The Sex You Didn’t Want

The further I get into the safety of a long-term relationship, the foggier my examples become. Each year is like another gloss of paint, obscuring. I am grateful for this obfuscation, however, a part of me wants to hold on to the memories, coloring them with new perspective as I grow in age and wisdom. This part of me wants to lose itself in the comfort of reliving the incidents, but altering the endings. This is what I would do, if it happened again. By rewriting your rape stories, you regain a façade of control.

True StoriesGuest UserApril 12, 2023sexual assault, sexual violence, rape, recoveryComment

All the World Is Waiting for You

When I was five, I got a pair of Wonder Woman Underoos, stars on blue bottoms, a golden eagle on the camisole, which my dad called a wife-beater. I blasted around the yard, kicking Nazis, saving drippy Steve Trevor. The world had clean edges. I was a goddess, a force. Wham! Pow! Look out bad guys. My mom called me inside; I was just in my underwear, and what would the neighbors think.

True StoriesGuest UserOctober 5, 2021sexism, sexual assault, mother daughter, identity Comments

Name It

On tiptoes, I stretched to replace the binder in the metal cubby. I was shocked to feel cold, clammy hands on my back, sliding into the waist band of my skirt. I spun around.

It was him again.

True StoriesGuest UserApril 15, 2021sexism, sexual assault, sexual harassmentComment

Mistaken for a Mirage

I was a tall, skinny blond, a migrant from a sorority house in Texas, looking younger than my twenty-two years when I moved to Aspen, Colorado. The family of my long-time boyfriend had included me on their ski vacations for several holiday seasons, so when I dropped out of college in my senior year it was the only place I knew to go.

Look At Me. Fix It.

I was not raped by someone you know. Just a few days after my fifteenth birthday I was raped by a boy who was scared of ghosts and hung a tin cross on his wall. When I was raped it felt like drowning. I could not breathe. My body twisted in ways I was not in control of, and in the fleeting moments when I realized and re-realized what was happening to me I gasped for air. I cried.

True StoriesJulia NusbaumJuly 22, 2020rape, sexual assault, sexual violence, Strong women, survivalComment

Recipe: Trauma for One

Girl nervously follows Boy into the dimly lit bar, traveling in his wake to the leather stools. Red velvet drapes project an eerie, dark hue throughout the room. Faint jazz music plays from across the seating area; if it was any louder, it would be too difficult to hear Boy discussing his love of poetry and tattoos—the ink he gets in honor of family members.

True StoriesJulia NusbaumMarch 5, 2020sexual assault, Strong women, survival Comment

The Hardest Thing

It’s 1967 and I’m in my childhood home in Central California. There is a knock on the door. My mother, Pearl, looks at me and I know she can see the terror in my eyes. The next seconds will be the hardest thing. Standing on the porch is Dr. Gilbert, the family physician, and he is there to tell my parents that their sixteen year old daughter is pregnant.

True StoriesJulia NusbaumJanuary 22, 2020Growing up, sexual assault, coming of ageComment

My Testament to Harm

We were both 11 years old.

True StoriesJulia NusbaumDecember 13, 2017feminism, storytelling, sexual education, sexual assault, depression, anxietyComment

Personal Essays

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