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I could write essays on #whyIdidntreport, but they all start with this: the first time he grabbed me and hugged me at 12 (the very first grooming for future molestation), I told my mother. She said "what is wrong with you? don't you know what people do when they love eachother?"
I never mentioned it to her again, until the day after I took him to court 7 years later, at which point she said to me on the phone "I know everyone involved in this, I know exactly what happened. YOU tell ME how that was abuse."
In 27 subsequent years, we've spoken once.
The last time I saw her was at court, when she saw me coming out of court after testifying against him. She laughed at me.
And then she went in to testify that I was crazy, a whore, and had made the whole thing up to hurt her. #basta
The last time I saw her was at court, when she saw me coming out of court after testifying against him. She laughed at me.
And then she went in to testify that I was crazy, a whore, and had made the whole thing up to hurt her. #basta
Thank the goddesses for therapy, energy work, sisterhood, and most of all my dad, who never once doubted me, and sat in the the basement of the courthouse with me through the entire trial while I chain-smoked through PTSD, shaking the whole time.
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