Why We Don't Tell ...

"It was a dream. She's making this up. She's lying. She's just mad that I didn't give her what she wanted."

That's how my step-father convinced my mother that I was making "it" up.

The visits to my bedroom in the middle of the night became more frequent. He touched me while I pretended to be asleep.

There was no one to stop it. Not even my own mother believed me, even though it was not the only time he'd been accused.

He controlled my every movement. He touched me whenever and wherever he wanted. He'd say, "Without me, you and your mother will be living on the streets. No one will believe you anyway."

I was just a child.

When I resisted his assaults, I was beaten, sometimes bloody.

There were never witnesses. He was too smart for that.

He escalated over time. When he attempted to rape me, I threatened to call the cops.

"They'll never believe you. You're just a child, a spoiled brat, and that's what I will tell them. They will never take your word over mine."

I didn't call. I didn't tell anyone.

I dreaded every moment living in that house with a sexual predator and a mother who ignored every cry for help.

No one believed me until ... I found the courage to tell the police. I was 15. Terrified. Embarrassed. Scared. Humiliated. Alone.

My mother couldn't bare witness. She never heard what I had to say.

I didn't tell the police everything. I reported only what a damaged 15-year-old child was capable of sharing.

My step-father plead "no contest" and was removed from the house for a year. Probation.

No jail time.

No sex offender registry.

He returned to the house when I was 16. I moved out leaving two young siblings behind.

My mother is still married to the man today.

I am the outsider in my own family because I stood up for myself and said, "No. This is not okay."

He wasn't the first man to sexually assault me. Sadly, he wasn't the last.

This is what rape culture looks like.