed me by the pussy” I was in 7th or 8th grade. An adolescent. My best friend’s dad asked me to help him with the trash. I agreed. She was already back in her room. He said, “I need someone small to get in there and stomp on it.” Pointing to the large bin in the area outside their kitchen. I agreed, although he had never asked me to help around the house before, despite the many times I had spent the night there. He continued, “I’ll lift you up.” As he reached over, he grabbed one hand around my chest and slid the other in between my legs. Literally grabbing me by the ‘pussy’ and putting me in the trash. He held his hands in place as he instructed me to ‘stomp it down’ I quickly did and he lifted me back out. I never spent the night there again.
But the most long term and most confusing violence I have experienced came at the hands of my father. My daddy. Who I loved and adored throughout my childhood.
When a parent sexualizes the love of a child, the world shifts. I don’t think I ever knew anything was wrong, as a child. A child’s devotion and love of the parent knows no boundaries. The parent sets the boundaries, teaches the child the difference between the love for a sibling, a parent, and a friend. Eventually teaching the difference between romantic love and other kinds of love.
My dad blurred those boundaries. He took advantage of my child heart, of my trust, of my innocence, of the circumstances and all the other cliché terms that describe how a perpetrator breaks down a network of safety to violate. I don’t remember much of what happened. Although time has helped me piece together the chronology of what I know accept was chronic incest. Most of what I do remember has come back to me in nightmares. And body memories so strong I would freeze up, then heave and puke. Trying to rid myself of pain I could not identify. Deep shame. Confusion that persists to this day.
I remember very clearly however, the day my dad stopped sharing a bed with me on my visits to him in New York. I felt lonely, rejected, unloved. I felt dirty. He told me that I was too old to sleep in daddy’s bed. A thought nestled in my mind, a realization that maybe I never should have been there in the first place.
My recovery, my early recovery as I came to terms with being an incest survivor, happened throughout my late teens and early twenties. The first year was the worst. So many nights I spent covered in my own sweat. Scared and trapped in this body. Not safe. Eyes open or shut, I could not escape the memories. Scenes that came back to me in flashes, witnessed from above and outside of my body.
As someone who has experienced more sexual assaults than many people, at the hands of trusted adults, strangers and family members a like, I can say with certainty that incest is a whole different ball game. Incest takes a family and destroys it. Incest shatters any paradigm of trust. In my case the weight of silence, the pain of doubt, the deep sense of injustice that those who loved me the most, either didn’t know I was hurting or looked the other way, still breaks my heart.
How can I ever trust myself, let alone someone else?
Throughout my childhood I was plagued by dreams that I was going about my normal life, only I would know something was off, something was wrong. And in the corner I would suddenly catch site of a deadly spider. I would see the spider and scream, realizing that this dream was a nightmare.
I spent my youth reading stories about strong children. Girl warriors. Anne Frank. Maya Angelo. Cici in The Color Purple. I read stories about girls surviving rape. Stories that spoke plainly about incest. I prayed for strength. I didn’t connect myself with the heroines in those books, but I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings every year of my adolescence. Revisiting her resiliency, wishing for my own.
My spider dreams went away when I started talking to my therapist, to my mom, to my friends about my memories of incest. Silence, silence and fear that people will doubt you, blame you, punish you or in many different ways see you as tainted; to me that’s the hardest part of living with a history of sexual abuse. As an adolescent and a young woman, I wanted to succeed. To get acclaim. To be pretty and intelligent and have loving friends. To be respected. To be good.
In my private life, I have never let anyone close who doesn’t respect my truth.
But in my public life, in my professional and academic life, too long I have lived in a grey area. Dodging questions like, how did you get into public health?
A message I’ve internalized: Good women do not talk about rape. The uncomfortable silence is not worth speaking up. So I shrug it off with any number of close to the mark explanations.
But the truth is, I got into public health because I am an incest survivor. I have never felt so at home as when I began doing HIV prevention outreach, on the street, with other incest survivors who were street based sex workers. There but for the grace of god, would go I. There, by the grace of god, I found myself. To an outsider, an honors student at NYU from a good home and a loving family, might not share much in common with the women I got to know who worked that corner in Bushwick. But the real differences between their stories and mine were not immediately apparent.
My mom believed me. My immediate family supported my healing, with the exception of my father. I both started and kicked my crystal meth addiction by the time I was 19. At the time, I went to therapy most days. I healed my body through massages and acupuncture and anything that would help me live a little easier with my memories.
The same was not true for the others. And those were the main differences between us.
I got into public health to fight sexual shame and promote sexual health. I got into public health because addressing, mitigating, and documenting violence against women is my life’s work.
I am still that little girl in the sand box. Knowing what happened to me was a Big Deal. Knowing that what happened to me was Wrong. Wanting to share my story. Living in fear about the repercussions. When all I long for is understanding. Solidarity. Acknowledgement that I am A Fighter. And have always been a fighter.
That first night with the babysitters is the only time I remember resisting a perpetrator. But inside, I have never stopped kicking."
-UCSF Community Member 2016
"I was 14 the first time I saw them. I remember thinking they were the most beautifully confident person I had ever met. Everyone else faded to the background when they walked into the room and I was in awe of their presence. I wanted to know everything about them. I wanted to share with them things that I had never told anyone before and I wanted them to want me. We rapidly became best friends and were inseparable through high school. So much so that people began referring to us as a unit.
We started dating our first year of college. We were both very active in numerous social organizations and to everyone around us we seemed happy. We seemed perfect. We seemed so nauseatingly in love. And we were, at first. I had never experienced love like this before and it consumed me. We were obsessed with one another. In my eyes, they were perfect so I missed all the warning signs. I missed the progression from healthy to toxic. From safe to abusive. From supportive to destructive. The line between love and manipulation was blurred. We lost all boundaries and then I lost myself.
I justified their every action. I mean 52 missed calls after a fight just meant they were really sorry right? When they showed up at my apartment unannounced they just really wanted to see me. When I needed time to cool down after an argument and they messaged every single one of my friends they were just scared. When they showed up to my parents house screaming it was my fault for provoking them. When I missed their texts and they sent 100 more it was my fault for being busy. I came up with so many excuses that sometimes I forgot what was real. I began lying to my friends because I could not let them think this person was bad for me. I needed to protect them and protect our image because relationships are hard and this was true love. I was wrong.
It started out as dime-sized bruises up and down my forearms. They would grab me so hard each finger would leave its mark. Sometimes I could even make out the grooves of each knuckle. They wanted me, they wanted me to stay so badly that they physically could not let me go. So that was not abuse, that was love right?
The next time it was a slap across the face. This time I could clearly see the outline of each finger across my face. My neck hurt from the blow but there was not a bruise. I probably deserved it, I mean I should not have pushed them that hard. I made them angry, I made them get to that point. If only I had stopped asking them questions.
Then came the black eye. I never really wore makeup so this one took a bit of work. I could not hide it with long sleeves. I bought foundation for the first time and layered it on as best I could. When their fist hit my face I felt my brain shake. I fumbled backward. I was shocked. Did that just happen? Is that bad? Do I need to do something? They felt so bad they said they would kill themselves if I left so I stayed, and I held them through the night.
I ran down the hall as they followed. I was able to wiggle out of their grasp so I ran. I locked myself in a bathroom stall and then I felt them grab my hair. They slammed me against the door of the stall. I kept running but they threw my head against a wall. That was the first concussion. But thank god I already had the foundation for the black eye. I hid from them for an hour and then they found me. Upset and threatening suicide so I crawled in bed and held them all night. The next day I continued the foundation and long-sleeved ritual that was beginning to be much too familiar.
We were at a date party, our first one, it was a big deal for us. We drank, a lot, and danced overlooking the ocean. Somehow we ended up in a laundry room. The slaps and closed-fist hits came first. Then came a Costco container of laundry detergent. It hurt more than the cellphones, razors, plates and remotes they had thrown at me before. I ran far and fast until I lost myself in the streets. Somehow their friend found me and brought me back. Their friend thought it was a drunk fight and I did not correct them. Once again they threatened suicide so I crawled back to bed and held them. They were so sorry and promised for the hundredth time that this would NEVER happen again. They loved me and did not want to hurt me.
I went back home and told my roommates. They felt appropriately bad for me but somehow thought I was exaggerating. I had never mentioned it before. They had never seen bruises. I wore long-sleeved shirts because it was cold. Plus the “they” that did this to me was a girl and so was I, therefore it was not a big deal. If “they” had been a boy then it would be abuse but somehow this was not?
I am a 24 year old professional student at UCSF and it took me six years to leave this relationship. I have been without her for 3 weeks and I feel light. Light in a way that describes a sense of peace and happiness that I never knew I missed. I have never shared my story before, I have never admitted to myself that I am a victim of intimate partner violence until now. I never used the word “abuse" to describe what I went through but that is what it was. It was physical and emotional abuse. It is hard to not feel pathetic for staying with her, it is hard to not feel stupid for realizing what was being done to me, it is hard not to feel weak for not leaving sooner and it is hard to accept that it was not my fault. But I am now surrounded by some of the most interesting, brilliant, driven and caring people. I am exactly where I always wished I would be and for the first time in years I feel whole without her by my side.
I share my story to show that there is no stereotypical situation for intimate partner violence. We were both girls. We were both externally happy. We came from good families and we had close friends. We did well in school and we made friends easily. If only someone could have known what I was trying to say with the long-sleeved shirts in July and the makeup that just did not look right. If only my doctor would have probed a bit more on the bruises and concussions instead of handing me a pamphlet on binge drinking. This could be nearer to you than you think and you can truly help those around you if you are not afraid to ask."
-UCSF Community Member 2016
We started dating our first year of college. We were both very active in numerous social organizations and to everyone around us we seemed happy. We seemed perfect. We seemed so nauseatingly in love. And we were, at first. I had never experienced love like this before and it consumed me. We were obsessed with one another. In my eyes, they were perfect so I missed all the warning signs. I missed the progression from healthy to toxic. From safe to abusive. From supportive to destructive. The line between love and manipulation was blurred. We lost all boundaries and then I lost myself.
I justified their every action. I mean 52 missed calls after a fight just meant they were really sorry right? When they showed up at my apartment unannounced they just really wanted to see me. When I needed time to cool down after an argument and they messaged every single one of my friends they were just scared. When they showed up to my parents house screaming it was my fault for provoking them. When I missed their texts and they sent 100 more it was my fault for being busy. I came up with so many excuses that sometimes I forgot what was real. I began lying to my friends because I could not let them think this person was bad for me. I needed to protect them and protect our image because relationships are hard and this was true love. I was wrong.
It started out as dime-sized bruises up and down my forearms. They would grab me so hard each finger would leave its mark. Sometimes I could even make out the grooves of each knuckle. They wanted me, they wanted me to stay so badly that they physically could not let me go. So that was not abuse, that was love right?
The next time it was a slap across the face. This time I could clearly see the outline of each finger across my face. My neck hurt from the blow but there was not a bruise. I probably deserved it, I mean I should not have pushed them that hard. I made them angry, I made them get to that point. If only I had stopped asking them questions.
Then came the black eye. I never really wore makeup so this one took a bit of work. I could not hide it with long sleeves. I bought foundation for the first time and layered it on as best I could. When their fist hit my face I felt my brain shake. I fumbled backward. I was shocked. Did that just happen? Is that bad? Do I need to do something? They felt so bad they said they would kill themselves if I left so I stayed, and I held them through the night.
I ran down the hall as they followed. I was able to wiggle out of their grasp so I ran. I locked myself in a bathroom stall and then I felt them grab my hair. They slammed me against the door of the stall. I kept running but they threw my head against a wall. That was the first concussion. But thank god I already had the foundation for the black eye. I hid from them for an hour and then they found me. Upset and threatening suicide so I crawled in bed and held them all night. The next day I continued the foundation and long-sleeved ritual that was beginning to be much too familiar.
We were at a date party, our first one, it was a big deal for us. We drank, a lot, and danced overlooking the ocean. Somehow we ended up in a laundry room. The slaps and closed-fist hits came first. Then came a Costco container of laundry detergent. It hurt more than the cellphones, razors, plates and remotes they had thrown at me before. I ran far and fast until I lost myself in the streets. Somehow their friend found me and brought me back. Their friend thought it was a drunk fight and I did not correct them. Once again they threatened suicide so I crawled back to bed and held them. They were so sorry and promised for the hundredth time that this would NEVER happen again. They loved me and did not want to hurt me.
I went back home and told my roommates. They felt appropriately bad for me but somehow thought I was exaggerating. I had never mentioned it before. They had never seen bruises. I wore long-sleeved shirts because it was cold. Plus the “they” that did this to me was a girl and so was I, therefore it was not a big deal. If “they” had been a boy then it would be abuse but somehow this was not?
I am a 24 year old professional student at UCSF and it took me six years to leave this relationship. I have been without her for 3 weeks and I feel light. Light in a way that describes a sense of peace and happiness that I never knew I missed. I have never shared my story before, I have never admitted to myself that I am a victim of intimate partner violence until now. I never used the word “abuse" to describe what I went through but that is what it was. It was physical and emotional abuse. It is hard to not feel pathetic for staying with her, it is hard to not feel stupid for realizing what was being done to me, it is hard not to feel weak for not leaving sooner and it is hard to accept that it was not my fault. But I am now surrounded by some of the most interesting, brilliant, driven and caring people. I am exactly where I always wished I would be and for the first time in years I feel whole without her by my side.
I share my story to show that there is no stereotypical situation for intimate partner violence. We were both girls. We were both externally happy. We came from good families and we had close friends. We did well in school and we made friends easily. If only someone could have known what I was trying to say with the long-sleeved shirts in July and the makeup that just did not look right. If only my doctor would have probed a bit more on the bruises and concussions instead of handing me a pamphlet on binge drinking. This could be nearer to you than you think and you can truly help those around you if you are not afraid to ask."
-UCSF Community Member 2016
"My father had a very violent temper. When we were growing up he beat all 3 of us kids. He had a hair trigger temper so whenever he was frustrated he took it out on us with beatings. I remember him once ending a very violent beating with me, 11 years old, on the floor and him, 6 foot 4 inches tall, standing over me repeatedly kicking me as hard as he could until I peed my pants. I still feel the damage he did to my psyche everyday."
- UCSF Community Member 2015
- UCSF Community Member 2015
"As I grew up, the memory would arise with feelings of shame. I dealt with the shame with these words, repeated over and over again in my mind:
It was nothing. It doesn’t matter. It was no big deal. Many years later a friend of mine said to me when I shared my story with her: You are something. You matter. You are a very big deal. This still brings tears to my eyes to hear her turning around my words and showing me how they were affecting me. My father molested me. I was seven or eight years old. My mother knew he was in bed with me - she came to the door and said, “come on, dad,” and he left. Most nights I had trouble falling asleep. I didn’t want him to come again. I became a bed wetter until puberty. I was 48 when I went to a therapist for the first time to get help with ongoing recurring episodes of panic attacks. After 6 months of therapy, I disclosed to the therapist what my father had done and the therapist named it for me - child molestation. Having finally told someone, I found I could talk about it with my husband, my son, my mother, my siblings. When I called my three-year-older sister to tell her what our father had done, she said he was in our childhood bed many times. I asked her what she would do. She said she would get up and get mom. I asked her: If she was getting out of bed, where was dad and where was I? She said she didn’t want to talk about it anymore - and didn’t. I soon received a letter in which she said her therapist agreed she shouldn’t talk about this as she was depressed and suicidal. She went on to have many, many electroshock treatments and no longer remembers this period of our childhood. After much therapy and mindfulness practice, I don’t have panic attacks anymore. I am still very uncomfortable when I am in situations where I can’t get away. But I understand why and have coping skills I didn’t have most of my adult life. I don’t know why my father did what he did and I will never know. He died many years ago, before I disclosed to anyone what had happened to me. I wish we lived in a world where these things did not happen to little children, a world where children lived safe and protected lives. I wish we lived in a world where adults weren’t having to deal with the painful after-effects of having been sexually abused. I am grateful that I found my way through to the other side of fear and trauma. I wish the same for all of you." - UCSF Community Member 2015 "I was friends for three years with someone, it was a casual friendship but I trusted him. One night we were drinking at a bar and playing pool and he got obviously drunk. I insisted he should not drive home and offered him my place to crash at. I made it clear this was not an invitation for anything else. Long story short, he raped me in my own bed, then called me crazy over and over again for being so upset. When he approached me several years later, he asked for forgiveness although he still claimed he’d done nothing wrong."
- UCSF Community Member 2015 |
"He was a friend of a friend that I had just met that evening. We flirted and kissed throughout the night, but I told him that I didn’t want to have sex because we just met. I got so drunk that night that someone had to carry me to the cab that was headed toward my friend’s house; I didn’t remember that we even took a cab the next morning. He was in that cab too.
I passed out on my friend’s floor, and woke up because of the pain. He was on top of me, and I groggily told him to stop. I thought it was over, and I passed out once more, only to be woken up by the same intense pain. He was on top of me again, doing what he wanted without my consent. I detached from my body in that moment, and tried to imagine that this was happening to someone else’s body, not my own. Al- though I didn’t know it then, a piece of me died there on that floor, and I still haven’t been able to bring that part of me back to life. I don’t know if I ever will. The next day, I told one of my friends who was with me that night what happened, but I minimized the assault. I told her it wasn’t a big deal; after all, he stopped. The first time, anyway. She looked frightened, but not for me. She said, “Don’t make it sound like ‘that’ is what happened to you. You could ruin his life.” In the aftermath, I didn’t want what happened to be real. This wasn’t the first time in my life that I had been violated by a man that I knew, and I went into survival mode. I felt so profoundly sad and was so disgusted with myself: I had to do something to legitimize it, to make it so that I didn’t feel this way. Why did I feel this way? Had I not drank to the point of blacking out? Had I not kissed him and shamelessly flirted with him all night? Wasn’t this all my fault? Wait, this didn’t happen again. That’s not what happened, this ISN’T REAL! I told my friend that I liked him and I wanted to date him. She invited him over to her house for a party. We all drank too much again. He and I went into a private room, but I couldn’t have sex with him. He got angry and left the room. I needed to leave, I needed to get out of that apartment. What the Hell was I doing?!? I walked into the living room and saw my friend passed out on the couch. He was rubbing her thigh. I was blinded by fear, and I knew I had to do something for her. The heady numbness of the alcohol burned away in an instant, and my anger and pain rose up and yelled for me and for her, “What are you doing?!? She’s asleep!!!” He ran out of the apartment and I never saw him again. It took me a year and a half to even admit to myself that I was raped, and I still feel an immense amount of guilt over continuing to pursue a relationship with that monster. Many of my friends whom I told still do not believe that’s what happened to me. They blame me, and I blamed me as well...but now, three years later, there are some things I want people to know about rape. We think of it as being committed by a random “man in the bushes” that jumps out and attacks us. We go to self-defense classes empowered with violence and feel safe in the assumption that we will have the presence of mind to fend off the offender when he strikes. We know to cover our drinks in bars, and not to walk home alone in the dark. We don’t think that someone we know or who knows people we trust will be the most likely culprit. We don’t realize that the contents of the cup we’re covering is the most commonly used date rape drug. We don’t understand that our friends will walk us home in the dark, but then leave us alone on their floor to be raped by their friend. We think that if/when rape happens to us or someone we know, it will be clear-cut, black and white, and we’ll know what it looks like: we obviously don’t. We blame the victims, “Well, you led him on. All that alcohol, that dress, the way you flirted... what did you expect to happen?” Healthcare providers and friends ask them why they didn’t report the incident to the police, not realizing that the victim’s character will be tried just as brutally as the perpetrator, and with little to no physical evidence, he/she will likely be right back on the street. As a society, we have to stop and see rape for what it is in each person’s story. As difficult as it is for me to share mine, I hope that it helps people see what rape can look like in real life, because it did happen to me. It was real, and I live with it every day." - UCSF Community Member 2015 |
"For the span of a year and a half I was stalked, harassed and assaulted by a man I had dated for a short period of time.
The man was older than me and professionally successful working as a Sr. Manager vying for partner for one of the big 4 consulting firms in their technology division.
He threatened to kill himself when I tried to break up with him. When I did he threatened to gang rape me with the intent of giving me HIV, broke into my home both when I was and was not there, slept on my doorstep, harassed my friends and family, and stalked my home, neighborhood and work.
He broke into my home when I was sleeping and attacked me; we fought and when I called the police I was told, as al-
ways, that “I should choose better company.” I believe that if it were not an instance of same-sex domestic violence my reports would have been taken more seriously.
I secured multiple restraining orders, filing approximately 10 police reports detailing his threats and harassment before and in violation of the restraining orders.
The SFPD Domestic Violence Task Force got involved as well as the SF DA’s office. I had two attorneys and spent close to 10K in fees to secure my legal representation. It was found that he had a history of assault and battery in another state.
I ended up in therapy weekly and on anti-anxiety medication for over a year to deal with the stress. I eventually moved in with a friend because I was not safe living alone.
This lasted for over a year, and subsided 5 years ago. I still get a foreboding text from him about once a year. It greatly affected every aspect of my life, socially, familial, romantically, professionally, psychologically and financially. It was an almost unbearable struggle to keep it together; those were some of the darkest days I’ve experienced. I learned a lot and I grew a lot, and most importantly I learned how to not be a victim."
- UCSF Community Member 2015
The man was older than me and professionally successful working as a Sr. Manager vying for partner for one of the big 4 consulting firms in their technology division.
He threatened to kill himself when I tried to break up with him. When I did he threatened to gang rape me with the intent of giving me HIV, broke into my home both when I was and was not there, slept on my doorstep, harassed my friends and family, and stalked my home, neighborhood and work.
He broke into my home when I was sleeping and attacked me; we fought and when I called the police I was told, as al-
ways, that “I should choose better company.” I believe that if it were not an instance of same-sex domestic violence my reports would have been taken more seriously.
I secured multiple restraining orders, filing approximately 10 police reports detailing his threats and harassment before and in violation of the restraining orders.
The SFPD Domestic Violence Task Force got involved as well as the SF DA’s office. I had two attorneys and spent close to 10K in fees to secure my legal representation. It was found that he had a history of assault and battery in another state.
I ended up in therapy weekly and on anti-anxiety medication for over a year to deal with the stress. I eventually moved in with a friend because I was not safe living alone.
This lasted for over a year, and subsided 5 years ago. I still get a foreboding text from him about once a year. It greatly affected every aspect of my life, socially, familial, romantically, professionally, psychologically and financially. It was an almost unbearable struggle to keep it together; those were some of the darkest days I’ve experienced. I learned a lot and I grew a lot, and most importantly I learned how to not be a victim."
- UCSF Community Member 2015
"I was 5 days shy of my 18th birthday. I was a virgin. I had a future ahead of me. I was multi-lingual, bright, energetic, inquisitive about the world around me. I was going to be a doctor, no, I’d work in foreign service at an embassy, no!, I’d be a doctor who worked in foreign service! I was raped by the brother of my boyfriend, and thought I was responsible. I was afraid if my boyfriend found out he would hate me, and my best friend was their cousin and I couldn’t tell her or she would hate me too. Blood is thicker than water, right?
Because maybe it was my fault. My boyfriend’s sister and I were baking cookies when their brother came home angry and upset. He stormed into the house, said his girlfriend had just broken up with him, slammed the door, and disappeared downstairs. I shouldn’t have followed him to the other part of the big house to see if he was okay. He was crying and upset. I sat down next to him and told him it would be okay, that she was a fool and he could do better. And in the blink of an eye he had pushed me down with his forearm at my throat and was on top of me managing to get my pants unbuttoned. I was stunned, paralyzed. I hadn’t caught up with what was happening and by the time I did, my pants were undone and he had already gotten them over my hips... I began to cry and scream and could not budge from his weight on top of me. “You know this is what you want. You came down here to get this, it’s me you want, not my brother.” All I could say was, “please don’t do this, you’re upset and it’s not with me, please don’t. Let me go, please.” It happened so fast and then it was over, and even now, 32 years later, it seems surreal. He let me up, told me not to bother telling anyone because there was no way anyone would believe me; “They’ll just think you’re a whore. You followed me, you came to me.” And I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone. Not for 3 months, and when I did, he had been right. No one believed me. Not even my mother. Just like that, I was completely broken. My family turned their back on me, my pursuit of higher education ended, I had no self esteem, I felt devalued and was completely alone.
It took 2 years before my mother called me one night out of the blue in tears and apologized for not believing me. She told me at that time, “What is wrong with me? I’m a woman! I’m a mother! How could I not believe you?” It was incomprehensible to think her perfect daughter had had something so horrible happen to her, that it was easier to imagine there must be another reason she said she’s been raped. “She must be on drugs! She’s acting out! Wants attention!” She said it was easier to think those things, no matter how incongruent it was, than to accept that I had been a victim of rape.
She asked for my forgiveness and I gave it. But I was still broken and it took more than 7 years before I would begin to heal, to believe I mattered... and to have self esteem. It took a suicide attempt. It took counseling. It took years of one bad relationship after another with men who preyed on my weakness and insecurity, reinforcing my feelings of worthlessness, before things began to shift. I finally met and had a positive relationship with a man who let me know that I wasn’t damaged, dirty, worthless, and I started to believe him. That led to friendships with strong women who would become my role models... I started to believe in myself again.
There are still days that I see that young woman looking for validation, looking to be accepted and valued... Talking about my experience gives me strength, but the scars are everlasting... While I have long accepted that my first intimate experience was an act of violence, and that the trajectory of my life was tremendously derailed from the track my young heart and mind had planned for, I am, thanks only to an amazing and supportive husband, realizing those hopes and dreams from 30 years ago. You’re never too old! But what still troubles me is the lasting effect that that experience has had on my confidence, and self worth, all these years later.
I’m so good at counseling others to look beyond, and letting them know they are so much more than what they think they are, and to believe in themselves. But I can’t do that for myself. You might wonder, had I ever been able to? Yes, I had...I was the one who others saw as independent, strong, confident, an achiever. And I was. I have struggled for 30 years to regain that confidence, strength, and independence and in many ways I have. But never all at the same time.
I mourned the loss of having the ability to choose when and with whom I would lose my virginity 20+ years ago. That would have been so much easier to do than to live day in and day out still feeling “less than” those around me, all because one person’s words, “they’ll never believe you,” turned out to be true, and are still looping around in my head."
- UCSF Community Member 2015
Because maybe it was my fault. My boyfriend’s sister and I were baking cookies when their brother came home angry and upset. He stormed into the house, said his girlfriend had just broken up with him, slammed the door, and disappeared downstairs. I shouldn’t have followed him to the other part of the big house to see if he was okay. He was crying and upset. I sat down next to him and told him it would be okay, that she was a fool and he could do better. And in the blink of an eye he had pushed me down with his forearm at my throat and was on top of me managing to get my pants unbuttoned. I was stunned, paralyzed. I hadn’t caught up with what was happening and by the time I did, my pants were undone and he had already gotten them over my hips... I began to cry and scream and could not budge from his weight on top of me. “You know this is what you want. You came down here to get this, it’s me you want, not my brother.” All I could say was, “please don’t do this, you’re upset and it’s not with me, please don’t. Let me go, please.” It happened so fast and then it was over, and even now, 32 years later, it seems surreal. He let me up, told me not to bother telling anyone because there was no way anyone would believe me; “They’ll just think you’re a whore. You followed me, you came to me.” And I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone. Not for 3 months, and when I did, he had been right. No one believed me. Not even my mother. Just like that, I was completely broken. My family turned their back on me, my pursuit of higher education ended, I had no self esteem, I felt devalued and was completely alone.
It took 2 years before my mother called me one night out of the blue in tears and apologized for not believing me. She told me at that time, “What is wrong with me? I’m a woman! I’m a mother! How could I not believe you?” It was incomprehensible to think her perfect daughter had had something so horrible happen to her, that it was easier to imagine there must be another reason she said she’s been raped. “She must be on drugs! She’s acting out! Wants attention!” She said it was easier to think those things, no matter how incongruent it was, than to accept that I had been a victim of rape.
She asked for my forgiveness and I gave it. But I was still broken and it took more than 7 years before I would begin to heal, to believe I mattered... and to have self esteem. It took a suicide attempt. It took counseling. It took years of one bad relationship after another with men who preyed on my weakness and insecurity, reinforcing my feelings of worthlessness, before things began to shift. I finally met and had a positive relationship with a man who let me know that I wasn’t damaged, dirty, worthless, and I started to believe him. That led to friendships with strong women who would become my role models... I started to believe in myself again.
There are still days that I see that young woman looking for validation, looking to be accepted and valued... Talking about my experience gives me strength, but the scars are everlasting... While I have long accepted that my first intimate experience was an act of violence, and that the trajectory of my life was tremendously derailed from the track my young heart and mind had planned for, I am, thanks only to an amazing and supportive husband, realizing those hopes and dreams from 30 years ago. You’re never too old! But what still troubles me is the lasting effect that that experience has had on my confidence, and self worth, all these years later.
I’m so good at counseling others to look beyond, and letting them know they are so much more than what they think they are, and to believe in themselves. But I can’t do that for myself. You might wonder, had I ever been able to? Yes, I had...I was the one who others saw as independent, strong, confident, an achiever. And I was. I have struggled for 30 years to regain that confidence, strength, and independence and in many ways I have. But never all at the same time.
I mourned the loss of having the ability to choose when and with whom I would lose my virginity 20+ years ago. That would have been so much easier to do than to live day in and day out still feeling “less than” those around me, all because one person’s words, “they’ll never believe you,” turned out to be true, and are still looping around in my head."
- UCSF Community Member 2015
"I buried myself deeper under the blanket when I heard him start to yell. My parents fought all the time, and it was just easier to be asleep than to face it. His voice got more aggressive, and I shut my eyes harder, hoping it would all just be a dream. Then I heard her hit the hotel floor. I pushed the blanket off and screamed when I saw him pinning her down, one hand over her mouth, one hand around her throat. He yelled at her again for waking me up, and slammed the door as he walked calmly out of the hotel room, no hint of guilt in his stride. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last." -UCSF Community Member 2014 "My parents had been yelling at each other as early as I can remember. So early, that I did not realize that fighting was not necessarily part of a normal family routine. Honestly, as a child, I do not think I ever noticed that much. It was after my father's stroke in high school that everything seemed to amplify. Suddenly, as the fights became more frequent, I saw how deeply the abuse ran in my family. My mother felt absolutely helpless to my father’s demands especially with his new disabilities and was also very financially dependent upon him. My father was dealing with a life-changing prognosis and understandably had much frustration and depression on his shoulders. The day I felt it culminate was the day my mother called me crying. They had been grocery shopping and had gotten in a fight at the store. They were in the parking lot when my father struck my mother across the face. This was the first time I had been told of an actual physical attack on my mother. I still do not know if it was the only time because I know my mother has tried to sugar coat the situation over the years. Volunteering at a women’s shelter myself at the time, I felt so helpless and guilty that I was not there for my mother. Even when I was home trying to mediate the fights, I never knew what to do. In some ways, I knew I was a buffer when I was home, but I also avoided going home to escape the fights. Sometimes, I fear when I see their tempers in my own actions, and hope that I will be more aware and contain my anger. I have no doubt that my parents love and care deeply for each other and their children. Yet, the ease in which they can abuse each other has kept my world tumbling since I can remember. My mother has no sense of worth from years of living for other people thinking of herself last, while still being put down for her shortcomings, and my father feels superior simply by the culture he was raised in as well as trapped by his own medical conditions. I don’t know that I could say either of them is more at fault, but simply in an unhealthy relationship that they have both learned to live with. -UCSF Community Member 2014 |
"I had a friend that I connected with well; we were great adventuring partners and had gone on several trips together. I felt safe with him. He also knew I was committed to my partner. On one trip after sharing a campfire with other campers, I had too much to drink and stumbled to my tent to sleep it off. I woke up, dazed and confused, with my "friend" having sex with me from behind. I was afraid, because he easily overpowered me. I told him the next day I was upset about what happened and he replied, "I only have sex with people who want it." I didn't know what to say. When I told my partner what happened, he accused me of cheating on him and asked piercing questions that hurt so badly: "Did you like it? Did you put his dick in your mouth? Its your fault for drinking too much." I spent my birthday at Planned Parenthood getting checked for STDs and taking pregnancy tests. It felt like I was carrying this heavy burden until I told a friend what happened and, finally, someone recognized that this person hurt me." -UCSF Community Member 2014 "Imagine loving and fearing someone at the same time. A relationship that is unpredictable, authoritative, yet unconditional. This is the relationship I have had with my father since I was a little girl. Every time I knew it was coming, I felt my heart race and the words "I'm sorry" rush out of my mouth in hope of mercy. His eyes staring at me like a lion who has just spotted their prey. Spit flying out of his mouth as he degrades me. There is nothing I could do. I deserved it. Most of the time, the pain wasn't the part that hurt the most. It was the disrespect I felt and anger that fumed inside of me. Thoughts of suicide would consume my mind. "I am nothing. He is right. I am a waste of life. I should end everyone's misery." I can't complain, my mother and little brother are still trapped. From San Francisco, there is only so much I can do. I urge them to call 911, but my brother can't bare having his father in jail. Instead, he fights back, getting beat in the midst of it all. He loves his father, yet he fears his father, just as I did. The cycle continues with no solution in sight. It took me 22 years to even admit there was a problem in my family. That we did not deserve it. That domestic violence does exist. And finally, people who love you can also hurt you." -UCSF Community Member 2014 |
"You wouldn’t let me get out of the car. I was scared. I said I was going to get out. You said that I couldn’t. I was a mess. I was embarrassed. I apologized. I would do anything. Please, please let us just go back to how it used to be. I can be better, I begged. He told me that I was hurting him. That he deserved better. I have memories upon memories of crying on the floor. I’m sobbing and apologizing and he’s looking at me like I’m a piece of filth. And still, it’s my fault. Why can’t I change? I was in this perpetual state for an entire year. He told me he was a good boyfriend. I believed him. He told me I should be happy, grateful. I was. He told me to change. I tried. When I failed, it was obviously because I wasn’t trying hard enough. Why can’t I just understand the things he was telling me? If I just listened to what he had to say then we would work as a couple. That was my life. I lived my nightmare. He called me a whore. I was a slut. It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. How could I have slept with more partners than he did before we met...so obviously my promiscuous actions meant that I was a slut. It wasn’t his fault that I was now forcing him to accept me. Of course, it would take any man a long time to accept these things. Of course I was to blame. I gave him everything, sacrificed nothing. Friends, family, pharmacy school? Take it. Money, it's yours. The worst part was that during that time I believed I was happy. I believed he was a good man, and even 2 years later, I struggle with the lies I believed were true."
-UCSF Community Member 2014
"I was 14 and home alone while my parents were out of town. My uncle lives across the street, and they had let him know I was alone just in case of an emergency. I heard the doorbell ring and ran downstairs. I looked in the peephole and saw my uncle. I figured he had come to check up on me and opened the door without any hesitation. He came inside, hugged me in the weird way that he always did. His hands would always go to places that my other uncles never touched, but everybody is different, right? Then, he didn't let go of me. He held on to me, kept touching me, and I started trying to politely writhe out of his grasp. He had me against a wall, his hands at my crotch and around my breasts. What was happening? I knew it wasn't right, but I was so confused. This was my uncle, the man I got a Father's Day gift for every year because he had no children of his own. But why was I against a wall? Why was he kissing me? Please, please, please, stop. I pushed, but I was so scared to get in trouble that I was frozen. Heaven forbid I disrespect an elder, I thought. He smiled, and said "Okay, I just wanted to see that you're fine. You're not scared alone?" I shook my head. He left. I locked the door behind him, absolutely confused. I walked upstairs, went to my room, closed the door, and sat on the floor and cried. I felt so dirty, but I also had no idea what had just happened. Weeks, months, years passed and I always pretended nothing had changed. I pretended so well that sometimes I even forgot myself. Then, there would be random triggers. Reading a book that mentioned child molestation bringing me to tears. Attending Vagina Monologues in college and hearing about sexual violence towards women. Helping my friend through her own struggle with sexual abuse. Watching a video of sexual harassment from an older gentleman towards a young female medical student in medical school. The nightmares are so gripping and vivid. I dread waking up in utter terror, heart racing, sobbing, feeling so helpless as if it had all just happened again even 10 years later. Still, nobody in my family knows. I promised myself I would say something if I ever felt there was another girl at risk, if any of my cousins or my sister give birth to a baby girl, but that has not happened. I hope my silence has not put any other girls at risk, but I simply did not want my family to fall apart over this.
-UCSF Community Member 2014
-UCSF Community Member 2014