A letter to my abuser.

Sharing this intimate story on behalf of "Stars" - someone who is finding her voice again.

TW: Suicide, depression, self-harm, grooming, sexual assault.

Breaking the Silence

-by stars

I’ve always wanted to share this. For years, I kept it locked inside, ashamed and afraid of being judged. I wondered if anyone would ever believe me, or worse, if they would pity me. But the truth needs to be heard. It’s time to tell my story.

This story isn’t for sympathy, nor is it to seek pity. I’m not here to ask for a voice. What I’m here to do is seek justice, peace, and most importantly, heal. To break the silence that kept me trapped for almost a decade. This is my truth, and I will no longer hide it.

The Battle Within

I live with a constant, gnawing battle inside me. Every day is a struggle to breathe, to exist, to find meaning. From the moment I wake up, I’m reminded of the darkness that follows me. The medication I take is no longer just a reminder of my past trauma, but an essential part of survival. Without it, I fear I would have slipped away long ago.

The hospital stays came in waves. I’d be admitted, discharged, then readmitted again. The cycles were endless. It felt like I was drowning, yet I couldn’t escape. Through it all, I kept pushing forward, hiding my pain behind a mask. To the outside world, I looked "fine." Happy. Bright. But no one knew the truth, except for a few closed ones.

I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD). Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD). General Anxiety Disorder (GAD). And no — it hasn’t gone away. I still have it.

The One Who Destroyed Everything

All because of one person.

I was groomed, raped, and sexually assaulted by my band instructor in secondary school from 2015 to 2016. He was someone everyone trusted. My bandmates respected him, my teachers welcomed him, and my parents believed in him. He carried himself with authority and pride, not just as a band instructor, but also as someone actively serving in the national military band at that time.

I believe he was attached to various schools as a band instructor, and mine — a secondary school located in the North West — was one of them.

Before he began teaching me privately, I was under the guidance of another trumpet tutor, someone he himself recommended. But after a while, he told me I wasn’t improving. That the tutor wasn’t effective. Then he offered to take over my trumpet lessons personally; and to do it for free. He framed it like he was helping me. That he genuinely wanted me to do well. That I was worth the extra time.

My father, trusting his professional opinion and good intentions, agreed. Weekly private lessons began at my house.

But what we were doing was against school rules. No band instructor was allowed to conduct private, unsupervised lessons with students, especially in their homes. He told me to keep it a secret. Said it was to protect both of us, to prevent him from being blacklisted or terminated, and me from getting into trouble or even expelled.

I believed him.

At that age, I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t know what intercourse was supposed to be. I didn’t understand boundaries or consent. I only knew to trust the adults around me — to listen to them, to respect them, to obey. That’s what we were taught, right? That adults know best? But he used that trust against me. 

He made me say I liked him. I admit — I did have a crush on him. But isn't it normal for a teenager to have innocent crushes? For a 14-year-old to admire someone older, someone they find charismatic or kind?

Crushes are a part of growing up. But acting on them, especially by an adult, is not. It was never my responsibility to manage his actions. I was a young person. It was his responsibility, as an adult to know better. To draw the line. To protect, not exploit.

He blurred the line. Crossed it. Erased it.

And he used my innocence; my normal, adolescent confusion, to justify what he did. But that doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t make it my fault. It makes it grooming. It makes it abuse.

When I finally gave in, when I said what he wanted to hear, he took it as permission to do things no adult should ever do to a young person. 

It started with hugs. Then kisses. Then one day, his hands were on my thighs, slipping under my school skirt, touching me where I didn’t even have the language to describe. He touched my chest. He touched my body. He told me it was okay because I “liked” him. But it wasn’t okay. None of it was.

He made me take explicit videos of myself.

But it didn’t stop there.

Not only did he ask me to take videos of myself, he pestered me to secretly record my mother undressing. The reason he gave? He said he wanted to “see if he could get aroused.” He told me he had Erectile Dysfunction; that he struggled to stay aroused for long and that somehow, a video of my mother might “help” him. 

He wanted me to violate the person who loved and raised me. He manipulated me into betraying my own mother’s privacy, safety, and dignity, all while knowing I was too scared, too conditioned, too broken to say no.

I remember screaming and crying silently. Because by then, I already knew; my voice didn’t matter. My feelings didn’t matter. What I wanted didn’t matter. I had learned helplessness. I had learned that my suffering was invisible.

He always got what he wanted. I had to agree with whatever he said. I was nothing more than an object to him — a tool to control, to use, and to discard.

Then came the forced oral sex on him and on me. The toys. The painful penetration. Things escalated so fast, and I didn’t even understand what was happening. I was confused. Frozen. Afraid. I never gave my consent — and even if I did, how could it count? I was 14. I was a young person. Teenagers cannot consent to sex. They cannot consent to manipulation. They cannot consent to being groomed, coerced, or violated. 

What he did was not just wrong. It was a crime. It was abuse. And it destroyed something in me I'm still trying to rebuild.

The Silence That Consumed Me

I kept it all inside. For nine years. I didn’t tell a soul. The shame. The fear. The guilt. I told myself no one would believe me. That maybe it was somehow my fault. That if I said anything, I’d be blamed, or worse, ignored.

But hiding it didn’t make it go away. It only made it grow. I carried it in my body, in my mind, in my heart. Every day I was pretending to live, but inside I was still stuck in those rooms, in those moments.

Finally Breaking the Silence

Eventually, the silence was too loud to bear. I had to say something. I had to tell the truth. I made a police report. Investigations are now ongoing.

It took me nine years. Nine years to gather the courage, and to find the right people to support me. My husband. My psychologist. My psychiatrist. They’ve been my strongest pillars, and I am so grateful for them.

Making the report wasn’t easy as I'd need to relive my experiences with precise details. I kept thinking — is there enough evidence? Will they believe me? Can they trace it back? What if they think I’m lying?

But I had to try. I owed that much to myself.

Telling My Parents

Since I was to be admitted by my psychiatrist, I had to tell my parents what happened as I did not want to disappear without them knowing. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Seeing my mother cry, blaming herself for not noticing — it broke me. Seeing my father’s anger — not at me, but at him — was a pain I didn’t expect.

They had trusted him. Just like I had. But he took advantage of that trust and destroyed everything.

Scars and Survival

I resorted to self-harm and many suicide attempts.

My arms are filled with scars. To others, they may look ugly; marks of shame or weakness. But to me, they are battle scars. Reminders that I fought to live. That I survived.

Every cut was a cry.

Every wound was a message: “Help”. “I’m in pain”. “I’m trying”. “I’m surviving”.

But even with that, I often truly believed and sometimes still believe that I can’t find peace in this world. That no matter how much time passes, I will never truly heal. That hope is something meant for other people, not for me.

There were times I didn’t just want the pain to stop; I wanted myself to stop. I attempted suicide with the intention of being gone. Completely. But there were also times I wasn’t sure. Times I gambled with it, not because I wanted attention, but because I didn’t know how else to escape the weight.

More Than Tired

People say, “You must be tired.” But tired doesn’t even begin to describe it.

This is a kind of exhaustion that’s carved into my bones — a weariness that no amount of sleep can fix. It’s the kind that clings to you like a second skin. It doesn’t go away. It just sits there. Heavy. Constant.

I wake up tired. I go to sleep tired. And in between, I carry the weight of trauma, fear, and a deep sense of shame. I smile when I have to, I function because I must. But inside, I am constantly fighting — thoughts, memories, flashbacks, guilt, grief, and pain that won’t let go.

This isn’t just mental fatigue. My body carries the memories of what was done to me. I’ve been told that my body doesn’t know how to safely express the intense emotions I carry, so it manifests through chronic exhaustion. And it makes sense — when your body has learned to survive instead of live, it shuts down in ways you don’t always understand.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder how I’m still alive. Other times, I ask myself why I’m still here at all. What’s the point of continuing when my days feel so hollow? So full of pain? But I keep going. Not always out of hope, but sometimes just out of momentum. Out of stubbornness. Out of the smallest sliver of will to believe that maybe, just maybe, something better is still possible.

Still Trying

I chose to work in the Social Service industry so that I can help others. But some days, I can’t even help myself. I show up with a smile, with advice, with care. But behind that, I’m crumbling. Battling my constant self-criticism while trying to balance my role with my clients.

There are days when I have to reschedule visits. Days I cancel last minute because I’m too mentally and emotionally drained. Days I feel I’ve disappointed the very people I’m supposed to support. And each time, the guilt eats away at me.

There are times I fear I’m transferring my emotions to them. I question if I’m doing more harm than good. The professional boundary becomes a tightrope I walk every day.

And beyond work, life doesn’t pause. Marriage. Building a home. Juggling roles. Trying to be a good wife, a good worker, a good person — all while barely holding on.

The Struggle for Acceptance

The mental and emotional toll of this work began to take a serious toll on me. I felt like I was constantly battling myself, wanting to help others while struggling to keep my own head above water. But the real test came when I tried to find an organisation that truly understood my situation.

I had been through several different organisations, each one promising to support me, but in the end, I was often met with discrimination and misunderstanding. They saw my struggles with mental health as a weakness, and I was fired or let go from one job after another. I remember the frustration of having to explain myself again and again, of not being taken seriously, of being told that I wasn’t “fit” to do the work I was so passionate about.

It felt like a constant battle to prove that my worth wasn’t defined by my mental health. But each rejection, each dismissal, made me feel smaller and more insignificant. It wasn’t just about losing a job; it was about losing a part of myself. I began to question if I would ever find a place where I could truly belong; a place where my struggles would be seen as part of my journey, not as something to be ashamed of.

Faith and Hope

Even in the darkest of times, I still try to hold onto my faith. I'm thankful and glad to be a Muslim.

Islam teaches us that “Allah does not burden a soul more than it can bear.” And there are days I cling to that verse like a lifeline. Because some days, it really does feel unbearable. And yet… I’m still here.

My faith has never been perfect — I’ve wrestled with it. I’ve questioned Allah, I’ve cried to Him, I’ve asked why I had to go through what I did. But I’ve also felt moments of stillness. Of being held. Of being seen by a power greater than myself.

Faith hasn’t been a straight path for me. It’s more like a broken road with pieces of light scattered along the way. But I keep walking it, even when I stumble. Even when I crawl.

Sometimes, hope feels like a faraway concept — abstract, intangible. But I’ve learned that hope doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. It’s the whisper that tells you to take one more breath. It’s the voice that says, “Rest for now, but don’t give up.”

I hope for peace, not just the absence of pain, but the presence of something whole. I hope that one day, I can live without feeling like I’m constantly at war with myself. I hope that one day, I’ll find rest, the kind that doesn’t come with guilt or fear.

Until then, I hold onto my faith.

Still Here

So here I am.

Still alive. Still breathing. Still suffering — every single minute.

Even now, as I write this, it hurts so, so much. Every word feels heavy. Every sentence carries pain. This isn’t just something that happened to me in the past. It’s something I carry with me every day, in every breath, in every moment. The weight of it never truly leaves.

Living is hard. Waking up is hard. Smiling is hard. Pretending is exhausting. It feels like there’s a scream constantly trapped inside my chest — silent, but deafening. The pain lingers in my body, my bones, my skin. It aches in places I didn’t know could ache.

There are moments I want to give up. Moments I feel like I can’t go on. But I do. Somehow, I keep going. Maybe it’s for the people who believe in me. Maybe it’s for the version of myself that still hopes to heal. Maybe it’s for no other reason than knowing I’ve come this far.

I am tired — deeply, profoundly tired — but I’m still here. I’m still trying.

Trying my best to live. Trying to believe that healing is possible. Trying to find light, even in the smallest cracks. There’s still a part of me that refuses to give up completely — even when everything hurts.

And for now, that tiny flame of effort — it’s enough. 

The moments I feel happy — they’re enough too. It’s okay to smile. It’s okay to rest. It’s okay to curl up in bed and cry. It’s okay to fall apart and still call it progress. It’s okay to not be okay.

Everything I feel…is okay.

And hopefully, I'll still be here. 

But even if I'm not, at least my story, is now out there.

-stars