A Sister's Story
I was in my junior year of high school. I had known for some time that my father scared me, but I still put on a smile for him when he would decide to wait for me after school. When I saw him in the parking lot my stomach would turn, but I would pull myself together and put on a good show for him. I was too afraid to let him know that I couldn’t trust him. Part of me was pleased when he remembered that he had another daughter. I was always jealous that my sister got all of his attention. A very small part of me still feels cheated by that.
He showed up after my sixteenth birthday, but didn’t remember that my birthday had been he week before. He asked how I was. I said “I’m sixteen now.” He said, “That’s nice,” and gave me a check to send to my sister. It was for one thousand dollars. For a second my insides burned with envy and sadness. On that birthday I had waited for him to call, waited to find something in the mail. I had walked through town window shopping, looking at birthday cards, wondering if he would remember this year.
As I looked at the check I knew that he was trying to buy Rikki’s love back. She wouldn’t talk to him, and I was confused. I didn’t understand why she hated him so much. I told him that I would pass it on, and we said nothing more on the subject.
I never asked Rikki if she spent the money. I don’t know whether or not I would have, if he
had given it to me. Of course, being in college, she must have spent it. It would have been a disgusting, dirty Godsend. She must have hated putting it in the bank, but relieved at the same time. Such a complicated feeling, but we’ve become accustomed to it. Taking things from him was always hard, even before everything fell apart - there was always a sense that you would owe him if you accepted a gift. Nothing was unconditional with him - there was a price tag on every good deed.
When I heard what had happened, the incest, I wasn’t surprised. I was only angry. I decided to get the restraining order because I finally came to terms with the very real
possibility that I could be next. I was next. There was no question. He was grooming me.
I looked at it, and it looked back at me, this beastly reality. He would show up at my school. I stopped wanting to talk to him. I would run out of class when I heard he was outside. I would run over the football field, through the trees, out onto the bluffs and hide. Screw class, screw my friends, screw school - I’m afraid for my life now.
The last time I stayed overnight with him I routinely checked the amount of alcohol in the
house. There was too much for my comfort. He had a glass of wine with dinner. It had been
court-ordered that he not drink around us. He smiled and told me that a glass of wine was healthy now and then - he asked if I wanted one. I was already fifteen, too old for him to be interested unless he was drunk. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t want him to be angry. I was more afraid of his anger than of his drinking.
He offered me his bed that night. He slept on the couch. I made sure, before sleeping, that the door was locked, and the window ws cracked - it was all habit. Even before I knew that he was a rapist, I always had an escape plan when I stayed with him. I found a knife next to his bed. I remember vividly how badly I wanted to cut myself with it because I was hurting so badly on the inside, but I’ve always been either too sensible or too scared to do that. I had the feeling that he wanted me to see that he had the knife. Everything he did was staged - he was always trying to frighten and impress us at the same time. There has always been a part of me that found him pathetic, even though he was my father. And yet, I thought the world of him, just like every little girl does.
It was my anger at his shows of dominance that finally led me to seek a restraining order. I was tired of his arrogance. There was another part of me that was fiercely protecting my mother and sister. When I found out what he had done to my sister, I needed to force him
away from us. At that point I had no memories of having been abused myself, because I didn’t count the time that he shoved his tongue down my throat, or how he watched me bathe to “make sure I didn’t drown.” I didn’t count the times that he rubbed my back, or brushed my hair until my scalp bled. I knew these things were, well, creepy, but I didn’t know that it had ever gone farther. I would remember some things happening, and then there would be black spots on my memory.
There are still pieces missing.
I didn’t count myself as a victim then, and still I don’t today. I count myself as a survivor. No, I was not the primary target - yes, I was hurt.
I felt like getting the Restraining Order was the only thing I could do, because I couldn’t
countenance the possibility that he might have raped me, and I wouldn’t ask my sister to press charges. I went to a local organization that helps the countless battered and abused women in our area, and I asked them about the process of obtaining the Order. It was messy and dangerous, but I did it anyway. I felt like a hero.
After the papers were filed and he was served, I walked around like a ghost. I was looking over my shoulder constantly. He knew that we were aware of the abuse, and he would kill us for telling. I was convinced that he would kill me. I couldn’t sleep. No one understood. I went to class and held down a part-time job. I didn’t live with my family because I didn’t know how to talk about what was happening to us. I kept this secret. I was sixteen fucking years old. Other kids were worried about acne and getting a date for prom, and I was
worried about getting shot. My grades were slipping. I was so angry that so much was expected of me. I was so angry that I had to deal with this on top of everything else. I
wanted to kill people that expressed interest in boring, normal things but I held myself together.
I get the ability to appear competent and graceful under any circumstance from my
mother. Inside, I was violent and scaring myself. It was so unfair. I was trying hard to be
perfect, but I couldn’t be everywhere, and do everything. I kept the date in my mind, February 18th. I thought of it every day. Having a goal kept me going.
On the day of the court date, I felt sick. I didn’t know if I could do it. I sat at the table in front of the judge, and I answered his questions. It wasn’t as hard as I had thought it would be, until my father started to speak. He said that he didn’t need an Order - he would just leave me alone until I was ready to have a relationship with him. The judge almost sided with him. I remember the judge making a grand speech about a poor man who just wanted to love his daughters, and be close to them. I felt the hard work that I had put into getting this far start to slip away from me as the judge spoke. I couldn’t let this man walk free - I had to do what little I could to stop him.
I was so scared that I did something completely out of character: I stood up for myself.
I told the judge, in front of the entire room, that my father had touched me in ways that were not appropriate, and that I had absolutely no desire to ever see or speak to him again in my entire life.
There was silence for a moment, during which I could almost hear my mother in the back of
the courtroom, willing the judge to believe me. My father said nothing in his own defense. The maximum of five years was granted.
After I had the Restraining Order, my fears were only slightly lessened. I knew that my father had violated Orders in the past, and I had no reason to believe that he would obey this time. The only comfort that I had was in knowing that the police would have to respond to any complaint I had. There was talk of relocation, the possibility of me living with my grandparents so that I wouldn’t be in the same town as he was. I refused to be afraid. That’s what I told everyone, anyway. On the inside, I was terrified. To this day, I am
still afraid. I hate to admit it, but I am. I still live with this terror over two years after receiving the Restraining Order.
I still lived in this same small town for a while, and so did he. I saw him around more and more frequently. He was parked just outside of the hundred-yard radius around my place of
business. He wasn’t breaking any laws. I reported this to the police. The officer that I spoke with was very kind and sympathetic, while telling me that there was nothing he
could do. When he had finished taking notes he asked me, rather dismissively, whether I had any questions. I asked, “What if he raped me and I don’t have any evidence?” Well,
that woke him up. The officer told me that there is no a case without physical evidence (i.e. torn clothing, bodily fluid, bruises, a confession on the morning news, etc.), and that if I would like to file a report the first thing that they would do (in this state at least) would be to go knock on the offender’s door, tell him the report had been made, and ask him if the claim is true.
The officer made sure to tell me that I’d be running into a statute of limitations before too long, and that I don’t have a case anyway. I don’t hold it against him personally, but he wasn’t very comforting. He seemed appalled that I was so calm about the matter. What other way is there to be? I know that the legal system is broken, and can’t help me much - it isn’t designed to.
But I can help myself. I can be frightened if I want to be, but I have a strong support system, and I am strong. I can make a choice to keep living, and keep fighting this. I will be okay. I can talk about this. It’s time to end the silence. I felt like, if I could only walk into the police station and throw a chair through their little windows, and scream and rage at the clerks and pour my soul out onto their sensible work shoes, maybe they would listen. Maybe they would see what I can see. He is a pedophile, he will not stop. He cannot be fixed. He should be put down.
If he is given the chance, he will rape again.
I need to protect every other woman in the world - I can be strong enough for all of us. I will take the world upon my shoulders and end abuse once and for all.
I know it doesn’t work that way. They won’t listen to me - they will protect the rights of the accused, not the life of the victim. Despite the good intentions of every officer on the street, the system just doesn’t work that way. We are still swept under the rug. The only way to change this is to refuse to be silent.
I thanked the cop for his time - he returned the restraining order papers that are supposed to
protect me from a homicidal manic with nothing to lose, and I walked out onto the street. It’s the same building in which the hearing took place for the restraining order. I noticed that the security officers were gone from the lobby. Probably out for coffee. Fuck this small town and their sense of eternal well-being.
I felt a shiver, stopped, and looked over my shoulder.
Maybe I will live with this for the rest of my life, maybe just until my father dies. I don’t know. What I do know is that I am so much stronger than I thought I could be. One positive thing I can say about having a Restraining Order is that it is proof that I stood up to him, and
I stood up for myself. I changed that day - I grew a voice. I refuse to be a victim. I will, by
any means necessary, protect myself and those I love. For me, going to court and securing whatever safety there is in having this piece of paper was a major turning point in my healing process. For some, it might mean more complete protection. It’s up to you to decide if it is worth it.
In my case, the real value was in proving to myself and to my abuser that I am not his prey. I will fight back. I will not be taken advantage of. I would do it again. Any day of the week, I
will stand in front of the court and tell the world who he is. Now that I know I am strong enough.
-Emily, 2011
He showed up after my sixteenth birthday, but didn’t remember that my birthday had been he week before. He asked how I was. I said “I’m sixteen now.” He said, “That’s nice,” and gave me a check to send to my sister. It was for one thousand dollars. For a second my insides burned with envy and sadness. On that birthday I had waited for him to call, waited to find something in the mail. I had walked through town window shopping, looking at birthday cards, wondering if he would remember this year.
As I looked at the check I knew that he was trying to buy Rikki’s love back. She wouldn’t talk to him, and I was confused. I didn’t understand why she hated him so much. I told him that I would pass it on, and we said nothing more on the subject.
I never asked Rikki if she spent the money. I don’t know whether or not I would have, if he
had given it to me. Of course, being in college, she must have spent it. It would have been a disgusting, dirty Godsend. She must have hated putting it in the bank, but relieved at the same time. Such a complicated feeling, but we’ve become accustomed to it. Taking things from him was always hard, even before everything fell apart - there was always a sense that you would owe him if you accepted a gift. Nothing was unconditional with him - there was a price tag on every good deed.
When I heard what had happened, the incest, I wasn’t surprised. I was only angry. I decided to get the restraining order because I finally came to terms with the very real
possibility that I could be next. I was next. There was no question. He was grooming me.
I looked at it, and it looked back at me, this beastly reality. He would show up at my school. I stopped wanting to talk to him. I would run out of class when I heard he was outside. I would run over the football field, through the trees, out onto the bluffs and hide. Screw class, screw my friends, screw school - I’m afraid for my life now.
The last time I stayed overnight with him I routinely checked the amount of alcohol in the
house. There was too much for my comfort. He had a glass of wine with dinner. It had been
court-ordered that he not drink around us. He smiled and told me that a glass of wine was healthy now and then - he asked if I wanted one. I was already fifteen, too old for him to be interested unless he was drunk. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t want him to be angry. I was more afraid of his anger than of his drinking.
He offered me his bed that night. He slept on the couch. I made sure, before sleeping, that the door was locked, and the window ws cracked - it was all habit. Even before I knew that he was a rapist, I always had an escape plan when I stayed with him. I found a knife next to his bed. I remember vividly how badly I wanted to cut myself with it because I was hurting so badly on the inside, but I’ve always been either too sensible or too scared to do that. I had the feeling that he wanted me to see that he had the knife. Everything he did was staged - he was always trying to frighten and impress us at the same time. There has always been a part of me that found him pathetic, even though he was my father. And yet, I thought the world of him, just like every little girl does.
It was my anger at his shows of dominance that finally led me to seek a restraining order. I was tired of his arrogance. There was another part of me that was fiercely protecting my mother and sister. When I found out what he had done to my sister, I needed to force him
away from us. At that point I had no memories of having been abused myself, because I didn’t count the time that he shoved his tongue down my throat, or how he watched me bathe to “make sure I didn’t drown.” I didn’t count the times that he rubbed my back, or brushed my hair until my scalp bled. I knew these things were, well, creepy, but I didn’t know that it had ever gone farther. I would remember some things happening, and then there would be black spots on my memory.
There are still pieces missing.
I didn’t count myself as a victim then, and still I don’t today. I count myself as a survivor. No, I was not the primary target - yes, I was hurt.
I felt like getting the Restraining Order was the only thing I could do, because I couldn’t
countenance the possibility that he might have raped me, and I wouldn’t ask my sister to press charges. I went to a local organization that helps the countless battered and abused women in our area, and I asked them about the process of obtaining the Order. It was messy and dangerous, but I did it anyway. I felt like a hero.
After the papers were filed and he was served, I walked around like a ghost. I was looking over my shoulder constantly. He knew that we were aware of the abuse, and he would kill us for telling. I was convinced that he would kill me. I couldn’t sleep. No one understood. I went to class and held down a part-time job. I didn’t live with my family because I didn’t know how to talk about what was happening to us. I kept this secret. I was sixteen fucking years old. Other kids were worried about acne and getting a date for prom, and I was
worried about getting shot. My grades were slipping. I was so angry that so much was expected of me. I was so angry that I had to deal with this on top of everything else. I
wanted to kill people that expressed interest in boring, normal things but I held myself together.
I get the ability to appear competent and graceful under any circumstance from my
mother. Inside, I was violent and scaring myself. It was so unfair. I was trying hard to be
perfect, but I couldn’t be everywhere, and do everything. I kept the date in my mind, February 18th. I thought of it every day. Having a goal kept me going.
On the day of the court date, I felt sick. I didn’t know if I could do it. I sat at the table in front of the judge, and I answered his questions. It wasn’t as hard as I had thought it would be, until my father started to speak. He said that he didn’t need an Order - he would just leave me alone until I was ready to have a relationship with him. The judge almost sided with him. I remember the judge making a grand speech about a poor man who just wanted to love his daughters, and be close to them. I felt the hard work that I had put into getting this far start to slip away from me as the judge spoke. I couldn’t let this man walk free - I had to do what little I could to stop him.
I was so scared that I did something completely out of character: I stood up for myself.
I told the judge, in front of the entire room, that my father had touched me in ways that were not appropriate, and that I had absolutely no desire to ever see or speak to him again in my entire life.
There was silence for a moment, during which I could almost hear my mother in the back of
the courtroom, willing the judge to believe me. My father said nothing in his own defense. The maximum of five years was granted.
After I had the Restraining Order, my fears were only slightly lessened. I knew that my father had violated Orders in the past, and I had no reason to believe that he would obey this time. The only comfort that I had was in knowing that the police would have to respond to any complaint I had. There was talk of relocation, the possibility of me living with my grandparents so that I wouldn’t be in the same town as he was. I refused to be afraid. That’s what I told everyone, anyway. On the inside, I was terrified. To this day, I am
still afraid. I hate to admit it, but I am. I still live with this terror over two years after receiving the Restraining Order.
I still lived in this same small town for a while, and so did he. I saw him around more and more frequently. He was parked just outside of the hundred-yard radius around my place of
business. He wasn’t breaking any laws. I reported this to the police. The officer that I spoke with was very kind and sympathetic, while telling me that there was nothing he
could do. When he had finished taking notes he asked me, rather dismissively, whether I had any questions. I asked, “What if he raped me and I don’t have any evidence?” Well,
that woke him up. The officer told me that there is no a case without physical evidence (i.e. torn clothing, bodily fluid, bruises, a confession on the morning news, etc.), and that if I would like to file a report the first thing that they would do (in this state at least) would be to go knock on the offender’s door, tell him the report had been made, and ask him if the claim is true.
The officer made sure to tell me that I’d be running into a statute of limitations before too long, and that I don’t have a case anyway. I don’t hold it against him personally, but he wasn’t very comforting. He seemed appalled that I was so calm about the matter. What other way is there to be? I know that the legal system is broken, and can’t help me much - it isn’t designed to.
But I can help myself. I can be frightened if I want to be, but I have a strong support system, and I am strong. I can make a choice to keep living, and keep fighting this. I will be okay. I can talk about this. It’s time to end the silence. I felt like, if I could only walk into the police station and throw a chair through their little windows, and scream and rage at the clerks and pour my soul out onto their sensible work shoes, maybe they would listen. Maybe they would see what I can see. He is a pedophile, he will not stop. He cannot be fixed. He should be put down.
If he is given the chance, he will rape again.
I need to protect every other woman in the world - I can be strong enough for all of us. I will take the world upon my shoulders and end abuse once and for all.
I know it doesn’t work that way. They won’t listen to me - they will protect the rights of the accused, not the life of the victim. Despite the good intentions of every officer on the street, the system just doesn’t work that way. We are still swept under the rug. The only way to change this is to refuse to be silent.
I thanked the cop for his time - he returned the restraining order papers that are supposed to
protect me from a homicidal manic with nothing to lose, and I walked out onto the street. It’s the same building in which the hearing took place for the restraining order. I noticed that the security officers were gone from the lobby. Probably out for coffee. Fuck this small town and their sense of eternal well-being.
I felt a shiver, stopped, and looked over my shoulder.
Maybe I will live with this for the rest of my life, maybe just until my father dies. I don’t know. What I do know is that I am so much stronger than I thought I could be. One positive thing I can say about having a Restraining Order is that it is proof that I stood up to him, and
I stood up for myself. I changed that day - I grew a voice. I refuse to be a victim. I will, by
any means necessary, protect myself and those I love. For me, going to court and securing whatever safety there is in having this piece of paper was a major turning point in my healing process. For some, it might mean more complete protection. It’s up to you to decide if it is worth it.
In my case, the real value was in proving to myself and to my abuser that I am not his prey. I will fight back. I will not be taken advantage of. I would do it again. Any day of the week, I
will stand in front of the court and tell the world who he is. Now that I know I am strong enough.
-Emily, 2011