< Translator’s note: The original formatting of the stories has been preserved. The translations aim to remain as close as possible to each author's original wording and expression.

 

I first encountered violence when I was 8 or 9 years old. My friends and I often liked to play at the playground next to our house. I was a happy, carefree little girl until a man with overly childish behavior showed up. It was only recently that I managed to realize that it wasn’t just childishness at all.

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For a while, I managed to convince myself that he might have a head injury, which is why he behaved that way—the classic victimization of a victim of abuse. But the exposure of his genitals, unwanted touching, and intimidation that no one would believe me—it all happened. And then it happened. Right next to the kindergarten. I remember screaming in pain and trying to bite him. Nothing else, except his glasses, fogged up with sweat, and that detestable gray T-shirt…

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It happened a second time when I had a girlfriend. She often made advances toward me when we were drinking. I cried then out of helplessness, and she just laughed, because she knew I loved her and had signed up for it myself. Victim-blaming again. The same old story.

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I don’t even want to talk about the countless instances of harassment by random men on public transportation, on the street, and sometimes during job interviews. There was an attempted rape at age 16 by a “boyfriend.” There was even an incident of physical harassment by a psychotherapist. I came for help, I mustered the courage to ask for it, I didn’t want any physical contact or interaction.

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I’m sick of always feeling unprotected and defenseless. I’m thinking about suicide. I don’t have the strength to fight anymore.

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Anonymous author; story shared in 2021 as part of the “16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence” campaign