59 Quotes About Rape-survivor

Before you entered my body clearand removed yourself bloody.But I can recreate new blood,that is the beauty of the body.

Stephanie had been raped, beaten and left for dead on the Atlantic City Boardwalk several times. You'd think she would have hit rock bottom after those experiences. But no. None of that made her quit. It just made her want to use even more drugs, to forget her miserable life. As long as she could get high, she didn't care if she was being raped in a dark alley. At this point in her life, a lethal overdose probably would have felt like her salvation.

She hadn’t been Rachel that night. She was evidence, a body of things to be picked and probed at, pictured and asked about, recorded and quoted. I want my life back. The voice was faint inside her own mind. She could hear the plaintive, almost despairing note to that voice. Like the wail of a scared child, this wasn’t just about facing her fears. This was about everything. Her injuries, the loss of the life and world she’d once taken for granted, her long recovery.

The moment where you consider giving in, or do give in, that's the moment you torture yourself about for the rest of your life. That's the moment where you think it happened to you because you are a bad and weak person, who wanted it really. When in fact, it's about survival. And whichever choice you make, it wasn't really a choice at all.

You're a survivor because every day you make a choice not to be governed by their harsh words or actions. No one has the right to take away your happiness

Overcoming abuse doesn't just happen, It takes positive steps everyday. Let today be the day you start to move forward.

You're a survivor because everyday you make a choice not to be governed by their harsh words or actions. No one has the right to take away your happiness.

Her mother’s quiet disapproval and withdrawal was a death in itself, and Franckline’s despair at it was transmitted, she was sure of it, to the child. She transgressed twice, first by making the child, then by giving it her despair, the despair that left it unable to live.

I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975. I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek. That was a long time ago, but it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.