"You need to learn how to shut your mouth."

For as long as I can remember, I was sexually harassed by a family member. He sent me dirty pictures, asked for sexual favors, and told me that when I was old enough, he would show me what love meant and more. 

I tried to tell my family multiple times. No one believed me. Every time I spoke up, he would back off for a short time, but when he started again it would be more aggressive.

What stuck with me the most was after the last time I tried to say anything, another family member said to me, "You're nothing but a liar who likes to cause drama, and you need to learn how to shut your mouth." 

After that, I kept silent for 5 years before finally trying to tell someone else. 
 

"You don't want to touch her..."

When I was 16, I was molested by a guy I had known for years, and he gave me an incurable STD.

One night, after this had occurred, I went out with my sister and a guy she was dating. 

Somehow the topic of threesomes came up, and I noticed my sister texting her date: "You don't want to touch her because she's dirty."

To this day, I can't bring myself to tell my sister that what she said killed me a little inside. 
 

"There is just something about you..."

At the end of high school and beginning of college, I dated a guy who I thought I loved. He was intelligent and seemed to really understand me when nobody else did. The first year was great, but after that, he started becoming angry easily and yelling at me a lot. Eventually, he started hitting me and raping me.

Most nights ended in him crying and apologizing. One night, however, he looked at me and said. "There is just something about you that makes good guys do bad things."

I'm now married to a great guy who helped me escape that other relationship. Though my husband has told me it wasn't my fault, I still wonder sometimes what it was about me that caused the abuse. I don't think I will ever be 100% okay.

"Why did she get in the car with him?!"

I had a summer internship in college at a summer camp. The boss was terrible to work for and always felt off, and a news story eventually revealed him to be a pervert who had groomed, molested, and raped one of the campers, a 14-year-old girl. He had given her a ride home one day, but instead of taking her home, brought her back to his place where he sexually assaulted her. 

I told my mom about it and her immediate reaction was, "Why did she get in the car with him?!"

This reaction irreversibly changed the way I saw my mother: as the kind of woman who would blame a 14-year-old girl for being raped. 

To this day she still does not understand why I don't want to put that internship on my resume.
 

"Why did you let yourself be alone with him?!"

When I finally got up the courage to confess to my mother that my former stepbrother (from her second marriage) had molested me, she looked me dead in the face and asked, "Why did you let yourself be alone with him?!" 

I cannot forgive her. I've tried, but I just can't. I hate her. I hate everything about her. 

When she met my one-year-old son for the first time and he cried every time she tried to hold him, I couldn't help but smile. 

"Hey, so I'm sorry about the other night."

I can't remember anything about our night together. I just remember waking up in my dorm room, covered in bruises, my lamp on the floor with the shade crushed in, clothes scattered on my floor, and me, alone in my room, knowing that I had not been alone the night before. 

It took me almost 30 minutes to remember the last place I had been: a frat house that I frequented with my friends. We had gone there the night before to play beer pong with brothers at the frat. I had partnered up with a guy I knew, but did not know well. The last thing I could recall was his face hovering over mine in the darkness of my room.

The next day, I did not know what to do. My friends laughed it off as yet another one of my escapades. I was shaken, but managed to get through the day okay. Until I got a message at 2:39 AM the next night from that guy. That guy. It simply said:

"Hey, so I'm sorry about the other night. I was a little more aggressive than I normally am, so I apologize."

My heart raced. I wanted to vomit. I heard a roaring in my ears. 

I still don't know what exactly happened that night. I never asked. I don't really want to know. But I remember the bruises, and I remember the fear. I remember the single, simple apology that said so much and yet told me so little about what happened.