When we cannot tell..

I believe you. Three powerful words that mean everything to a survivor.

Dylan Farrow wrote a letter that was published in Nic Kristof’s blog at the New York Times recounting her sexual abuse by her step-father. Everyone knows who he is, so I won’t mention his name. I refer to my own abuser by his first name, and not by dad, because he doesn’t deserve that title. No father does, step or otherwise.

Some famous people have come out and made their comments. I suppose they’re entitled to that just as I am. But I have to say, if this is true, their comments are devastating, particularly from the women. So here’s what it’s like..

We don’t tell because no one will believe us. Or at least we think they won’t. Sometimes, as in my case, the abuser has weapons. I knew better that to say anything. I had the conversation with my mother when I was nine, and she told me to never mind. I stood there, dumbfounded. It was then that I knew she was on board with abuse. Dylan’s mother believed her. As she should. No one should have to hear what my mother said. No one should have to know she’s completely alone.

I knew that if I told anyone, and I came close many times, that my abuser would kill me. Simple as that. He had an arsenal at his disposal, and I knew my name was on every gun in that closet. It was only a matter of time. Throughout my childhood, I had set up an elaborate escape plan that included suicide if necessary. I spent most of my life in my room, afraid of what would happen if I came out. When we moved to Oregon, he began going out to bars at night. I could come out when he left. Since he was a teacher, he got home early each day. We’d have dinner, where all kinds of nonsense would occur, and then he’d leave for the bar. He would close the place, so a sense of calm would return in his absence. But then, he’d come home. 

His co-conspirator, my mother, finally got fed up enough that she went to the bar, walked in, told him she was taking his car, came home, packed it with his clothing and waited. He arrived, the fight ensued, and he began taking her things out of the closet, throwing them out on the front lawn. I called the police, telling them if he started hitting her, he wouldn’t stop, so the police arrived. Lots of them. There were ten cars there when we left, and five more were coming, lights active on all of them. It was around 3 am. The neighbors were awake and watching.

She didn’t leave him.

It took until I graduated from high school for her to leave. I graduated at the end of my junior year because that’s what we sometimes do..we overachieve in an effort to keep the abuser away. If we’re better, then maybe it won’t happen. If we’re smarter, then maybe it won’t happen. If we’re just better..

I found the apartment we would live in. I took her and my brother to see it and she rented it immediately. We moved within days, while he was at work. He found us three weeks later by following her home from work.

The last abuse happened when I was ten. It happened on the trip down to Oregon from Alaska. My mother forced me to go with him so he wouldn’t be alone. She and my brother took an airplane. Lucky them.

Throughout my childhood, I tried to manage everything. I tried to manage my mother’s feelings and behavior, and when that didn’t work, I managed my way out. Still, her love was conditional on what I could do for her and since I left, her presence was there only upon my initiation. When she died, I was the one who took care of everything. Because that’s what we do. We give ourselves away with emptiness in return. When my abuser died last year, his wife continued the pressure by sending me all of his death bills. I don’t know this woman..I’ve never met her..yet she thinks I’m responsible for her husband’s medical bills. This went on for four months. It seems to have ended. She evidently couldn’t figure out why a daughter wouldn’t want to see her father, or why his grandchildren don’t see him either. They were married for less than ten years. You’d think she’d have questioned..instead she married a pedophile.

So, for everyone out there who wants to support Dylan’s step-father instead of Dylan, just stop. Or if you can’t, don’t support him publicly. If you cannot stand with Dylan, then keep it to yourself. She took such a risk coming out this way and sharing her experience. The only people who know what happened are Dylan and this man. These are not trivial experiences. They’re life changing. No matter what peace you’re able to make, you’re changed forever. You don’t tell to get even. You tell because you have to. You tell because you’ll explode if you don’t. You tell because you want to scream from everywhere that he’s not what you think he is. He’s a predator.

You tell because at some point, you have to matter, even if only to yourself. When people question your motives, or your timing, or whatever other ridiculous thing they want to say, it destroys you just a little more. It’s hard to be strong and complete in the face of that.

So I’ll end this the way I began. I believe you, Dylan.