20 years ago, I was in my late teens. I was just starting college. I had my whole life ahead of me.

I had a boyfriend, who was one of my high school teachers. He groomed me to be the perfect victim, and spent the summer raping me. At the end of the summer, he dumped me, saying that I was too bad in bed to date. When I told him that I never wanted to have sex with him, and reminded him that I always said ‘no’, he picked me up by the throat, slammed me against a wall, and snarled at me that if I ever told someone that, he’d kill me.

He ultimately went to prison for having sex with students who were 16 and under. I found that out a few years later. And I hated myself even more, for not telling anybody what he did to me. Maybe that would have stopped him.

20 years ago, I was an honors student my first semester in college. But I was also suffering from hallucinations caused by undiagnosed bipolar disorder. I was self-harming. My mom (who is probably undiagnosed borderline personality disorder) was threatening to disown me, because I wouldn’t call her and give her status updates on my life three times a day Monday-Friday, and five calls on Saturday and Sunday. She refused to understand that some days I had classes from 8am to 10pm, and was not back in my dorm until 11 (by which time she was asleep). Cell phones were in existence, but they were hella expensive bricks, and only to be used for emergencies.

This late winter/early spring will be the 20 year anniversary of the first time I was institutionalized in a mental hospital, long-term. My self-harm and hallucinations were the catalyst. I thought Satan was telling me to kill myself, so I spent a day using a pair of sewing scissors to remove the top layer of sink from one arm, from elbow to wrist, in an attempt to drive Satan out of my body. While I was doing this, I was looking up Catholic Churches in the phone book, to try to get an exorcism. Because I was raised Catholic, and my (insane, hoarder) mother didn’t really believe in psych meds or mental illness, even though her younger sister has bipolar disorder and was stabilized on medication for 20 years at this point.

My intake for inpatient psych care was one of the worst experiences of my life. Once one ER nurse saw my arm, she went and got all the others. They looked at me with such disgust. They didn’t believe I was hearing voices. They told me a pretty girl like me should stop acting out and grow up. They told me my college could kick my out over this (and it nearly did). They treated me like I was a waste of a human being.

The next few years were incredibly hard. I barely graduated college. I had the misfortune to date, and be in relationships, with several other rapists, who didn’t respect my ‘no’, and who said as long as we were exclusive, then it was my duty to put out. No one had told me otherwise, so I had no idea this wasn’t true.

I hated myself. I hated nearly everybody. I honestly don’t know why I didn’t kill myself.

But my junior year, a friend took me to an on campus talk about rape, and I learned about date rape, and the beginnings of consent there. This was the end of the 90s, and I think in some ways, this is when the idea of consent started to really take off.

Learning about consent was what caused me to realize that my first sexual partner/boyfriend raped me. And that those other guys raped me. This caused a nervous breakdown that landed me in the psych ward again, though for a shorter stay. Because now I knew that the reason I felt so awful and hateful and miserable was because I’d been raped and violated by multiple men, and had no idea that I was being raped or violated, not consciously. But subconsciously, those violations were killing my soul, my sense of self, my sense of self worth.

Just to remind you, reader, during all this, I was still dealing with my mentally ill, hoarder mother, who did things like spend weekends throwing all my possessions out of my bedroom window (4 hours away from my college), because I was such a horrid daughter who didn’t come home every weekend and didn’t call multiple times a day. So I was dealing with that too.

During my second mental hospital visit, I tried to talk about the rapes. The psychiatrists and psychologists dismissed them. I didn’t know what I was talking about. I probably sent mixed signals. Did I tell them no? I did? Am I sure? Did I also push them back? Did I fight? Oh, I just laid there...how was the guy supposed to know I didn’t want to have sex if I just layed there and stopped after saying no once or twice?

I left the ward quickly, because it wasn’t helping. And since I signed in myself, happily, getting out was pretty easy. They didn’t really think I should be there anyways. My only problem was being dramatic, you know.

I went home that night and decided if maybe I should just kill myself. I didn’t want to. But I didn’t know how to live. The internet was not the resource-filled place it is now, and I had no idea where to find home. So I sat in my bathroom, with candles and a mirror and some razor blades and a lot of muscle relaxers, and thought over my options.

Looking at myself in the mirror, suddenly something in me, something that was me, suddenly spoke to me (I told you I’ve heard voices before).

It said Why not try something new? Forgive yourself. Apologize to yourself, for the times that you couldn’t keep you safe. Promise yourself that you’ll do better, and learn to do better, but also remember that you may not always be able to keep yourself safe. Be kind to you. Love you. Nurture you. Learn to be everything you need, and see what happens. If it doesn’t work, you can always kill yourself later.

So that’s what I did. First I kicked most of my current friends to the curb. They were more like frenemies. I kept talking to the people who seemed like they really cared about me. I didn’t let anybody else in for years, so that I could work on me.

I was lucky enough to have the privilege of a college education. I am a smart, attractive, person. I paid for part of my education doing waitressing, which taught me how to make small talk and be personable, even when I was exhausted. I went to the library and got out every self-help book I could find, that resonated with me. I also scoured the internet for support.

I’m sorry to tell you, I honestly don’t remember now what books I read. I don’t remember what websites I found. But I did find them, and they did help. I also found, after months of disheartening searching, a therapist and a psychiatrist I could afford and who meshed well with me and could help me.

It has been a long road. This is already a long post, so I won’t bore you with all those details.

But I will tell you that today, I’m very successful. I make over six figures, which is less impressive given the cost of living where I live (NYC). But it’s still a lot of money. Enough to have some solid retirement accounts. Some of my self-help books over the years involved money (I do remember Personal Finance for Dummies and Your Money or Your Life being incredibly important), so I became a frugal person. I got Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. I slowly made good friends.

And today, I am mostly very happy. I am mostly very successful. And years of therapy and self-love mean that most of the time, I feel proud of what I’ve done, and like I really did do it myself. I’m not an imposter. I did get lucky. I am grateful for all the help and serendipitous connections that came along the way. I am thankful for my loving partners, and my amazing friends.

I decided to write this today because I abruptly remember where I was 20 years ago. I remember the dirty, awful, self-hating feeling those first rapes left in me for years. I remember being terrified of how to navigate life. I remember that moment when I debated whether or not I should kill myself.

And I wanted to tell anybody out there who is where I was 20 years ago that I am so sorry for where you are, and that you are hurting. I want you to know that it can get better. It’s hard, but you can do it. I do believe it starts with loving yourself. And forgiving yourself for the times when you couldn’t protect you. For me at least, holding onto that love was what kept me going, and got me to where I am today.

I hope this doesn’t sound preachy, and I hope it makes a difference. We all deserve to live lives with all the mental help we need. Lives where we don’t get raped or abused. Lives where we don’t get shamed for being raped, shamed for being mentally ill due to abuse. Many of us don’t get that, and I’m sure I’m not the only person who made it out that spent a lot of time being afraid that s/he was ruined for life, and should maybe just die, because rebuilding after all that wasn’t possible.

It is possible.

I managed to do it. And I think you can too.