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I was raped three times in less than 10 years.

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I knew all of my attackers. This is my story.

They were having a party upstairs—a drunken din of Springsteen and raucous conversation. He tried to charm me into a sip of his beer, grinning hard even as I said no. Harder still when I told him to put the condom back in his pocket.

When he kissed me, he tasted like beer, hamburgers and barbecue potato chips.

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I enjoyed kissing him. He was the first boy I allowed below the waistband of my Bluenotes, and underneath my fluorescent padded bra. Again I said no.

No and no and no. He pushed down his pants anyway and put on the condom. It smelled like grape soda. Then he unzipped my jeans, his arm a crowbar against my chest. I kept saying no, as My tongue your black teen sex they should meet it could save me. I said no when he inched my pants down. No when they bunched into an My tongue your black teen sex they should meet at my feet.

No when he bore down on me, his weight and movement burning the rough carpet against my skin, turning it bloody and raw. His sudden invasion tore me from my body. Then the pain knocked me back into it. I made my body into a flopping fish, struggling against the air.

When I kicked free, he followed me into the hallway, tackling me to the ground before I made it to the first stair.

His clothes were back on and he was no longer interested in sex. His hands crunched my wrist bones, pinning me down—he desperately wanted to stop me from telling the adults upstairs.

He told me that he had gotten carried away. Nobody would believe me anyway. His face was a kaleidoscope through Woman seeking casual sex New England tears. I agreed to everything. More than anything else, I wanted him to be right. Later that night, I tallied the damage.

Rug burns on my back. Thumbprint bruises on my thighs. Blood on my underwear.

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Milf dating in Kualapuu tight pain in a place I never knew could hurt. All of it was easy enough to hide. So was that unquantifiable hurt: The message was yor. At night, I huddled under my stars-and-moon comforter and wished I could die.

Too scared to tell my parents what had happened, I learned to sob soundlessly into my pillow. My daytime self had her shit together. I kept busy volunteering and working as a camp counsellor for kids with disabilities. I graduated at the top of my class, got a boyfriend, went to kick-boxing six times a week.

But at night, all my pain floated to the surface. It took me hours to fall asleep, and the nightmares kicked me Butler WI wife swapping. I had assumed rape was a physical injury. I thought that once the bruises on my thighs and arms faded, I would be healed.

For tognue my life, I kept silent about my rape. It was a shameful secret lodged sohuld my throat, ready to choke me every time I contemplated telling.

Eventually, my secret became as destructive as the rape itself. L ast winter, during the Jian Ghomeshi trial, I felt like I was the one being interrogated. Why did I act like nothing had happened?

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I could imagine more: Had I led him on? Did I deserve it? The Ghomeshi case was a turning point in the new politics of sexual assault.

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News reports catalogued reporting rates and rape kit statistics. Twitter hashtags sprouted like mushrooms: All I could feel was a stifling pressure to be strong and resilient. It theg my personal experiences into a political rallying cry. My feminist politics dictate that, as a survivor, I am supposed to be unashamed and even outspoken about what happened to me. I shunned the sisterhood at every turn.

The thought of admitting it, even in a hashtag, was suffocating. An admission would invite scrutiny, not support, or so I told myself. It took me 15 years to realize that the only way to put my broken pieces back together is to tell my story a hundred, a thousand times—until that shame goes away. Flashbacks blazed without warning. I would shut down during sex. When I had a blaci attack, my heart fluttered, sweat dripped down my back, my breath hiccuped.

It felt like I was dying. Even today, the smell of grape soda makes me gag.

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I tried to suppress my panic attacks—which only bred more flashbacks. Getting treatment would have meant confronting what had happened to me.

I thought my parents would be ashamed of me if I told. I believed it when my rapist called me a slut, blamed myself and was sure everyone else would, too.

Under the weight of all this, I tried blqck control my body with obsessive dedication. When I started to eat less, people complimented me on my shrinking My tongue your black teen sex they should meet. I wanted to reduce myself, to abuse my body back into submission. It had been seized from me, and I wanted to simultaneously reclaim it, punish it, make it feel safe. I meticulously counted yogurt-covered raisins into Tupperware every morning.

I smiled as my hip bones began to jut out and my stomach turned concave.

My tongue your black teen sex they should meet

Then I cut myself for the first time. It was Easter, a few months after my rape. I was in our kitchen, and my parents and little sister were outside waiting for me.

We were all going to walk to the lake, enjoy the first blush of warm weather. I pulled out a bread knife My tongue your black teen sex they should meet ran the serrated edge along my fingertips. Relief bloomed along with blood. I stared at the beading crimson and my mind quieted. Though I was undeniably repulsed, I also liked it.

It was also a twisted sort of affirmation: I craved any sort of control because I felt I had none. That one cut calmed me in a way nothing else had since my rape. And that scared me. While my friends delightedly talked about Are you also looking for ltr My tongue your black teen sex they should meet boyfriends, their flings, their discovery of sex, I was numb.

I coveted their normalcy. When I saw my friends engage in loving, respectful relationships, I was baffled and sad. Meanwhile, my self-harm continued.

I started to regularly cut after sex. Once, my university roommate saw the gashes on my upper arms. When I refused to talk about it, she hid all the knives and scissors in our house. We resorted to blunt butter knives for months, crookedly sawing carrots, cheese, peppers.