My experience with sexual violence began early. My father, a brilliant, funny, and wildly creative soul, revealed his dark side to me each night from as far back as I can remember until I began pre-school. "You made me do this," was his rationale of choice. I just cried and shut my eyes.

Then, at the still tender age of four, an uncle took a page from my father's book. Threatening to stuff me in the attic with the boogey man if I did not comply, he forced me to perform oral sex acts, and eventually progressed to full-blown intercourse.

Fast-forward to age twelve. I had had the same best friend for eight years, a tortured, scheming, rambunctious boy one year my elder. On a particular night in May, he called me over to his house "to watch MTV." When I went home two hours later, I had been beaten, bloodied, and raped. Didn't see that one coming.

Again, we'll skip time to senior year in high school. I was desperately in love with my advanced placement psychology teacher, and as far as anyone could tell, he was equally smitten with me. We talked for hours about life, philosophy, religion, politics. I adored his mind, his wit. Evidently, he adored my thin figure and perky breasts. One night, he invited me to his home under the guise of "studying for an exam." Ever the loyal student, I went without question. The only studying he planned to do was of my naked body. After raping me, he just walked away. No big deal.

Only it WAS a big deal. All of those events were very big deals. For years I struggled with anorexia, bulimia, and self-mutilation in an effort to stifle the roar of shame and guilt in my head. Then I found a good therapist. It took me six or seven before I landed someone competant, but I got her eventually. She was the first person in whom I trusted enough to share my whole story, and she listened with a patience and grace reserved for saints.

Telling my story was the first step. Next, and infinitely more difficult, was acknowledging and accepting the emotions that come with being a survivor of sexual trauma. But I gathered around me a solid support system and plodded along. After much self-doubt, many thousands of tears, and a brief period of suicidal ideation, I reached the "Feminine Awakening." Simply put, I discovered that my body, my sexuality, my femininity, are MINE ALONE, and I am damn proud of them. I can choose to be adventurous and open with my assets, or shelter them and reserve them for my own private enjoyment. Most importantly, I can choose to reclaim my spirit and raise up the body that was desecrated so many times before. I AM A WOMAN, I AM MY OWN WOMAN, I AM ALL WOMEN, AND NO ONE CAN TAKE THAT FROM ME. NO ONE CAN TAKE THAT FROM ANY OF US.