#sexualassaults

[rotting-bitch]

Guilt follows me like a stray dog

[thecpdiary]

Developmental Trauma

It isn't possible to grow up with a disability you don't know you have, and not live with trauma. I continue to talk about my experiences with developmental trauma through my writing, because trauma isn't something you get over. It's something you find a place for.

We may also experience trauma when a parent is present, but mentally and emotionally absent, through mental and/or emotional neglect, when a parent dies, or a parent leaves and disappears from your life.

Developmental trauma can affect us all

Developmental trauma is something that can affect us all. It usually starts in childhood and continues into adulthood, or it can start in adulthood through a situation that leaves you overwhelmed and unable to cope, and that may not happen in childhood. It's associated with feelings of fear around experiences; feeling powerless over situations, as opposed to incidents that are easy to identify and deal with.

Not everyone recognises trauma

Sadly, not everyone will recognise, or equate they have trauma. I didn't associate my trauma with my experiences. Having autism, but not knowing it was autism, meant I emotionally retreated without understanding, or knowing why.

Trauma can leave an impression

Trauma can happen through tempers, rage, alcohol addiction, or through a parent who deals with mental illness, or who has narcissistic personality disorder. Developmental trauma can leave a lasting impact on people, unless they choose to work on healing themselves. I chose to work on myself.

As a child, without the support, I didn't also correlate my physical symptoms with my mentally and emotionally difficulties, until I got my disability diagnosis for the first time and I could work things out.

Start to draw your attention to how you feel

I didn't draw attention to how I felt, but I don't think you do. Generally we may not draw attention to how we feel, until something happens, we lose a loved one and grief becomes all too encompassing and we become gripped with feelings of anger without understanding there is more to our grief than just losing our loved one.

It is important to work through your experiences

Developmental trauma can impact grief in many other ways and unless we understand or choose to look and work through our experiences, we can remain stuck. We may turn to vices like overeating, alcohol and overworking, without equating our habits to developmental trauma.

Any traumatic experience can evolve into patterns that we carry through life that turn up as stress, in our emotions and in our physical bodies, resulting in mental health issues.

For more inspirational, life-changing blogs, please check out my site https://www.thecpdiary.com

[procrastiel]

Please y’all. Listen to the podcast before you accuse Neil or cancel him.

The article was written by the right wing.

The apparent accuser herself said it was consensual.

Believe the victim. The victim said it was consensual. Why are we believing Rachel Johnson who wrote the article, and who happens to be Boris Johnson’s sister?

[problemduetest4life]

TSC SPOILERS

-

-

-

The abuse Jean went through at The Nest is really hitting me, honestly harder then the stuff in AFTG. I think it’s mainly because how outsiders see it. Like there never any questions about consent in AFTG bc it was so glaringly assault.

However in TSC there are these rumors spreading about Jean “sleeping his way to the top” and the Ravens had this open secret of him “fucking the defensive line.” That is what people learn first and it’s a very realistic portrayal of how sexual assault is viewed.

Thea saying “don’t tell me you’re up to your old tricks again” is HEARTBREAKING. So you knew a 16 year old was up to this and you didn’t stop to consider it wasn’t his choice?? BFFR

Riko knew what he was doing , sending Jean to their rooms and not making it so much of a spectacle. The discretion made it look more consensual, esp when his age (16!!!) did make the Ravens uncomfortable. Riko did that to undermine Jean, or else him joining the line at 16 could be seen more impressive bc of his skill.

Obviously there’s the cult mindset, people knowing where not to look and not question but even outside The Nest it’s so prevalent. The slut shaming and the rumors and the judgement (FUCK LUCAS FR!!!) are so real. Ppl being like “no let’s not look at this child, this actual minor, and place our concern there. Let’s fucking blame him instead” AHHHHH

And for it to keep being brought up years later. Like besides Zane’s betrayal, the sexual abuse that we know of stopped THREE YEARS before Jean joined USC. And ppl will not stop bringing it up! Lucas cannot keep his goddamn mouth shut! Jean doesn’t want to talk about it. Jean would have basically moved on but PEOPLE WONT LET IT GOOOO

[theamoristwriter]

This show was personal. VERY PERSONAL.

🎥 : Baby Reindeer (2024)

[r-vera]

Trust me

Summary- Benedict has been acting weird because of an incident involving one of his muses (she attempted to sa him). Reader tried to gently coax him out of his ‘bubble’ though it was no use until she tried to touch him, earning her a jolt.

Rating- Mature (16+)

Paring- Benedict Bridgerton x female!reader

Warnings- Angst, talks of se***l assault, fluff, slight language, established relationship, happy ending (hopefully that’s all)

Words- 1,841

“Daph, may I ask you something?” you quipped quite unexpectedly. Both you and Daphne were basking in this season’s summer heat from inside Clyvedon Castle’s drawing room, enjoying a rather nice cup of tea. Daphne had decided her time being a Duchess was well-earned for now and was in desperate need of her family’s boastful laughs and silly jests—not to mention their hectic dinners—to indulge her once again. You were especially excited for her visit, not only because you had a chance to see Daph’s little bundle of joy, but because you and she were very close, even before the Duke himself. Childhood friends. You remember all those years ago when you tried to encourage her relationship with the Duke, supporting him over the charming but ‘bland’ prince. She reciprocated her feelings, knowing your deep affection for her big brother, Benedict, and desperately tried to get both of you to admit your stubborn feelings for each other. Her efforts successfully paid off, resulting in the love-bird couple getting married two weeks after their confessions.

It was almost the reason you set up a little date with your friend. Your relationship with Benedict had somehow…shifted? You didn’t want to jump to conclusions before talking with your husband; you knew he preferred some space at times, especially if an idea popped into his creative brain and he wanted to sketch or paint it out before the thought could disappear as soon as it came. But this time…this time felt off. Your first hint was waking up to a cold and empty bed, though you passed it off as a little accident from him staying up late painting (it’s usually when he feels most creative), but then those cold mornings became continuous. You felt it was best to leave it as it was, for now—not exactly avoiding the situation but analyzing it for a deeper reasoning. In the afternoon, when the family mostly had time to take a break from important activities, you would greet your husband with a simple “Hello love” or “Have a wonderful evening, Ben,” but it only resulted in brief nods and odd grunts he never let out before. It was a breaking point when he stayed out the whole evening, never coming back until early morning, only making eye contact with you for the first time at breakfast. You never wanted to jump to conclusions with him, but there was a feeling in the pit of your stomach that whatever was troubling him could not be good and would only be revealed if you gently guided him to confess.

“Of course, dear sister,” she said with adoration. “What has been on your mind?” You played with the embroidery on your dress, encouraging yourself to say what had been on your mind for the past week.

“Has Benedict been acting a bit…strange around me?” You could tell your husband had no problems with his family; in fact, you noticed he’d been engaging with them more than he used to. It only added more slight hurt and suspicion to your heart, knowing the problem was most likely you. Your friend only added more salt to the wound when a poorly concealed look of guilt was etched onto her face. Shaking your head, you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to pour from your burning eyes. So it is you. You’re the reason he’s been acting this way; you're the reason he can’t so much as look you in the eye with adoration and instead, uncomfortablene-

“Now, now, I didn’t say I know the reason why he has been acting this way…just that I have noticed,” she said, placing a gloved hand on top of your fidgeting bare ones.

“Have I done something wrong, Daph? Did I disrespect him in any way? Could it be the time I accidentally took the last blueberry tart that one day? I swear I didn’t know that was the last of them!” You remembered his frustration when he found out who ate his favorite dessert that only came seasonally, but he told you it was perfectly fine, blaming himself for not getting to them fast enough. Daphne only smiled at your silly accusation; this was a serious matter, of course, but it was nice to see you deeply care for her brother and his feelings, even going as far as to think of the tiniest times something conflicting had happened between you two.

“It couldn’t possibly be because of something so little and, dare I say, pointless,” Daphne moved closer to you, grabbing both of your hands in the process. “Tell me, when was the last time he acted normal towards you?” You tried to recall, surfing past a week of old memories until focusing on a time when he told you quite happily about a new art project that consisted of a new muse he met at one of the diversified functions he (now rarely) went to. You knew where Benedict’s heart lay and had no problem with who he used for his artistic designs whatsoever, so using another woman for his professional acts never triggered you.

“Well, he was boasting to me about finding a new muse for some artwork before going to bed, and then after his first encounter with the woman, that was when he started to act strange.” Daphne hummed, understanding your words carefully.

“Now, I don’t want to worry you, but maybe his actions have something to do with this muse.” You tried to ignore the deep pang of nervousness within your chest. No. Ben is never the type of person to commit such a vile act.

“I won’t jump to conclusions, but somehow I need to talk with him.” Your dear friend only nodded in agreement.

“It is all you can do, sister. Benedict can have some trouble confessing things that do not relate to others, but with a gentle push, he’ll pour everything he’s tried to conceal out like a waterfall, so don’t try to drown.” She teased with a slight squeeze of your hands, trying to lighten the dark conversation.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

It was now late evening. Most Bridgertons had called it a night, preparing for the next activities that awaited them the next day; meanwhile, you awaited your husband in your shared chambers, sitting on the foot of the bed in your cream nightgown, one of Ben’s favorites. Your husband awkwardly met with you after another time at the bar with Anthony. He stood in front of the entryway, tugging on the collar of his suit as if a hand was wrapped around his throat, stubbornly staying there. You immediately arose from your position, too nervous to say anything that would get him to abruptly leave like other times.

“Ben…” you whispered softly, unintentionally reaching out a delicate hand in the hope he’d grab it and hug you like he never had before and all would be well, but instead, you received a firm nod and a fast-paced walk toward the water closet. “Benedict!” you demanded more firmly, grabbing his hand in the process, but he instantly removed it from your grasp like it was the hottest thing in the world. Benedict stumbled back, wide-eyed with unstable breaths, heart pounding from the touch. You stood where you were, not knowing what to do. Never had he purposely removed your touch; never so quickly and with a face of horror. “What have I done?” you mumbled more to yourself.

Benedict hesitantly said your name but was quickly cut off by your pained voice. “What did you do that day in your art room with that…woman?” you cautiously crept closer to your husband, too afraid he would jerk away once again. Benedict looked as if he was on the verge of vomiting, cringing when you mentioned ‘woman.’

“N-Nothing, love.” Love. The kind and adoring word felt forced and bland coming from him. It only made you inwardly cry once more.

“Benedict, you must tell me. Whatever it is; I won’t get mad. I swear it.” It was like a wave of guilt, hurt, and resentment came crashing out of a dam he tried so desperately to hold back. His eyes were now red and irritated with tears threatening to spill. It was as if his knees had a mind of their own and felt the need to give out, and before he came crashing down, you were there to hold him and gently place yourselves on the carpeted ground. You cradled him, caressed him, gently whispered comforting nothings in his ear—anything and everything to ensure he was alright and safe.

“I-I never meant to hurt you, angel,” he croaked out through his sobs. You shook your head, almost on the verge of tears yourself.

“You can never truly hurt me, Ben; who did this to you? Was it the woman? What did she do?” you questioned wholeheartedly. Benedict cleared his throat while lifting his head to meet your eyes, your slight nod encouraging him to release the burden that had been locked up within his soul for the past week.

“She…She touched me.”

“Touched you?” you repeated, knowing exactly what he implied. You couldn’t bear the culpability to engross your body. You selfishly thought, though very little, that whatever was going on between him and the muse was…intimate, but in true reality, your husband had been assaulted. Your hold on Ben tightened, silently apologizing to his heart over and over again.

“I tried to tell her to stop…I tried to yell, scream, shout ‘stop,’ but every time the word formed in my mouth, it…it melted. I was scared, only thinking about how you would feel if I,” he paused, “if I told you what she tried to do to me. My mother knocked on the door before anything further happened, and I never felt more grateful in my entire life.” You speechlessly cradled your hands on either side of his face, connecting your heads as one.

“Don’t ever be afraid to come to me when you need help, my heart,” you soothed. “I’m sorry for trying to touch you, and I respect it if you would like more space. I’ll find a guest chamber tonight if I have to,” you said before releasing your hold from Benedict, though he grabbed one of your hands and rested it on top of his.

“There's no need. I think I’m alright now, a little jittery but okay. I need you by my side more than ever now.”

“And I’ll be there every step, Ben.” Your smile slowly turned down at the thought of that imbecile of a woman. “I will kill her even if the whole ton watches. Fuck society, fuck Whistledown,” you seethed. Benedict breathed out a chuckle at your antics.

“Though I would have loved to see that, it’s already dealt with.” You ‘awed’ in partial defeat, making your husband laugh more.

“I love you, Benedict. Never forget that,” you demanded sincerely with every nerve and fiber in your body.

“I love you. Never forget it either.”

Authors note: Hey guys! This is my very first complete oneshot and I’m pretty proud of it. It might have some flaws in there but hopefully, I can learn about them and get better. Please tell me if there are any errors or actions that don’t align with the character's personalities and I’ll fix them as soon as possible! Thank you!

Ps, I don’t really know Benedict’s feelings when sad/hurt since he’s kind of a genuine, playful, and overall comfort character in the show so hopefully I got that down but like I said please let me know if anything’s wrong with the short story!!

[cvtting-k1tty]

Did you guys know that sometimes subconsciously after experiencing sexual abuse the brain will basically get you to eat less or more in the hopes that your body will become unattractive to your abuser?

[elliewithcellie]

Rite of Passage

summary: steve takes care of you after a date gone horribly wrong (roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader)

wc: 2.0k

cw: results of the date which is not described, but understood to be sexual assault, Please use your discretion (marked in the tags so it can be filtered), steve stays platonic, he is the comfort in the hurt/comfort, reader takes a bath, semi-graphic description of injuries, angst but fluff in how steve cares so much for reader. PLEASE let me know if I'm missing anything

a/n: this is not for the faint of heart. it has been in the vault since 2022 just as a kind of a coping thing. it's one of the stories i revisit and literally just cry rereading, but maybe it can be helpful to others. this is just one way one can react to this sort of incident. everyone's own reactions are valid, and i love you.

It could happen to anyone. Almost every girl experiences it, some sick rite of passage to prove that you are a woman. To remind you that you are still inferior, second class, an object to be used. Then these women share their stories so nonchalantly, in passing, and in response to their friends’ stories. Some don’t share at all. Some bottle it up and smile through the pain anyway, now nothing behind her once vibrant eyes.

But you never really thought it would happen to you. Not that you were invincible or immune or reckless; it’s just not something that anyone can fully comprehend. You’d been told to smile more. You’d been objectified or ignored. You thought that put you on the list already.

You thought he was a sweet guy. You wished you listened to Steve. You had laughed at his suggestion to “at least bring him back to the apartment.” You were so embarrassed at the thought of making out with some guy while Steve hid in the other room. And you didn’t want your date to know that you lived with another guy. But all that seemed so insignificant now.

You had to walk home. Your teeth chattered in the drizzling rain, your gait slightly wider than usual. You crossed your arms and bit down on your lip hard, a desperate attempt at a distraction. Not a single car passed you on your trek home. The darkness consumed you. The silence betrayed you. With your phone now dead, making it to your apartment was the only hope filling your heart. You prayed that Steve hadn’t waited up for you. You just wanted to be alone.

You fiddled with your keys as you approached the locked door. You didn’t realize how much your hands were shaking. You struggled for a few more moments, begging for the strength to get inside without crying, when the door opened for you.

“Y/N! I’ve been calling you for like an hour! Where have you been?” Steve guided you inside. He attempted to take your jacket from you, but you jerked his hand off of you.

“Don’t! Don’t touch me.” Your voice quivered at the end of your sentence.

Steve lifted his hands and closed the door behind the both of you. “Sorry, I didn’t – I – you’re soaked, hon. Did—did you walk here?”

You nodded. You felt overwhelmed, anger rising to cover your tracks. “Can you just fucking cool it with the questions? My phone died. I walked here. I’m wet 'cause it’s raining. Just—just leave me alone.”

You shoved him out of your way with your shoulder and stormed to your room. You had never acted this way toward him, toward anyone. People knew you to be kind, gentle, and sometimes blunt, but never rude or aggressive. But you felt that part breaking right in front of your eyes. You were confused. You couldn’t comprehend what was happening, that this was happening.

You plugged in your phone. You paced around your room for your phone to light up again. When your phone turned back on, you checked for his number. He had already blocked you.

Your lungs boiled. Your body vibrated with rage. The impulse to scream grew stronger and stronger by the second. So, you did. A guttural, soul-clutching scream escaped your throat. Tears stained your cheeks. You felt your destruction in your hands, transferring the havoc condemned to you to your room. You threw your books, kicked your chair, and flipped your mattress, bawling and yelling through it all. You punched your pillow over and over until hands gathered you in their arms. You fought the arms, but the hold was tight.

“Hey, it’s me. It’s Steve. Relax. I’ve got you. You’re ok. You’re safe. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You sank into his touch and wept. Destruction left your body and devolved into devastation. Your body suddenly so heavy, you slumped to your knees, Steve following right behind you and still holding you close.

You couldn’t be sure how long you stayed on the floor of your bedroom. But Steve held you with the same force he did from the very start. He wasn’t going anywhere. You cried until you lost your energy, tears still streaking your face. You couldn’t even hold yourself up anymore. You were glad that you had Steve to lean on.

“How can I help?” Steve asked. You didn’t respond. You couldn’t process such an open-ended question. It seemed that Steve understood that. “Water is supposed to help relax people. What if I fill up the tub for you? You can rest in there, and I’ll grab some clothes for you. How does that sound?”

You nodded, not yet able to find your voice. Steve gently lifted you up, and the two of you walked to the bathroom.

You sat on the closed toilet as Steve crouched by the tub, testing the water with his hand. When the tub filled, he stood up and headed toward the door. “I’ll leave your clothes by the door, ok?”

He opened the door, and your stomach flipped. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Please, I don—Can you stay?”

Steve’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink. He closed the door behind him and nodded. “Uh, yeah, ok.”

The two of you sat in silence. You didn’t ask for him not to look. You didn’t start to change. You didn’t move, a haze falling over you. The weight of horror and defeat pulled you down.

“Y/N?”

Your eyes snapped up to Steve’s. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Do you—would you like some help?” Steve’s voice shook as if you were made of glass and one misstep would shatter you.

All you could do was nod. You shuffled out of your jacket as Steve untied your shoes and removed your socks, still damp from the rain. He rose to his knees to meet you at eye level. He patted your arm, and you lifted them halfway into the air, as much as you could muster. Steve carefully pulled your shirt over your head, officially crossing a line the two of you never even toed.

And what Steve saw broke his heart. Blue and green bruises in the shape of fingertips wrapped around your neck. More, less cohesive shapes scattered across your chest down to the top of your hip bones where the waistband of your pants sat.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. He sat in observation, conflict brewing within him. The more he looked, the angrier he got. His shame screamed for him to look away, to salvage the friendship you both have and remain a ‘gentleman’. But the true friend in him wanted to document every bruise on your body, to share the knowledge in your pain, and to lighten the load in any way possible. This part fueled him to continue.

“Stand up for me, please.”

You paused. Your heart began to pound, and you found it harder and harder to breathe. You started to feel dizzy.

Steve took your face in his hands and had you look at him. “Breathe. You’re ok. Breathe with me. In…and out.” You matched the rhythm that Steve set and took deep breaths. You collected yourself under Steve’s gaze, but you were still a little overwhelmed.

“I’m here for you, ok? Whatever you need just say it. Need me to turn around, I will. Need me to leave? I can. But I think you need to get cleaned up, ok? You think you can do that? What do you need from me?”

You thought for a moment. Your brain felt jumbled, like crossed wires scrambling messages. Steve sat at your knees patiently while you considered what you wanted.

“Let’s—let’s just get it over with,” you sighed, a dry laugh forced from your diaphragm.

You stood up with what strength you had left, resolving to lean your body weight on Steve’s shoulders as he kneeled beneath you.

He wasted no time in unbuttoning your pants, desperate to not make a scene of it. He glided your pants to your ankles, and you stepped out of them while using Steve to balance. He stood up and guided you into the water. As you stepped in, the dried blood between your thighs sucked the air out of Steve’s lungs. Now he felt dizzy. Now he felt rage. He could only have guessed, but now he was certain. His eyes stung as he blinked back tears.

“I—I’ll be right back,” he said, turning away from you.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna grab those clothes for you. I’ll be right back. I promise.” He tore out of the bathroom, his tears now falling freely. He was gonna kill him. He was gonna kill that man if it was the last thing he did. He paced the halls debating on grabbing his bat. His blood boiled. Steve didn’t know what to do. He stormed into your room but was quickly reminded of the destruction that already took place. His temper cooled back down. You were his priority. You needed his attention. You needed him. He took a deep breath and collected all of your favorite cozy clothes.

He wiped his tears before knocking. A weak ‘come in’ responded. Steve opened the door. You had already begun draining the tub as you reached for your towel from your seated position. Steve grabbed the towel and pulled you up to your feet. He wrapped you up and did what he could to dry you. Then he helped you into your sweats and socks before guiding you to his room.

“What are we doing?” you asked.

“Well, your bed is kind of indisposed at the moment,” Steve chuckled. “So, you can sleep here for now, ok? I’ll be on the couch if you need me.” The truth was he planned on cleaning your room and putting it back together. He knew it was late, but a fresh start in the morning was sure to allow things to move forward a little easier, right?

“You don’t have to. I can sleep on the couch; it’s fine.”

“Please, I insist.”

“It’s your bed.”

“Well, then, at least stay with me. I want you comfortable. I want you to get some sleep tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Only if you are.”

“I think I’d like that, actually.” You tried to smile, but you were much too tired.

“Come on, then.” Steve smiled. He held your hand as he led you to his bed. He pulled the covers back, and you slipped in, Steve following close behind.

The room was dark and silent, two things that again began to trouble you. You stared up at the ceiling, trying to keep your composure. Steve, too, stared up at his ceiling fan, all too conscious of the space between the two of you, hoping you were comfortable, or at least relaxed enough to fall asleep.

“You were right,” you whispered, your lip beginning to quiver.

Steve’s ears perked up. “Huh? What do you mean?” He turned his body to face you, his arm propping up his head.

“You knew he was bad news. I should have listened.”

“No, no. No. You couldn’t have known. I didn’t know. You did nothing wrong. Okay? Look at me. You did nothing wrong.”

You nodded in the dark, the silence continuing to settle around you. You wanted to believe him; you really did. But fragments of memories struck your nerves, all too vivid and all so wrong to be truly convinced.

“Why did this happen to me, Steve?” Your voice broke. Steve pulled you into his chest as you cried for the second time this evening. He stroked your hair as he held you close, failing to keep his own tears at bay.

“I’ve got you, sweet girl. I’ve got you. I’m gonna keep you safe from now on, you got that? You can count on me.”

“Thank you,” you whispered.

The room eventually grew quiet and still, the only sounds the heavy breaths leaving both of you. Steve kept his promise, holding you in his arms and keeping you safe the entire night.

[rotting-bitch]

try to be gentle while tearing me apart

[slaviclore]

Full article: Survivors say Russia is waging a war of sexual violence in occupied areas of Ukraine. Men are often the victims

[nando161mando]

"How much longer are we going to wait?

How many rapists must women kill before rape is erased? Imagine if fifty, one hundred, five hundred women killed their rapists. What would the world look like if women openly declared that we would kill any man who raped us? How long would it take before men stopped raping us? How many rapists would need to be killed in order for men to stop raping women? How many rapists must be killed before a man thinks twice before raping or sexually assaulting women and girls?

And I am not talking here of state-imposed death penalties. I am talking about the end of rape because men are sufficiently scared of women that they would never dare to rape or try to rape them.

Again, this is not victim blaming. I insist we push the conversation until we get to the part where men fear women enough that rape becomes an anomaly.

I don't want the state to protect me, because as I have stated several times already, protection from the patriarchy is conditional.

I want to be free of patriarchy, not at its mercy."

— Mona Eltahawy

[sandwichsugarbong]

Dumbass terf sexually assaults a child

[90363462]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by I AM RESILIENT🦋 (@i.amresilient)

i.amresilient

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. Take a moment to understand how real this issue is & recognize those in your life who have been victims.

There is absolutely no reason why so many of us have such similar stories. No means no.

[lostinsidelostoutside]

Amit Soussana 💔 her life matters !

[theamoristwriter]

FUCK YOU. YOU FAILED TO BREAK ME.

(Watching this show was one hell of a journey. I hate the fact that so many of us can actually relate to this)

🎥 : Baby Reindeer (2024)

[onmyscreens-blog]

It's so true. Society and parents teach girls how not to become a victim by telling them how to dress or behave in public so as not to attract bad looks or bad people, but they should teach their sons how to respect a woman or girl.

I was a victim...

XOXO ANNA.