This is my story: I will no longer be silent.

About four years ago, July 03, 2015 my life had changed forever, nothing was the same after. I was downstairs having an “innocent,” but “open” conversation with the closest person to being a father figure in my life at that moment. Since I was in the eighth grade, I have struggled on and off with self-harm, that’s what the conversation turned into. At that time in my life, I had some scars from previous bouts of self-injury. I was asked at that moment, if said: “father figure” could see me naked, to see my scars, to see what “damage” I had caused my body, to “show” me how he thought I was beautiful and that I didn’t need to be doing those things to myself. Let me tell you, I was only 17 years old, I tried to tell him no when he first asked, I tried to tell him that it was going to be weird, awkward, but that didn’t matter. At that moment I felt that I wasn’t able to say no, that I didn’t want to, I was told that it was only going to be awkward if I made it awkward. So of course, I felt like I couldn’t say no, that I couldn’t just run upstairs, I didn’t feel like I had a voice. While I was asked to be seen naked, it just happened to be my time of the month, so while I’m standing in front of this man completely naked I also get asked: “if it’s your time of the month, why don’t I see a string hanging down there?” There is only one type of feminine product to help with those monthly occurrences. At this point I was able to ask if I could put my clothes back on, you say yes, and leave the bathroom so I can change. I walk out of the bathroom fully clothed again, this time you ask me about my sexual history and preferences, whether or not I liked girls, and what was going on between myself and someone else. I felt like I couldn’t escape at this point, so I sit down, and we talk again, this time you are essentially giving me “pointers” on how to perform sexual acts. I was only seventeen. You told me that I wasn’t able to tell my mom about the conversation we had just had because she would be upset, damn right she would have been upset. You may not have harmed me physically, but you harmed me emotionally, forever. You may not have touched me, but you crossed a line that no “father figure” should have ever crossed. That evening I message my best friend on Tumblr explaining to her what had just happened and how uncomfortable that I was, she encouraged me to tell my mom, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I confided into my semi-former therapist in Illinois, she reported it, after sitting with the information for a couple of days, before seeing me again. You may not have touched me, but you crossed a line. After this situation being reported, she tells my mom. Supportive at first, I explained to her what happened, she listened attentively, explained that we were going to have to move, etc. That evening I spent the night with her, my grandmother, and my nephew, things were great at first while everyone was awake. After everyone goes to bed, I start to think about how we aren’t going to have a place to live anymore and that it was my fault and I shouldn’t have said anything, I wanted to die, but I didn’t. I wanted to kill myself, but I didn’t. I wrote a letter, but I didn’t follow through. As I’m unable to sleep, I’m also thinking about my nephew who was only a few years old and wouldn’t understand why his “Aunt A” won’t wake up, so I didn’t act upon those powerful urges. I instead waited until I met with my therapist the next day, to again, talk to my mom on the phone and process everything that had recently happened. As I’m speaking to my mother, she explains to me how she had talked to him and how “it’s not that she believed me, but…” it was all just a “misunderstanding.” She was wrong, at this point I felt alone, unsupported, ready to die. As I sat in my therapist's office crying, she calls my father and explains to him that she is taking me to the hospital to be admitted for suicidal thoughts. The only ones who supported me at this moment were my dad and my therapist. Fast forward to when I get discharged and get back to North Carolina, I’m made to feel like the one who did something wrong. Yes, he moved out for a little bit because “he wanted us to have still a place to live,” but that wasn’t the end of it. I had to make a statement; I had to deal with my mother staying in contact with him even though she wasn’t supposed to. I had to then read a letter written to me by him stating that “it was all a misunderstanding,” “I needed to tell my dad the truth,” that “he too wanted to kill himself because of something he did that he knew he shouldn’t have done,” but it was still my fault. Once I turned eighteen the investigation ended and things went “back to normal,” according to my family this whole situation was “blown out of proportion,” my therapist made the “wrong” decision, I wasn’t allowed to talk to this therapist anymore after. I was made to feel like I was the bad guy. I was made to feel like I did something wrong. Ever since the night of July 03, I never felt comfortable speaking to him alone, I never voiced that, because I still felt like I never had a voice. He would always (and still does) make inappropriate comments, like “how he wants me to ask a friend to do a bikini car wash for him so he can check it off of his bucket list. How “he notices that I’m not wearing a bra and proceeds to ask me about it.  How “I look like I’ve just had sex,” but I was riding in the car with the windows down, so my hair looked like a mess. The most recent one, he had called my name to come to look at something in the car, and I commented that “I was coming,” because that’s what you tell someone when you’re on your way to them he replies “no, you’re just breathing heavy.” This is four years later, I’m no longer going to be silent about this experience, I’m no longer going to be made to feel like I was wrong, like I was the one who did the wrong thing. I will no longer be made to feel like I need to have a relationship with this man. I will no longer allow myself to be controlled by him. This is my story; I will no longer be silenced.