Oh, hey! Ça va ? Today’s post is a continuation of the previous one, and yet again one I wish I didn’t have to make. I am writing this for the same reasons I wrote the other: to move past my worst experiences, to help someone somewhere feel a little less alone, but to also shed light on topics that are not always discussed; topics that I only learned about as I was processing my own trauma.
I am sharing another story on sexual assault; this time, as a teenager who specifically did not give her consent.
CONTENT WARNING
This story includes descriptions of sexual assault and other forms of violence and abuse that may be distressing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
ANOTHER WARNING
This post is even longer than the previous one, so be prepared to scroll for a long time.
CONTENTS
What was the trigger this time?
Nothing. Nothing at all. Well… maybe not nothing. I saw a picture of him on Instagram on his birthday. But that wasn’t my first time seeing a picture of him. That wasn’t the first year of his birthday. In previous years, we sometimes even wished each other a happy birthday; this time, I didn’t, not sure why. I saw his picture, looked at the date, and continued to scroll. I wasn’t mad at him or anything. In fact, we had messaged on Snapchat and Instagram a few months earlier, and the year before. Nothing crazy, just checking in. That year, I just didn’t double-tap his picture or message him. Not sure why.
The next day, September 4th, 2022, was a Sunday like others. I came home from church, spent a few minutes on my phone, then decided I was finally going to edit my first cocktail video. I didn’t see anything particularly disturbing or triggering on my phone, yet about twenty minutes into cutting and trimming and syncing sound to my Premiere Pro project, this other distant memory resurfaced. It’s not one I had pushed to the back of my mind to the point I’d forgotten about it. It’d always been there; I just didn’t think about it.
There I was, that Sunday afternoon, feeling uneasy and being annoyed that yet another bad memory was poking at me, needing my attention. I wondered why it was happening, but at that point, I knew better than to ignore the feeling. It wasn’t going to go away until I addressed it, and I wasn’t about to spend another six months trying to repress it. I could no longer focus on what I was doing anyway, so I stopped and let everything emerge.
And it did.
The memory. The feelings. The tears.
This time, I remembered everything in almost every detail. I closed my eyes and with elbows on my desk, I held my head in my hands.
“That’s a lot. That’s too many times already,” I said, shaking my head in between sobs.
I then did what I sometimes do when I am sad and unsure who to talk to, unsure who can relate—I turned to YouTube and Google, hoping to find stories like mine.
“My boyfriend raped me.” “Was it really rape?”
These are the words I typed in the YouTube and Google search bars, respectively. I went from one video to another, from one article to another, crying with the women who were crying, crying with those who were not. As much as it comforted me to see I wasn’t alone, I was upset at the stories, at how many I found, at the realization that the ones that get told are only a tiny fraction of total occurrences. And as much as it comforted me to see I wasn’t alone, I didn’t find a story quite like mine.
My story
All names are fictional. Everything here is true, but I have compressed some events to make this story more digestible.
Sixteen years old. High school senior. Second quarter of the academic year.
Ding. The school bell just went off. I glance at my watch, then turn around in my seat to look at the back of the class. It’s 4:30 p.m., and I check to see if he’s ready to leave. I smile and he smiles back. Like my most days lately, Alex and I will make our way out of the building together and to the location where we usually take our taxis back to our respective homes, about a fifteen-minute walk from school. We stay a few more minutes to chat with our friends before he walks over and we say our goodbyes.
Alex is six months younger than me, and he and I have been in a relationship for about a year. He is my very first boyfriend; I love him and he loves me. I am not his first girlfriend, but that doesn’t bother me at all. I just sometimes wonder if there is a girlfriend playbook I should follow, but for these kinds of questions, there are other people I can talk to. Alex is nice and sweet and caring and thoughtful. A bit too jealous for my liking, but he warned me he was the jealous type. Sometimes it’s sweet, other times it’s not.
He also has this medical condition that is hard on both of us. I hate seeing people in pain, especially those I care about. His chest pains used to scare me a lot in the beginning, especially when they caused him to faint, but I am getting better at managing myself and supporting him as best as I can when they happen. But the truth is, I’ve also been wondering if he doesn’t sometimes use his condition to his advantage, because I’ve been noticing that his mini attacks are more frequent when we argue and I am mad at him. But he also says he doesn’t like when I am mad at him and he wants us to be happy. It’s frustrating not being able to fully express myself sometimes because I don’t want to cause an argument and subsequently make him faint, but I don’t like arguing either and I, too, want us to be happy. I feel bad for thinking he would manipulate me in that way. Alex is my boyfriend; I love him and he loves me.
My relationship with Alex has been going well so far, and for the most part, I am happy. We argue sometimes, but those are regular couple arguments [based on my extensive experience]. I also read somewhere that arguments are healthy, and it seems we do love each other more after an argument, so we are all good. What really annoys me, however, is when he asks for sex. I already told him I am not ready, but he keeps asking and now goes through my friends to try and convince me. He says it’ll make us love each other even more, and while I read somewhere that sexual intimacy does make relationships stronger, I just don’t want to do it yet. He initially agreed to wait, which I was happy about and grateful for because not many boys seem to be willing to do that, but he’s been asking more frequently.
Alex knows I am a virgin, so he promises to be gentle. He says it doesn’t hurt that badly and that after the first time, it’ll be more enjoyable. But it’s not even about the pain—I only want to give my all to one person. I do see myself with Alex long term and we often talk about marriage, but I hate the idea that, if we do it now but end up not getting married, more than one person will know my body in such… depth.
Most people in class and around me have done it already and it seems pretty normal. I don’t want to sound “corny,” so I tell Alex and other people “I am just not ready yet.” I love him, but I am not willing to compromise myself just to keep him around—I’d rather we break up, and he knows that.
Seventeen years old. High school senior. Third quarter of the academic year.
Alex did something really upsetting today. I am mad at him, so we don’t hang out after school like we usually do.
It’s later in the evening when we start texting. I am not the best communicator, so I wait until he asks before I tell him what’s wrong. We are now arguing. We’ve been doing that a lot lately, and I am tired, so I almost break up. He usually talks about how much he loves and can’t live without me. Sometimes it’s sweet, other times it’s not. This time, it definitely isn’t. He says he doesn’t want to lose me and asks me not to leave him. Now he is not feeling well. I suspect this is not true, so I continue to argue. But he is not responding to my texts anymore. I don’t care.
Two hours later, I open our conversation to notice Alex still hasn’t responded to my last text. My heart is pumping more blood as I begin to worry. I hope nothing bad happened. I call, but he doesn’t pick up. I call again. No response. Now I am panicking. I don’t want to cause him to go to the hospital again. I continue to call until he finally picks up the phone.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispers. His voice is faint. It sounds like he was crying and like his chest hurts. I ask and he confirms that is the case.
“Okay, I am here,” I reply. I am frustrated, but I feel bad.
This is similar to what happened during Christmas break: we were arguing, then I didn’t hear from him for days. When he texted me back, he said he got sick and was rushed to the hospital with limited access to his phone. I doubted that was true at first, but as days went by and I had little to no news, I began to worry. He looked fine when I saw him again at school after the break, but I thought maybe he’d gotten better.
The next morning, I get to school about twenty minutes before classes start. Alex arrives shortly after me. I know we’re going to talk about what happened yesterday, so we stay on the balcony outside the classroom. His arms are extended over the edge of the balcony, exposing the scratches on his wrists. He is a lot lighter than me, so marks tend to be redder and more noticeable against his skin stone. When I ask what happened, he mentions our argument yesterday.
“I told you I can’t live without you,” he says, looking me in the eyes. He sounds scared. He sounds sorry.
“I love you and I am here,” I reply, looking right back into his eyes. I am scared. I am sorry.
I would’ve kissed him, but we’re in school. So, I opt for a hug instead. I look fine on the outside, but I am shaking inside. My heart is pounding, and it’s not because I love him. Was he really going to cut his veins because of me?
Weeks later, Alex and I go home together after school. My dad is quite strict, so I don’t get many opportunities to go out. Alex’s parents are a bit more flexible, but he doesn’t have free rein either, so we try to maximize our time together and see each other outside of school as much as possible.
I like his company; he likes mine, too. But lately, my friends have been complaining a lot because we no longer spend time together. I’ve been missing them as well, but Alex is very jealous.
He is jealous when I am with boys and he is jealous when I am with girls. He gets angry when we spend “too much” time apart. I feel I have to hide to hang out with my friends, especially if they’re boys. Oh, and if I so much as smile at a boy or laugh at his jokes, or if he so much as brushes his hand against mine and Alex sees that… I am going to hear about it for days and feel the repercussions on our relationship. I’ve been having issues with George, my best friend, because Alex thinks we spend too much time together. George has a girlfriend. Alex and George are friends, but he seems to be mad at me longer when George and I hang out.
As much as I don’t like how things are, I like arguing with Alex even less, so I now spend most of my time with him. We spend most of our recesses together as well, except when he has a soccer game or something else to do. And if he’s playing, I need to be in the stands watching for the duration of the game. I can’t be late, and I can’t leave early. He doesn’t physically force me, but I know if I don’t do it, he will get angry. When we are together, everything is fine. Except when he asks for sex.
We get to the house and spend some time in the backyard at first. My little sister Emma and my niece Nora are home, but my parents aren’t yet. After a while, Alex and I go up to my room. He didn’t force me; it was my idea. He’s been home before, and he’s been in my room before. I am not allowed to have friends in my room let alone boys, but Emma and Nora know not to say anything.
We chat. We laugh. We kiss. We touch. He asks, and I say no. He doesn’t try anything and doesn’t look upset. We chat again. We laugh again. We kiss again. We touch again. He asks again. I say no. He tries and I stop him. He doesn’t insist, but now he’s not happy. He pulls away and sits on the edge of my bed.
“I said I don’t want to do it now,” I say, still lying in my bed, wiggling to fix my skirt.
He doesn’t say anything. He’s angry.
I cross my hands behind my head and stare at the ceiling. After a few minutes, I hear panting. When I glance at Alex, he has one hand on his chest. I sit up. His face has turned scarlet. I suspect this is an act, so I don’t pay much attention to him. It is now nighttime, and both my parents are home.
The other times Alex was home when my mom, dad, or both were there, I snuck him out through one of the back doors, sometimes with Emma’s help. He knows the drill. He continues to fake an attack so I suggest he goes home. It’s late anyway. I try to help him get out of the room, but he is not cooperating. Emma is in her room right next to mine, so I go ask for help. She knows the drill. Alex is only half-cooperating now. He is in “so much pain” he can’t walk properly. My mom is in the kitchen, the room right off the staircase. My dad is in the living room, and from there, anyone can see what is happening on the balcony if they pay attention. Alex takes his time. Emma and I try to cover him as much as we can. This is really annoying.
We finally go out of sight on the stair landing, and once we get there, Alex faints. Seriously? I roll my eyes and sigh. His breathing is heavier and he is “really in pain.” I don’t want to put Emma through this, so I tell her to go back to her room; I’ll deal with Alex on my own. I am so angry I almost want to leave him there. I give him a few minutes to get himself together, but it doesn’t look like he will.
What if someone can hear us? What if someone comes up? My heart is pumping more blood again. I am scared.
“Alex, please stop. What you’re doing is not fair.” I murmur.
He insists he is not faking it. He is still angry at me when I ask if I can call someone to come pick him up, but I’m not sure I want that either.
The last time someone in his family saw me, he was having a real attack as we were both trying to get taxis back to our respective homes after school. I tried helping him that day, panicking a little. After a moment, a black car stopped in front of us.
“Alex?! Are you okay?!” A lady said, getting out of her car. I had never met her before. “Come on, get in the car!” She opened the back door facing us and gestured for him to get in. I wasn’t sure what to do and since I didn’t know her, I continued to hold on to Alex.
“She’s my aunt, it’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, thank you,” he managed to say, trying to reassure me.
“Is that you? Danielle? The girl who gives attacks to my son?” the lady asked with a stern voice. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Alex got in the car and the lady drove off.
I was glad she was driving by that day, but what she said about me made me realize his family was probably not a big fan of our relationship. Alex later told me she actually liked me but was just scared for him, but that didn’t really help.
So tonight, I don’t call for help. Plus, calling for help would mean informing my parents, and I can only imagine what’s going to happen to me (or to Alex, for that matter) when my dad finds out I snuck a boy into my room. I don’t call for help, and I give in instead.
“Okay, let’s go back to my room.”
Alex and I go back, and I lie on the bed.
“Just the tip,” he says, unbuckling the belt on his brown uniform pants. “I promise I won’t go too far.”
I turn my face away. “Just don’t do it inside of me,” I respond, a reminder that I don’t want to get pregnant. He doesn’t have a condom, and neither do I.
He kisses. He touches. I am fully clothed, but I changed out of my uniform earlier. He lifts my skirt and pushes my underwear to the side. My legs are closed and I won’t open, letting him understand he’ll have to work with whatever room is available. He does what he said he would do, and he “keeps his promise.” He also “respects” what I told him not to do so I don’t get pregnant.
Once he’s done and can now walk properly, I sneak Alex out of the house on my own without saying a word. When I get back to my room, I shower, change the sheets, and go to bed. I feel violated but not abused. I feel violated but not raped. It hurts a little. I am ashamed and will never tell anyone about this.
According to my current definition of violence, Alex wasn’t violent. He didn’t pin me down or tie my hands. He didn’t hit or brutalize me. He did not yell at me. He didn’t even force my legs open, and there was no blood. He wasn’t violent. Alex is my boyfriend; I love him and he loves me. But is this what you do to someone you love?
I shouldn’t have brought him to my room in the first place. I don’t think I’ve been sexually assaulted in the past, nor do I think that what happened today is sexual assault, but I do know it is not okay. I am upset but my eyes stay dry. The best I can do is break up with Alex. I don’t think I need to say anything, he should already know.
And I don’t care what happens to him afterward.
We’re done.
THE END.
Just a couple of years older. Today. Retrospective.
When I got to school the next day, I saw Alex. He was still alive and looked perfectly fine (dare I say, healthy). I ignored him the whole day and the days that followed. It was over. And it should have stayed that way. Unfortunately, I still loved him. So, after weeks of apologizing and swearing nothing like that night would ever happen again, he convinced me to get back together with him.
While nothing like that night ever happened again, the requests, on the other hand, did not stop. Over time, he also became a lot more capricious and possessive. He would demand I put him as a profile picture and insinuate I was ashamed of him, or of our relationship when I didn’t do it. He wanted access to my phone and would accuse me of cheating when I didn’t let him go through my texts. Someone was, in fact, cheating; that person wasn’t me… And as he started seeing other people, his requests became more and more… eccentric. I did not perform.
Our “relationship” was dotted with breakups as I tried to leave him, but he found ways to come back or make me stay. I eventually stopped loving him and left for good about a year and a half after the incident. A year and a half (and even longer) too late.
So why did I stay that much longer, you wonder? This is a great and valid question. At first, love was the reason. “How could you still love him?” Another valid question. Keep in mind that what you read here is just a fraction of our story that I framed to highlight trauma. I am not making excuses for him, but I will not deny that there were good times, too. Admittedly, most of those good moments were in high school, before the incident. That said, what I wrote here is not all that Alex was.
When I stopped loving him, his manipulation tactics were what kept me with him. When threatening to hurt himself or fainting after every argument lost their effects on me, he found other things that worked. He also had a thing with alcohol. Since high school, sometimes when things weren’t going well between us, he would drink or tell me he’d been drinking to forget. While I shortly caught on to the fact that he was just being dramatic, it was still scary to think that one of our arguments would cause him to drink alcohol, knowing how that might affect him considering his medical condition. And the few times in college when he appeared tipsy after an argument, I couldn’t just let him leave my room, fearing what might happen to him. I knew for sure he was going to blame me, but I was going to blame myself, too.
I’ve always felt very strongly about abuse and violence, but I never saw myself as a victim of either because my definition of both was incomplete. I always told myself I would never stay in an abusive relationship and would leave the second a man was violent toward me. By “violent,” I mostly meant “lay a hand on me.” I knew when I was with Alex that I was being manipulated, lied to, cheated on, gaslit, but not once did I think I was abused. At the time, the best word combination I could come up with to describe what was happening was emotional blackmail.
Now, this is not to say that the other behaviors are acceptable or less serious. Make no mistake: I absolutely detest–and I weigh my words–every single one of them. They’re the very reasons Alex and I broke up so many times. While emotional blackmail was, in fact, part of it, I know now these words do not nearly capture the entirety of the situation.
The last time I stayed, I was emotionally exhausted and physically disconnected. We did not chat anymore. We did not laugh anymore. We did not kiss anymore. And we certainly did not touch anymore. I had said countless times that I was leaving. In fact, I had already left, because I don’t think what we were qualified as “being together.” I didn’t even want people to know that we were still seeing each other. He was right—I wasn’t very proud of our “relationship.” I was simply there to help with the issues he said he was having, until even that became too much to bear.
The truth is, I didn’t realize I was abused until that afternoon of September 4th, 2022, when I started researching forms of violence and abuse. I never thought he sexually assaulted me. From February 2022 until that Sunday afternoon, I thought I had “only” been sexually abused in my childhood. When I started therapy earlier that summer and talked about sexual assault, only one occurrence came to mind. Alex was my boyfriend; I loved him and he loved me. I could never think of him as an abusive partner. Even writing this now still feels weird, but I am learning to see facts as what they are.
As I did my research and watched videos and read articles, I came across yet another definition of rape I had surprisingly never seen before, considering how thoroughly I’d researched this topic.
According to the FBI, rape is:
“Penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part or object, or oral penetration by a sex organ of another person, without the consent of the victim.”
I did not look for another definition. My boyfriend raped me. It was really rape.
Final thoughts
Another event I didn’t realize was trauma. Another memory I didn’t know I’d need to process years later. I hated the feelings associated with it, but I am once more glad that I addressed them.
Your trauma is valid even if it took a while for you to realize it was trauma: I didn’t realize it was trauma when after Alex, I screened potential partners based on whether they had a medical condition or not. To this day, I still don’t think I can be with someone who has a chronic disease, as unfair as it may sound.
I didn’t realize it was trauma when I broke up with Lucas–my following boyfriend–, after the slightest issue and was ready to leave for good each time. I had no idea you could work through an issue?! Shocker.
I didn’t realize it was trauma when I double checked to see if Lucas wasn’t angry when I told him I wasn’t ready. I would’ve let him go if he were, but I was happy that he wasn’t. And he never asked again. Shocker.
I didn’t realize it was trauma when I found it difficult to prioritize time with Lucas. I feared I would once more lose myself and end up without anyone by my side if we broke up, as was the case when I started college after one of many breakups with Alex.
What happened that night in high school doesn’t define me, not any more than it defines Alex. I forgave him when I didn’t fully understand what he’d done to me, and after I fully understood, I decided to forgive him again. There was however a shift in my mindset, as forgiveness is yet another word I didn’t have the correct or complete definition of. Throughout my healing and betterment journey, I have learned a lot. Among other things is what forgiveness is, and most importantly, what it is not.
I learned in therapy that forgiveness is a choice, not a feeling. The hope, however, is that with time, feelings will eventually catch up with actions. And I learned from the video below that forgiving someone doesn’t mean forgetting what they’ve done. It doesn’t mean everything is fine and it doesn’t have to lead to reconciliation or restoration.
Forgiveness is simply cancellation of debt.
I wanted to forgive. I wanted to move on. So, I released Alex from his debt, one that he could never repay even if he wanted to. That doesn’t mean I foresee a future where we can ever be together again, in this life or another, in this universe or an alternate. And on the other hand, that doesn’t mean I can never say hi to him again.
I have moved on.
To someone somewhere…
Do you relate even just a little bit to my story? You don’t have to answer if that’s the case. You don’t have to comment, like, message me or do anything you don’t want to or don’t feel comfortable doing. If you found just a tiny bit of comfort knowing that you are not alone, that is enough. I am sorry you went through what you did.
Your trauma is valid, and you deserve to be well. Consider therapy or counselling if you have access to it. If not, I hope there’s someone else you can talk to.
If you are a young girl (or boy) reading this, and you are still a virgin and feeling the pressure around you to do something you don’t want or are not yet ready to do, believe me, I understand. But you don’t need to do anything you don’t want to, regardless of what anybody says. If (s)he doesn’t understand, let him (her) go. Whatever you end up doing (or not doing), let the decision come from you and you alone. Staying true to yourself, to your values, principles, and beliefs, is the best thing you can do for yourself. And that doesn’t just apply to your body. Nothing and no one is worth compromising yourself for. I’ll say it again: absolutely nothing, absolutely no one is worth compromising yourself for.
Helpful resources
You already knew this was coming. Sharing is caring, so here you go:
Violence and abuse
Violence is a form of abuse and although it is most often discussed in the context of romantic relationships, it is important to note that abuse can happen in any type of relationship.
The Edmonton Police defines abuse as:
“An attempt to control the behaviour of another person. It is a misuse of power which uses the bonds of intimacy, trust and dependency to make the victim vulnerable.”
Abuse can be physical, sexual, verbal, financial, emotional, psychological, cultural, and even spiritual, among other types.
I have not suffered financial abuse, but I think it’s important to pause here and give some context around it. I hope you know by now that I do not consider one type of abuse to be worse than the other, nor do I consider myself to be “above” certain challenges. I want to pause here because I have noticed over the years that many people, especially women, do not know what financial abuse is and do not realize when it happens.
Financial abuse occurs when “when you are not allowed to have money or any control over money. This could include running up large debts in your name or selling your possessions without permission. Your partner may keep you accountable for any money spent, approving or disapproving of your spending. It could also mean you are not allowed to have a job so you are dependent on your partner for money and survival.”
Giving you an allowance and making you depend entirely on him for your needs is not sweet or chivalrous or caring. It’s abuse. It’s violence. Showering you with gifts but reminding you that he does or threatening to take them away at the slightest inconvenience is not sweet. It’s abuse. It’s violence.
Economic abuse is a broader type that includes financial abuse, as well as behaviors seeking to restrict access to decision-making, education (like preventing someone from going to school), and/or other essential resources. The Canadian Center for Women’s Empowerment gives the differences between financial and economic abuse.
Sabotaging your job and suggesting you quit because “he can take care of both of you with his money” is not sweet or chivalrous or caring. If the goal is for you to completely lose your independence so you can’t thrive outside of the relationship, it’s abuse. It’s violence. Paying for your education but wanting to decide what you should do next or forcing you to remain in a relationship with him is not sweet or being protective or caring. It’s abuse. It’s violence.
I understand some people don’t always realize they’re being abusive, but most intentionally abuse their partners. For the men reading this who exhibit behaviors described above but refuse to admit it, well, I am sorry to hurt your ego, but facts are facts. No one wants to believe they are part of an abusive relationship (trust me, I know), but denying it does not change the reality. You are, in fact, abusing your partner.
You decide what to do with that information.
Learn more
Financial Abuse is Domestic Violence (I found this very interesting. And upsetting.)
The following are videos I think everyone should watch, even simply for awareness. They’re all between 4 and 8 minutes:
The cycle of violence
I had no idea this was a thing, but I’m glad I found it because it helped me understand why some people (including myself) stay in abusive relationships. It is not always as easy as getting up and leaving (but it’s worth trying).
IPV = intimate partner violence (abuse that occurs in a romantic relationship).
Source: Shelter for Help in Emergency
Source: L’Escale de l’Estrie
A note on narcissistic abuse
As I continued to learn about myself, different personality types and how they manifest in, and affect all types of relationships, I came across the particularly unhealthy relationship between narcissists and sensitive people in general. If you weren’t aware, there is such a thing as narcissistic personality disorder (NPD). Nothing wrong with self-love and confidence, but excessive need for attention, admiration, or special treatments, high levels of entitlement, and thinking so highly of oneself that other people matter less, sometimes hides a deeper problem—a mental health condition.
This article discusses the dangerous relationship between narcissists and empaths.
Narcissists are so special they have their own customized cycle of violence. Isn’t that so cool?! The chart below relates to romantic relationships.
Source: Choosing Therapy
Although I focused on romantic relationships in this post, keep in mind that abuse, specifically narcissistic abuse, can and does happen in all types of relationships. I mean… narcissists have families, friends, and co-workers too.
Okay, I am going to stop here. There’s only so much information I can include in a single post, but I hope this helped open your eyes in case you, too, were unaware of what I discussed here.
And now, before anyone else can promise nothing like that night or that entire experience will ever happen to me again, I am renewing to myself the promise I made not to stay in an abusive relationship. This time, however, with full knowledge of what constitutes domestic violence. I will not tolerate any kind. And there is no advice, no cultural practice, no fear of any kind, nothing and no one that will make me stay. I will leave, as many times as necessary.
Once was already one time too many.
Hey. Take care of yourself.
I mean it.
Câlins,
Danielle
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