I’ve been hesitant to watch Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s opening testimony, but after watching a video of Trump mocking her, I decided to take the plunge. As a survivor of sexual assault, I can completely relate as I also have memory loss due to extreme trauma. The DSM-V compares repressed memory to dissociative amnesia which may be localized, selective, or generalized. I believe she doesn’t want to remember the details of her abuse, so they’re repressed involuntarily.

I personally have trouble remembering most of my childhood. I don’t remember much of my abuse. I remember that it happened sometime between the ages of 10–13 and that he would come into my room and take me from my bed. I get flashbacks sometimes, but it has to be triggered by something else. Sometimes when I’m having sex, I want to cry. I can’t enjoy myself fully because I recall faint memories of the abuse. When I have a partner, they can’t shower without me first giving consent because it reminds me of the time he snuck into the shower to have sex with me. I don’t like to be woken up with sex because he used to sneak into my room at night to touch me. I don’t like anal because he came into the bathroom once and forced himself on me, only relenting when I cried out in pain, and left me there to cry alone afterwards. Sometimes I can even remember the smell of his breath. This is the real effect of abuse and I don’t doubt that Dr. Ford’s life has been forever altered by hers.

I believe Dr. Ford. I believe that Brett Kavanaugh did force himself on her even without any proof. Like Dr. Ford, I have never told my family or friends exact details of my abuse. It’s been almost 15 years and there is no evidence to support any of my accusations. This is the reason why I have trouble deciding to bring justice against my abuser. What’s happening to Dr. Ford is the reason why many women don’t speak up about their abuse. To be picked apart the way she is on all forms of media and to have her personal life invaded is possibly even more traumatic than the abuse itself. She is a goddamned hero for standing up for all victims of sexual abuse in such a public way. Thank you, Dr. Ford.

I received many messages from dear friends, estranged family, strangers, and even an apologetic voicemail from my abuser himself after my #metoo confession. Nothing has bothered me more than this image on his Facebook, though. Here’s why…

I remember when he pointed out that my armpit hairs were growing when we were driving in the car. He taught me how to shave. He groomed me to become more attractive to him.

I remember the first time he taught me how to give him a blowjob. He coached me through every bit of it. Now, every time I get complimented for my skills, I remember why I am so good.

I remember when he surprised me by jumping in the shower with me. Now, when my boyfriend wants to jump in with me, he can’t just come in anytime without asking because I get flashbacks when I’m surprised in the shower.

I remember the time he came into the bathroom and tried to put his dick in my ass for the first and only time. It hurt so badly that I cried and he ran out of the room. I still remember the way I looked in the mirror when he left me alone to deal with the pain.

I remember when I asked him to solder an earring that I broke and he brought me to the shed in the backyard to have sex with me.

I remember when he came inside me and told me not to worry because he would “take care of it if I got pregnant”. He was talking about getting an abortion.

I remember when he blindfolded me and put random large objects (what I think were dildos) inside me. I was so messed up in the head that I searched the house for whatever those objects were because I enjoyed it so much. I would cry when I had sex with my high school boyfriend because of this. He made me feel so conflicted about my body, my sexuality, and my decision to give myself fully to another person.

I was 10–13 when all of this happened to me. A person who can do this to a child will not ever change and doesn’t deserve an ounce of pity.

I can’t forget these things, but I can now stand up for myself. I replied to his voicemail with a text about the Texas legislature that states that there is no statute of limitations for continued sexual abuse of a child [Article 12.01(1)]. I have given him the same choice I did as a child. Either he turns himself in for his heinous crimes or I find legal representation and take him down myself.

He currently has not replied, but I know exactly the type of person he is. If you’ve read my #metoo post, you know that he’s a coward. He knows it too. Child abusers never change.

“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.”

This is a quote from Martin Luther King, Jr. and it can be found on my ex-step-father’s Facebook page. Sure, it’s a great excerpt, but not when used in this context. When I was in the fifth grade, I only remember two things — when I got my period and when I started getting sexually abused by someone who I thought loved and cared for me. I was young and naive and I believed him when he told me that he did things to me because he loved me. He told me things like “if I had met you before her, and you were my age, I wouldn’t be married to your mom”. Sure, that sounds fucked up and obviously wrong, but I was 11. I thought I was loved and I felt enamored with the affection and attention I was getting.

He came into my bedroom three to four times a week, but always at night. I knew it was wrong, but he had brainwashed me to the point where I thought it was love. I’ve never told anybody this, but I actually went out of my way to seek his affection sometimes.

My sisters, step-brother, and I all slept in the same room, because we loved being near one another. It was the best and worst time of my life, because looking back at it now, my family was closer than ever, but they had no idea what was being done to me.

Sometime during the first year of my step-father’s visits, my step-brother started molesting me as well. As I said earlier, my siblings and I all slept in the same room, so it wasn’t hard for him to do so. I would just try to feign sleep and turn away from him. I don’t know why I never said anything about all of the abuse. I guess it was the part of me that didn’t want to mess anything up. I knew everything would crumble to pieces if I revealed what was happening.

Because my brother had been touching me at night, he noticed when my father would come into the room. He would pretend he was sleeping while I was being woken up for a late night romp. Romp isn’t the right word to use. I guess I should use ‘rape’. Part of me still feels like it wasn’t rape, because I consented to it. That part of me is the Catholic schoolgirl who was raised to blame herself for things done to her.

So anyway, my brother found out about my step-father’s transgressions and told my older sister. They walked in on us mid-rape and not a word of that has been spoken of since. Three years of rape happened before I decided to get a backbone.

I told my father that either he would tell my mom about his actions or I would. On the day he was supposed to tell her, he got drunk, told his problems to a priest, and crashed his car. He broke both of his legs that day. My mother was by his bedside at the hospital and fingers pointed at me. He told her what had happened and she sympathized with him. While he was in the hospital, my siblings, mother, and I had a family meeting where she asked me if he had raped me. When I didn’t know how to respond, she asked me if I had been molested. She was trying to figure out if I had consented to it or not. She and I had a moment when she thought I was raped and we held each other and cried, but then got cold when she realized I was “only molested”. This is why I don’t talk to my mother anymore. It doesn’t matter if I had consented to it or not. It was his fault and he should’ve been the one in the interrogation seat.

The priest called CPS and we ended up having one-on-one interviews with a social worker. My mom asked me to make a choice — either tell the truth or lie to help him get away with what he did. She told me that either way, they would get a divorce, so I wouldn’t have to see him again. I lied. I lied because he brainwashed me to love him. I sympathized for him, even after all that he did to me. He said he would get castrated, but obviously that didn’t happen. Lies are what built my family and lies are what separated us.

To this day, I haven’t gotten any justice for what happened. I’m afraid to bring him to court, because it’s been too long since the abuse happened. I feel ashamed that I’m letting him go. I’ve stopped all communication with my mom because she’ll never admit that she was wrong. She asked me, a young child, to choose the fate of her abuser when she should have stood up for me at all costs.

I don’t regret what happened because it made me into the empathetic, loving person I am today, but I do regret how little everyone around me has grown from this experience. I am a survivor and it’s taken me 13 years to start loving myself, but I’m here, broken, healing, and raw.