I was abused by a priest beginning at age 5. Raped and impregnated by same priest while still in elementary school. Miscarried. Lost the baby, my innocence and my childhood. Endured several surgical procedures while still in elementary school and continuing throughout my first year of high school. Final result…a total hysterectomy. No children for me ever. I would forever carry that undeniable void. It is a life long pain, a loss that I grieve daily. Mother kept ‘my secret’? My ‘dirty little secret’? To this day I still do not know what my siblings were told about ‘my dirty little secret’. I do not know what my own father was told. The Silence was Deafening. At 15….a nun enters my life. She was 36. A nun paid attention to me! A nun. A holy woman. A woman of God. My whole young life all I wanted was to be a nun. I wanted to be holy. For a young catholic girl in the 60’s…this was a dream come true. She paid attention to me! She listened to me. She told me I was smart and interesting and pretty. She seemed to care. She told me she cared. She told me she loved me.  She sent me love letters. She warned me not to show them to anyone. I did not understand. I hid them but I wanted to shout it to the world. I kept those love letters as a teenager would forever hold onto the remnants of their first crush. Sister Pedophile was my first crush. She proceeded to teach me about sex. 15/36. Fifteen! Thirty six! She groomed me. I told her about the priest and the rape and the miscarriage. She told me, “he was a sick man and it wasn’t his fault” and then she took me under her wing and into her bed. She gave me Librium and Valium. She gave me gifts… and time. She fed me alcohol. She drugged me to make me more compliant in the bedroom. I was scared. I was naive. I was virginal in this aspect. She told me the pills would help to relax me. Her needs often exceeded the bedroom. She demanded attention in obscure places; the back seat of the convent car, dark balcony seats in movie theatres, elevators in NYC, her relatives homes, a friend’s swimming pool, her parent’s own bed, and highway motels on Route 17 in Bergen County, New Jersey…in the middle of the school day… 20 minutes from my parent’s home. She took me out of class in my catholic high school. She was a nun. She was a school Principal. No one stopped her. She took me to the Meadowlands and taught me how to bet on the horses. I was 15 and 16. She introduced me to the lights and excitement of Atlantic City and extravengant hotel rooms where we would stay behind closed doors for entire weekends. Enjoying yummy fluffy snuggly bath robes, 24 hour room service, a bar in the room, huge soft clean beds with crisp white pressed sheets and a million pillows, AND… a Privacy tag that hung on the outside knob of our bedroom door. How could I not thank her? She offered me the world  and asked only for my body. With an ocean view, this is where she taught me how to please her. She always wore a medal of the Virgin Mary during sexual encounters… and sometimes her veil and ring. I still have the veil. It was confusing. She took advantage of my age and natural desire to please and to be liked. She abused me. She used me emotionally, mentally, physically and sexually. She destroyed me Spiritually. She toyed with my young feelings. She promised, cajoled, pressured and lied to me. She stole my Innocene, my Future and my Faith. She broke me while at the same time telling me she was my Savior…saving me from a dysfunctional family. She put a wedge between me and my family. I lost my siblings, parents, cousins, aunts and uncles. But worst was the loss of my niece and nephews. She told me I could not date boys. She told me how to wear my hair and who I could hang out with. She isolated me. She destroyed me for her own sexual gratification. I was her toy girl. (But, according to her belief regarding the pedophile priest… it wasn’t her fault… she was a sick woman?) But it was very much her fault. I was still a kid. It was the Stockholm Syndrome for me. I was so emeshed with her…I would have died for her. She did an exemplary job at grooming. No doubt she had prior experience. She was polished at the Art of Teen Grooming. She was accomplished. (Practice makes Perfect) I was most definitely not the first notch on the belt of the rosary beads that circled her waist. She was practiced and crafty, manipulative and sneaky. She isolated me from my friends and family. No one intervened. Her ‘religious congregation’ knew, yet did nothing to curb her perverted appetite. She took me into convents up and down the east coast of the United States and across International borders into Canada. We drove from Florida to Nova Scotia and back to New Jersey several times over the span of 12 years. I slept in convents and motels up and down the east coast. (I could write a book on the things I saw and heard.) Always entering the convents through the backdoor and up the back staircase to the second floor… passing others nuns who would literally turn their backs as I entered, (blind eye deaf ear defense) and again as I exited the next morning. I was ripe for the picking. The Pedophile Priest had prepped me well. Over the years, I sought out four nuns in her community and begged them, through my tears to make her stop. I read them a heartbreaking letter

I’m a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and incest. I had a very traumatic childhood. I was born hearing impaired. Had 10 surgeries from 6-10 on my ears. Raped at 7 by a 17 yr old cousin. Issues with my moms first husband under the age of 2, not knowing the full extent of abuse from him. But a lot of trauma. At the age of 9 he came to visit, he French kissed me with alcohol and cigarette smoke on his breath. The smell of old spice all together, are triggers for me. Hate the smells. Also, he tried to kidnap me from school on several occasions, but was unsuccessful. While pursuing my life dream career as a police officer, I saw his name in the detectives office. As the the top of the list on the board for most dangerous person in Ontario. He was a biker, and a mean one. I was terrified they’d find out I was his bio daughter. I later found out he wasn’t my bio dad. I always felt I was the child of Satan. Great thing about growing up in a small town, lots of friends and life long ties. I was adopted at 2.5 by an amazing man, he was my rock. 2 of the 4 marriages my mom had were to very good men. Thank God, I married a good man. He is a little of both of them. My children are so blessed, to have not known about abuse personally. My house burned down twice as a child. I was emotionally and physically abused by my mother all of my childhood. She was an alcoholic. When I was in my teens, I drank and partied with friends. I was raped while passed out. When I was 26, I was hit head on by a drunk driver while I was In college for nursing. My mom had completed her first yr of sobriety, and was attending the family program. I was told, I may never walk again on my left foot. I was walking in 9 months. Stubborn like my mom. When I had my first child at 27. I looked at my husband, and said I remembered my rape at 7. But I was so happy to have my son. Life changed me. Everything was amazing. Love healed me. Then I had my second daughter, Doctor didn’t catch her at birth. She had a severe neck injury. She lived for 64 days. Losing her was losing my childhood all over again. But I got pregnant and a yr later I had my 3rd child. A girl. My mom held my Michaela while she died, and delivered Chelsea-Michaela. Then 4 months later, I found my moms daughter, my sister, my mom gave up for adoption. My mom got pregnant at 14, against her will. When my mom went to rehab, I forgave her for everything. She deserved to be in her grandchildren a lives. Forgiveness was a gift I gave to myself. I’ve spent the last 20 yrs growing up with my children, loving every minute. When my children were 1 and 4, I got a settlement from my accident. I used it to start my charity, at the time it was called “Save The Children, Stop Sexual Abuse”. 4 yrs into my charity, I was sued by Save The Children International and Canadian. They were afraid someone would donate to the wrong charity. And a lawyer from MBM Law Firm in Ottawa called and represented me pro bono. I had to change my name. Secrets “Protect Our Children, Stop Sexual Abuse” it would be. 2018, I’m in my 17th yr. and I’m inspired everyday by amazing heroes and Sheroes. Life is crazy beautiful. Education, prevention, raising awareness, empowerment, and promoting healing is our goals. I love my life, and helping others, helped me to heal from my childhood and trauma. Today, I help victims anyway I can. I pray a lot. And I love my children. Everyone has a story. By sharing, we empower others. We are not alone. There is no shame in your story. Please share it, to inspire others 💓 Love

In early spring of 1997, Watertown, South Dakota, my hometown, was facing one of the biggest floods known to the community. It engulfed homes. The flood waters forced countless families out of their homes. In the tragedy of it all, the community came together. They began filling and placing sandbags to prevent the rising waters from reaching more homes and businesses. Countless times people wanted to give up, let the waters in, because simply, it was easier. I envision my childhood much like a home surrounded by the water. There is nothing able to be saved by the way it looks. Help can be standing 20 feet on the solid ground outside, but unable to reach me. It appears as though whoever was in the home at the time the flood waters rose, was able to get to safety. They never thought to investigate further, if they had, they would have found and helped me. The waters just kept coming in. There is no stopping them. My emotions locked inside and no way to reach them. The water rises higher and faster. Before I know it, my emotions and childhood are trapped. I worked tirelessly filling sandbags, reaching my hand out for someone to come help me. It was too late. The havoc-destruction-devastation caused by this flood is the same feelings I experienced growing up being sexually abused as a child. And I know many other survivors have went through trials similar to mine. I am an incest survivor. I continue to heal each and every day with the help of God, my family, friends, and the amazing advocates I have come to know. I don’t recall all of the details, but I do remember before I was in grade school another older female cousin of mine would have me perform oral penetration on her. I remember I did not like the smell, or the taste. It felt as though I had to go through with it though, or she may tell on me and I did not want to get into trouble. This occurred at least a dozen times. It was always at her house, never mine. I was next abused by my brother. I was in the third grade. It may have started before this, but this is the earliest memory I have. I was so unsure of what was happening. All I knew is I did not want him to not love me, or to beat on me. As the sexual and physical abuse was something normal for him to do almost daily. He blamed me for the abuse. I remember telling my “big sister” from the Big Brother Big Sisters program I was involved in through the Boys and girls Club. She then turned it in to authorities. They came to my school and talked to me….pulled my mom out of work and talked to her. At home later that night…I sat atop the steps while my parents questioned my brother and frequently I heard him saying “She made me do it.” I felt ashamed….I felt dirty….I felt sick…I felt as though I had been thrown down into a hole dug six feet down under, dirt and rocks hurled at me as I lay there crying out tears, but no one could see or hear me….I was too far away. He touched my privates…he groped me in the middle of the night…I prayed this was the end….boy was I wrong. I felt as though God didn’t love me, that he failed and left me. I was all alone. For a very long time, I blamed my parents for allowing the abuse to continue, even after it was brought to authorities attention. It felt as though they chose a side in all of it, and I wasn’t worthy of being fought for or believed. I felt like the dirty torn apart shop rag thrown into the corner, waiting for someone to sweep it up into the trash. How was I not better than the rag in the trash? My cousin/best friend was also abused by my brother. Her and I are the same age. Thankfully, she was practically one of the only people who believed me the abuse happened and continued to happen. When I would try to express concern to others about leaving their daughters alone with him, I would get told, “Oh, Stop, you are just holding a grudge. He is a big teddy bear.” This made me so angry. I prayed he did not ever steal any other persons innocence, as he stole mine. My heart hurts deeply to admit, but this also led to her and I engaging in oral penetration on each other. I believe there were sometimes we also physically penetrated each other. I always excused this away as we were comforting each other. I know it doesn’t excuse or make any of it right, but it is how I rationalized things in my mind. She was afraid to spend the night with me because my brother would abuse her. I wanted her to stay over so I could avoid being victimized for once. I carried around so much guilt and shame for this. It progressed from there….eventually to him performing oral sex…and penetration. I dreaded sleeping. His abuse didn’t just progress for me, but my cousin as well. Even though we both were going through Hell, neither of us spoke of what had happened. We were both the youngest of our families, and did not want to cause trouble for anyone. So we kept this heavy-boulder-mountain of a secret to ourselves. I came to despise my brother, from whom I should have felt love and protection by. I couldn’t call out for help…no one would believe me…or hear me anyway. I remember a time there were many of us gathered at my grandparents house. It must have been some sort of holiday. The adults were in the kitchen and dining room. The kids were supposed to be asleep in

As a five or six year old, my parents worked hard. I was left with my dad’s parents’. My uncle started molesting me. Then soon after, so did two of my oldest cousins. I remember this going on until I was twelve. I found out what was happening to me from an encyclopedia. I knew it was scary,  hurt, and left me feeling all alone. Never thinking once about telling anyone. My grandparents fought. My granddad, was scary with butcher knives, either at me, or the latest dog’s tail. Just for fun. My dad abused my mom, when he was drinking. Many nights we were running anywhere for help, or putting furniture against my bedroom door just to keep him out. My mom couldn’t stand to have me around any other time, as long as I was away from her, she was happy, if she was home. I became an addict as soon as possible. It seemed comfortable. More than ever,  I felt comfortable. As a child, I heard voices, felt people coming after me….all the time. Even seeing them at times. Alcohol,  drugs of other kinds,  gave me reasons for these things to be happening. That was my reasoning. I have made peace with my abuse. I am clean and sober now, since August 28th,  2011. One of my abusers is dead. One lives on, and one still lives a screwed up life. ..in my opinion. Saying that, I guess it affects one different than the other. Me, I’m not sure I honestly will ever be free from it all, but I don’t really want to be. It’s part of me. One of my chapters. One of my stories. Thank you.

The Ride Home Childhood is a time of wonder and discovery. But there are events that are planted in the linings of my brain that I will never forget. For instance, the plane ride from England to Canada and how I put on a first class act to get the window seat. Also, the ride from Canada to New Jersey was full of wonder. I do not remember stopping at Niagara Falls, but there is a picture of me standing on a brick fence and leaning over a steel rail gazing at the raging waters and it still brings me wonder. The lights of New York City looked like the stars in space that dangled and danced. Also, childhood brings back memories of a birthday party and a ride home. It was a warm, beautiful summer day. I could hear the sputter of the lawnmower as my brother started to cut the grass. I could see him push the mower through the thick and luscious grass. Also, I could hear the sound of splashing water and kids screaming their happy noises playing in a nearby pool. Meanwhile, I was getting ready for a birthday party. I put on my white Converse sneakers, tee shirt and shorts and ran out to my dad’s lime-green car. My dad pulled up to the house that my friend lived in; it was bluish-gray, the building was converted into apartments. I open the car door and jumped out. The windows of the house were tall, framed with dark wood and the doors were even bigger. I open the door, it was heavy. It was quiet inside the dark hallway. As I climbed the steps, the creaking invited me upward. The quietness confused me; was there a party here, I thought. I knocked on the door again and again. No party. Not a problem, I will take this time to venture. I had to get home fast, darkness was upon me, and it was late. My dad did not like me out after dark. I hopped into the old smelly car. It was a blue rusty Chevy. The seats were worn and ripped. The music played loudly, the door was heavy and made a noise that sounded like a screech, and my blood ran cold. The man in the driver’s seat was skinny. His face was thin and unshaven, also his clothes seemed too big for him. Once I was settled down, I was greeted by a bottle that looked like dirty, dingy brown liquid. I pulled it to my nose and took a whiff; it smelled like piss; It smelled awful. I handed it back, like a football player would snap a ball to a quarterback. As we continued the ride, he came up with the idea of me driving the car and it sounded like a good idea; what eight year old would not want to drive a car? Thoughts of my dad flashed into my mind, he let me drive when I was younger. As we entered an old abandoned farm road, I could hear the sounds of the stones and gravel that crushed with the weight of the car, the large trees hung over the dirt road like arms of a protective mother. Also, one could hear the cows crying out for food and a dog shouting out commands like a drill instructor. Little did I know that I would need my mother’s protection that day. It was my turn to drive. I climbed into the driver’s lap with the enthusiasm of a race car driver. As I grabbed the steering wheel with all the excitement of a child on an amusement park ride, I started making noises that echoed a race car. Then we stopped and my ride ended and I left my position of control. The ride would be interrupted by the summer breeze that my exposed skin felt. The stranger ripped my pants off like one would rip a nail from a piece of wood. I could smell the stench on his breath; it smelled rotten teeth. I could feel drips of venom that spilled from his foul mouth. The cold metal of the door slapped my cheek. I was stuck like a wolf in a cold steel trap. I lost my voice, I could not speak, only imagine. Only much later in years I would fall like a wounded animal to howl out unspeakable words. I was assaulted by this stranger, I thought he would kill me. My innocence was ripped from me like someone who would rip a piece of paper from a notebook after making a mistake, yet this was not a mistake this was a violation. I fixed my eyes on the beautiful cumulus clouds that floated in the air like cotton candy. I notice the clouds seemed to be held by an ocean of blue skies. My beautiful view was obstructed by a warm feeling on my skin what is that? I whispered in a state of fright, again I looked out the window to the safe and inviting sight of the cotton candy clouds. When we left the darkness of the dirt road, I saw the large trees that now looked like the arms of a monster from a horror movie. As we approached the street that I lived on, he struggled to pull something from his pocket. I thought he was going to pull out a knife or gun. The stranger took out this old, worn ripped wallet. He rewarded me with two dirty old dollar bills. I was dropped off near my house. I walked home in shock looking at the money he gave me. When I walked up to the house, I was relieved; I notice the familiar sights and sounds, like the metal box at the front door where the milkman left the cherry ice cream and rich milk, and the sounds of my brothers fighting. The first person I saw was my older brother. Look at what

My sister and I became victims of childhood sexual abuse when we were around the ages of 6 and 7.  The predator, which will be named Phil, was your normal friendly neighbor that was always willing to lend a helping hand and was extremely nice.  Sometimes our parents would even invite him over to our house.  Little did we know how different his other side of his personality and aggressiveness was until he started molesting us. To put this in perspective, my sister and I were around the age that “normal” kids were learning how to read, write and learn how to build trusting relationships with adults and friends.  Needless to say, this was extremely difficult to do when faced with a neighbor that lived two doors down and would threaten us that if we were to tell “our little secret” that we [my sister and I] would get into a lot of trouble for something that was NOT OUR FAULT AT ALL!  Our childhood innocence was ripped away and stolen by this man and we were faced with a “grown-up lifestyle” once our parents found out.  Meaning that we had to somehow find trust when we didn’t have any, struggle to gain courage to stand up for ourselves and face years of counseling to be on the road to recovery from this horrific part of our lives; some things that children normally don’t have to do until they grow up. The night our parents found out was insane.  We couldn’t really recall how long he molested us because of how young we were.  It seemed like years but it may have been months and the days seemed to just mesh together at that time.  My sister and I got into a huge fight “that night” and she had threatened me that she was going to tell “mommy and daddy” about what she saw Phil doing to me that very day.  That day, he not only fondled my body as he normally did but he made me look at porn and performed oral sex on me, a 6 YEAR OLD!  THANK GOD, my sister walked in when she did because he had just said to me that he wanted me to touch his “private part”.  The image of this is still VERY clear in my mind.  Our mom overheard my sister when she threatened to “tell on me” and had to sit us down.  She [our mom] said it took hours for us to confess what happened and what was happening to us.  I personally remember feeling so dirty but SO relieved that mommy and daddy FINALLY knew about “the little secret” that no longer was a secret. Thankfully, our parents reacted swiftly and reported Phil to the police.  My sister and I had to talk to the police and tell our story.  Our parents also confronted Phil while we weren’t home and to even think what happened is beyond my imagination.  Also to think what our parents went through, let alone what we went through.  THANK GOD we had loving parents that put us into counseling at NOVA, because there were other girls there, just like us that went through similar things at a similar age; it was comforting.  We had such a huge support system not only with our family but with the police force, school administrators, teachers AND Megan’s Law.  We even had our teachers at the time come to court with us the day that we were going to testify! The support is so overwhelming and the understanding that people show is so heartwarming.  The trust that needs to be built with each and every single person that we meet is so important because of the life we had when we started this life and the things that Phil ruined for us like trust and courage.  They say things happen for a reason and we don’t wish this on ANYONE but my sister, I and my family are strong to this day and every day because of what we went through and overcame. 12/30

When I was in kindergarten, my older brother used to pick me up at school and then walk me home every afternoon. He was supposed to take care of me and my other brother while our parents were out working. When you are that young, you only expect care and support from your family. That’s what we all thought he was doing until he sexually abused me. I was 5 years old then. For such a small boy, it is difficult to understand this type of situation, especially if it involves a person that you respect and admire. I was very shy and quiet, so reaching out to someone was extremely difficult for me. Therefore, I kept the whole situation to myself. The abuse continued until my next-door neighbor told his parents my brother was also abusing him. For years, I tried to live with this trauma and avoid thinking about it as if it were something you could just forget and move on. Luckily, the human mind is very powerful and it blocked most of the details from those days. However, as the years passed, the situation became more and more difficult to deal with. Then I became extremely introverted, insecure, and scared. I remembered overhearing people saying that I might be autistic or that I had learning disabilities. I constantly received notices from schoolteachers saying I was not engaging in class. This only supported the negative ideas that were growing in my head and damaged my self-esteem. During my adolescence I suffered from insomnia, deep periods of depression, shame, guilt, fear of people, and sometimes even the desire to die. Later, I met God, and my faith gave me a new strength to carry on. I was able to overcome most of my internal issues, and I got a whole new outlook on life. Seven years ago, I got married to a wonderful woman, and we started our family. I am now a proud father of two. These last few years, everything has been calm, and I thought I had my life figured out. Last year, I met a person that attempted to commit suicide. Suddenly, all of the fear, confusion, and sadness came back. However, this time I thought to myself that if I didn’t do something I would end up like this person. So I prayed God for help. A few days later, I read an article in a Fitness magazine, about a real life hero. The article was about Paul Leduc, a young male survivor of sexual abuse in Canada who was not only able to overcome his abuse, but he was also doing something to help other survivors. At this point I had already hit rock bottom. I then understood that I had two choices in front of me: I could either try to ignore the situation and keep struggling with the same issues over and over; or I could seek for help and finally overcome my abuse and be free. Reading that article inspired me to seek help. So I reached out to a psychologist friend and told her I was going through a crisis. Not only did she listen to me that day, but she also offered to take my case and provide me with psychological therapy pro bono. That was the first time that I felt that I could overcome my abuse and take control of my life. It was God’s response to my prayer. For about ten months, I attended therapy every Saturday morning. At first, the whole experience was overwhelming and painful, but soon I began to gain self-confidence and hope. After 25 years of fearing and hiding, I achieved a milestone; I confronted my abuser and closed that chapter of my life. I as well started to disclose my abuse to my family and friends. These were two scenarios I pictured as impossible up until then. For years I felt a great desire to help others and promised myself that if I overcame my abuse, I would do something to give back what I had received. This is why I decided to follow Paul’s steps and create a group of male survivor of sexual abuse in Costa Rica to help others overcome their obstacles and face their traumas. The project is just taking its first steps, but hopefully it will soon provide other survivors with the same hope that I received myself. 11/30  

A Moment In Time I had the best mother in the world and you will catch me saying that 365 days a year, not just on a Sunday in May on social media.  She did everything in her power to protect, provide for, and nurture me.  And someone stole that sense of stability and safety away from me… in just one moment in time.  I was not left alone with him overnight.  I was not left alone with him for hours at a time.  I was not left alone with him… at all.  This was a crime of opportunity.  This was a moment in time. Many moments in time that led to years of my life.  Years of pretending, and lying, and hiding the truth from those who could have helped me… years of protecting my abuser. A moment in time… an opportunity… another adult went to the bathroom.  Another child was present.  Someone was in the next room, checking on dinner.  Someone was walking the dog.  Another person was always there.  They say survivors of abuse experience multiple moments of sheer panic many times a day, whereas those who are not trauma survivors, experience this type of emotion only a few times a lifetime.  I experience this feeling every time I shower.  Every time I’m in a stairwell alone.  Every time I walk out the door.  Every time I walk in the door, entering my empty house upon coming home.  I have seen ugly and I know how deceitful it can be. I want you to understand, my story is not uncommon.  A myth of childhood sexual abuse is that the perpetrators can’t possibly have done this because “someone was always there“.  I will continue to make it my life’s work to tell you, a jury convicted my abuser, and someone was always there.  And not only was someone else always there… Most importantly… I was always there. 17 years later, many years of emotional manipulation and physical violations, a 5 year long process from arrest to sentencing, and a lifetime of fear living blocks away from him… All of this time, and, here I sit…finding myself still googling his name, following his whereabouts… where he lives, what he drives.  It never stops.  It is a lifelong journey.  I work on it every day, but… This story is not about me.  I volunteered to share my story with you to help the general public understand this is not rare.  This can happen in all socioeconomic neighborhoods, across all races, and in every home in the world.  Stay vigilant.  Do not be afraid to be seen as rude.  This cycle continues, because we, as adults, feel it is not socially acceptable to question someone’s actions for being inappropriate.  We think it is none of our business.  I so wish someone made it their business to peel off the 43 year old man who was canoodling the 10 year old girl in the Ruby Tuesday’s, when the others in their party slipped away to use the restroom.  Then, just maybe, as a grown 28 year old woman, I would be able to shower, without peeling the shower curtain open to reassure myself – I really am safe. 10/30

From Broken to Beyond Surviving™ By Rachel Grant I was a five-year old, middle-class kid, growing up in Oklahoma with an acre out my backdoor when my grandfather came to live with our family. As an innate nurturer, I would help my mom and dad take care of him by doing simple things like bringing him a bowl of cereal, keeping him company, and reading to him. We spent hours on our front porch swing talking, laughing, and watching the people in the park across the street. He was my friend and a quiet companion. One day, glowing from having just turned 10, I was hangin’ out – watchin’ some cheesy 80’s TV when I heard my grandfather coming down the hall.  I knew he was heading outside, so I hopped up, and went to the door.  Usually, my grandfather hung out by himself for a while then knocked when he was ready to come back in. But this day was different. When my grandfather pulled my arm and dragged me with him to the porch swing, I didn’t think much of it. It was a nice day; I imagine I thought he wanted some company.  I’ve always been a snuggly person – at that age I still loved to crawl in behind my dad in his chair while he watched game shows.  So, when my grandfather put his arm around me – I snuggled in close to his fuzzy brown and orange sweater. And then it happened.  This day was the first day my grandfather molested me. I was terrified, frozen, and confused. I remember thinking that he just didn’t realize that he was touching my breast and so I shifted my body, but his hand returned. This was the first day of many that my grandfather would violate our friendship and rob me of my peace and innocence. It went on for months and got worse, but no one noticed and I didn’t tell.  I just knew I’d done something to cause it.  To everyone else, I was the same ol’ Rachel – laughing, crackin’ jokes – but in my room all alone I’d sit trying to fight off all of the confusing new thoughts that had become a part of my everyday life, “I deserve it.  It’s my fault.  I’m ugly. I’m worthless.” One day, my Aunt drove up unexpectedly while he and I were on the porch. He withdrew his hands so quickly that I finally knew for sure, that what was happening was wrong.  But that made things more complicated.  I thought I should know how to stop it and therefore I must have been doing something to cause it. This was the first day I felt deep shame about what I experienced. Then, on another day, here I was again – on the porch, being yet again violated. Then all of a sudden, my mom came flying out onto the porch yelling, “Rachel, get in the house!” I jumped up so shocked and scare – I mean, this was my mom’s best “You’re in trouble child” voice. She had been walking by the window and saw him touching me. What I vaguely remember next is her standing over me, not aggressively, not in anger, but just her presence. What I do clearly remember is in that moment thinking, “It really is my fault, I’m the one in trouble.” Of course, this belief is one that I struggled with for years and years until I eventually was able to challenge that belief by recognizing that my mother was just scared and wanted to get me away from him. Fortunately, when my parents discovered what was happening, they immediately removed him from our home. Unfortunately, that didn’t make the thoughts stop. My mind was quickly becoming my worst enemy: You made it happen! No one loves you! Why bother living? You must have liked it or you would have done something to stop it.   My parents wanted me to get help and even found me a counselor, but I wasn’t having it. I didn’t want to talk about it – I would literally run away to the woods so they couldn’t force me to go.  I just wanted to pretend that everything was okay. So, I buried my head in the sand and tried to be a “normal” little girl. I spent my teen years learning how to “perform” – how to keep the outside looking great while everything fell apart on the inside.  I was a straight A student for the most part.  I had a job and played volleyball and did a lot of writing and acting.  That was all a part of the performance.  Behind closed doors, I was full of fears about my self-worth and value. I was confused about relationships and intimacy. I felt very alone most of the time, and felt that no one could truly understand me. In my early twenties, I was trying to have my first “real” relationship, and it became pretty clear pretty quickly that I was completely ill-equipped for this. I was distrustful, antagonistic, created drama all the time, and was in constant fear of the relationship ending. I became fed up with feeling this way and began doing all of the things we do when we want to get better—talking to friends, seeing a therapist, reading books. I was starting to feel better, but in many ways was still going around and around the same mountain of self-doubt, anger, shame, acting out, and living a life with nonexistent boundaries. By my late-twenties, I was going through a divorce, was in a new city with no friends or sense of community, and was still in pain and feeling ashamed as a result of the abuse that had occurred 16 years before. I realized that I could not keep going in the same direction, that something had to give or I was going to live out the rest of my life feeling alone, broken,