I remember the first time I told my full story- it was to a victim advocate… who I was forced to meet with.

I was taken to a victim advocate by my boyfriend’s parent who was a mandated reporter. He found out about what was happening to me and had some evidence that it was happening. In the state I lived in, these two things created certain legal obligations for him. My boyfriend’s father told me he would be taking me to a victim advocate he knew, after school the following day. I protested and said I didn’t want to. He told me I didn’t have a choice- I had to. He started to explain mandated reporting to me and I explained that I was aware and this is why I didn’t want him to know. I remember spending the whole next day at school, anxious about being taken to meet this person. I couldn’t focus on anything at school. I didn’t want to talk about it. Later in the day, my boyfriend’s dad picked me up from school and we drove the 25 minutes to the police station. I didn’t talk much on the drive. I remember him trying to reassure me that he trusted this person and thought that I would like her. He tried to engage me in conversation. I ignored him. I was mad. I didn’t want to meet this person. In my head, I remember thinking: “I don’t care if she is the nicest person ever- I don’t want to tell her”. We walked into the police station, and through the metal detectors. I was introduced to the victim advocate and then taken into an interrogation room at the police department. They explained to me that they chose an interrogation room because my abuser frequented the police station and they didn’t want me to be seen, by him, with the victim advocate.

Then, they moved the chairs. They told me that the chairs were placed like they were, intentionally, and that they were moving them because this wasn’t an interrogation. They moved the chairs so that they were at the corners of the table and it felt more like we were sitting next to each other. The victim advocate started asking me questions and I don’t remember answering any of them. I was determined not to say anything. Then, my boyfriend’s dad said he was going to leave. As mad as I was that he brought me here, I trusted him, and I didn’t want to be left alone with someone I didn’t know. I said no and physically reached across the table for him, he pulled away from me and he left the room. He told me he would be right outside. I was scared. I didn’t know this woman and I didn’t want to be left alone with her.

She asked me a very easy question. I don’t remember what the question was but I remember feeling like I could comfortably answer it because it was easy. Then she asked me a harder question, and I hesitantly answered it. I looked at her for the first time since being in this room. She didn’t seem phased by my answer- she seemed calm. She looked at me but she didn’t seem shocked, upset, or mad by my answer. I remember wondering if she had heard similar things before, and I remember thinking that this was her job so maybe what I was telling her wasn’t upsetting to her. Her calmness made me feel like it was safe to tell her what had happened to me. So I did. I answered all of her questions, as honestly as I could. By the time we finished, it had been three hours. She left, and then came back with my boyfriend’s dad. She gave me her card, and she wrote her personal cell on the back of it and that I could text her, anytime. I remember that I was exhausted and I didn’t talk much in the car on the way home. I held her card and fell asleep against the passenger window as my boyfriend’s dad drove home. I continued to meet with her, on my own accord for years after this original meeting. She reached out for us to meet again because she said she had more questions. It was easy for me to answer questions about what happened to me, rather than try to explain everything myself.

My victim advocate set me up with a therapist in Ohio when I moved there for school. I attended therapy 2x weekly for nearly a year. I built a lot of rapport with this therapist, but then I moved back to New York. When I moved back I decided to continue therapy at my University. I did an intake session and was assigned a therapist. I attended 8 sessions, sharing some information about what happened to me before this Therapist claimed that I was lying about the abuse because the person I said did this to me, is a person in power, and victims who lie, blame people in power. I never went back to this therapist again and his response to my disclosure after 8 sessions made it that much more difficult for me to open up about what happened to me. I stopped going to therapy and then later that year moved to Madison, WI.

A few years later: on Sunday, May 18th of 2014, my biological father was arrested for setting fire to my childhood home. My biological dad had a psychological break and it led to a stand-off with the police. A standoff with police would have gotten media attention in any town, but in a small quiet suburb- all the media outlets were covering it. The media didn’t know why my father had a psychological break, or why he was in this standoff with the police. After he was arrested, people from my childhood were calling and texting me and while many had good intentions, others just wanted to know what happened.

Later that week, a detective called me and asked me questions about the abuse- and said that if I spoke with him it could help my biological dad. I told him I would answer his questions, but that I would not be pressing charges, that I had considered it, but I just wanted to move on with my life. Over the next couple of months- he’d call me, he’d ask questions, and I’d answer them. At one point, he stopped asking me questions and kept encouraging me to press charges. The next time he called me I said that I was answering his questions to help my father, but that I noticed he wasn’t asking me questions anymore and I had already explained that I wasn’t going to press charges. I was in tears, I apologized that I wasn’t ready, and then I stopped answering his calls. My victim advocate, from NY, talked with me later that week and she said that I had to answer the detective’s calls. I adamantly explained that I didn’t. I wasn’t obligated to answer his questions and in the end, there weren’t even questions that I was answering, he was just pressuring me to press charges.

After my biological dad got out of jail, he posted what happened to me on social media. I asked him to take it down. At the time, I didn’t have this blog, and I wasn’t comfortable with my stuff being shared on Facebook. I called my father and said the following words:

“I’m 24 years old now and I am smart and capable of making my own decisions. I don’t want this. I don’t want a court case, I don’t want media attention. I don’t want this publicly shared on Facebook. The justice I want is to be able to thrive in my life now. To graduate with my master’s (degree) and to live a happy and fulfilling life here in Madison. The things you’re sharing on Facebook, the court case you’re talking about, and the media attention are all things that prevent me from living my life to the fullest here. You’re also hurting me, your actions tell me that you don’t think I’m an adult capable of making good decisions. It hurts because you’re completely disregarding everything I’ve told you about what I want and what I think is best for me. I want you to stop. Stop posting things on Facebook about this, and take down what you’ve already posted. Do not start a court case and please do not bring the media into this. It’s not what I want and you’re hurting me by doing this. Please stop”.

I have this word-for-word because I wrote what I wanted to say down on the notes app on my phone and then I read it to him. I had my non-biological parents with me while I read this to my biological dad because I knew he wouldn’t take the post down. I wanted someone to be able to tell me that I was clear with my father about what I wanted and needed and that my biological dad ignored me. He never took the post down. Sharing what has happened to me has been hard. It has been an ever-evolving journey and one that I still struggle with and question at times.

When I started my blog I had a lot of reasons I wanted to write, one of them was that my story was already being shared- by people who didn’t know me or what actually happened. I figured that if it was going to be shared anyway- I might as well have a voice in what and how it is shared, after all: it is my disclosure, my choice, and my story.