a fierce mind

Laying here in my fuzzy Christmas jammies looking at the tv in mom and dad’s bed… well, just mom’s bed now, I guess… I turn the volume down low enough so I can still hear everyone out in the living room, but loud enough that no one would suspect me eavesdropping if they came in to check on me.

I’ve already seen this episode of Matlock, but I doubt I could focus on it even if I hadn’t.

My mind keeps wandering back to when Christmas was fun and exciting and when everyone was actually happy, not just pretend to be happy, happy.

I can still smell daddy here, on these sheets.

I curl my little body around his pillow.

The room taunts me. When I look at his closet, I see him there, smiling back at me, standing in his old brown robe with the tan trim. I look away, only to find him peeking over the swinging saloon style bathroom doors at me with that mischievous grin so full of adoration and love.

I close my eyes to escape, but instead I feel his embrace.

I miss him.

I miss him more than I’ve ever missed anything in my entire life. Missing isn’t even the beginning of this empty, hollow, lost feeling.

I open my eyes and his embrace releases.

I try to focus on Matlock again, but am distracted by the voices out in the other room. Their forced laughter and compulsive conversations echo down the hallway to me when I hear someone new come in the front door.

“Oh, she’s not feeling well, she’s resting in our bed. I’m sure she’d love to see you, though. Go on back there and say hi.”, I hear Mom say.

I am startled by my own unexpected impulse to leap up and hide in daddy’s closet, when suddenly my big brother appears in the doorway holding a floppy, brown stuffed animal puppy.

I smile back at him and am soothed by the solace I find in his kind eyes as he comes to sit next to me on the bed.

He shares my sadness. I can feel the same “miss” pouring from his soul. I can tell he sees it in me too, while we sit in the odd comfort of shared misery.

As he wraps me in a warm hug, I feel daddy’s embrace return to both of us.

Relief… although, fleeting.

---

If you’ve read No enemy, but time, you already know that my dad passed away the November I turned seven-years-old. A few short weeks later my brothers also were in a bad car accident.

That year, I spent Christmas Eve acting like I was sick in my parent’s bed, because I just didn’t have it in me to be around everyone. We were all constantly wearing our brave faces for each other. We all fought back the incessant urge to cry and yell and scream and beg for everything to just go back to normal. We all sustained a forced smile to not only protect each other, but to protect ourselves from being completely consumed by our own broken hearts.

It was excruciating.

I truly did feel sick from it.

Being in their bedroom made me feel as close as I could be to my daddy at that time and that’s all I wanted for Christmas.

Writing this was surprisingly very difficult for me. I hadn’t realized how heartbroken I truly am for that little girl still. When it was me in that moment, I only really knew my own seven-year-old perspective. I hadn’t yet become a mother or a wife. Now, being that little girl again, equipped with these new perspectives… I find those feelings incredibly overwhelming. The memory of it is nearly crushing.

But, that’s why I do this. That’s why I write. That’s why I share. Because trauma is powerful. Trauma shapes us and molds us and makes us into who we are. Good or bad. And, no matter how hard we work, no matter how much time goes by, no matter how good life can be at any given time… it doesn’t change the fact that it happened and, to be frank, it never goes away, it just gets different.

And that’s okay. And I’m okay.

I will always wish I could have saved that little girl from all she went through, but the amazing realization I’ve had writing this is that I find immense comfort in letting her know who she’s become.

She made it. She survived. And she’s found a way to use the darkness to brighten the shine she hopes to shed on others.

Merry everything, sweet girl.

With my elbow on the passenger door armrest and my chin on my fist, I pretend I can see through the foggy window and out into the pitch-black night. I am momentarily distracted by the condensation of each breath drawing circles onto the glass when I realize the music is just barely audible.

She’s keeping the volume low on purpose in an effort to give me the opportunity to talk about it if I want… but I don’t. Instead, I turn my body even more toward the window. Hoping she recognizes my body language and turns the music up.

She turns the music down. Silence.

Here we go…

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, so just listen.” she says.

I ignore her.

“I know this isn’t an easy situation. I know being the youngest on the team is intimidating. I know Coach can be degrading and difficult to please. And I know this is the first time you’re struggling with having fun playing basketball at all. But this is life. You can choose to let it ruin something you’ve worked so hard for and have invested so much love and time into. You can choose to let the intimidation and opinions of others eat at you and discourage you. Or… you can choose to let it drive you.

If you want to spend this two-hour drive upset, you want to cry or yell or vent, I’m all ears. I’m your mom, that’s what I’m here for. But, when we pull into the driveway and you get out of this car, that’s over. You’re going to go to bed thinking about all the reasons you love this game. You’re going to wake up to a new day and go to practice with a positive mindset and you’re going to work even harder than you have been. And when you make mistakes, you’re going to learn from them, brush it off, and focus on doing your best. That’s all you can do.

You’re not always going to get along with people you have to get along with. You’re not always going to agree with whoever is in charge. Things aren’t always going to come easy and even when you work really, really hard and want something really, really bad… sometimes it’s just not going to be enough.

But you keep going, because you’re tough and because when it does go your way, you’re going to appreciate it that much more.”

The silence filled the car again.

I wanted to look at her and let her know I understood. I wanted to tell her thank you and how much I appreciate her and love her, but I didn’t.

Luckily, she reached over and untangled my hand and held it in my lap the rest of the way home.And just like that, I was reminded that I can do this.

---

Growing up I was very active. When I was little, I did gymnastics for a couple years, then got into soccer and basketball. By middle school I added volleyball and track and field. I was playing some sort of sport year-round. But basketball was my passion.

When I got into high school, I was the only freshman on the varsity basketball team. I remember being equally nervous as I was excited.

Unfortunately, the varsity head coach wasn’t the nicest of guys. And, honestly, that doesn’t usually bother me. I’m more comfortable around men. I like the direct, straight shooters. I don’t mind someone being critical and boisterous… 99% of the time… as long as every so often you throw me a bone, give me a pat on the back, and let me know I did something right. He just wasn’t so good at that 1%.

It wore on me. I felt deflated and like I couldn’t do anything right no matter how hard I tried. I felt like he threw me out to the wolves and not only watched them tear a little chunk of me away at a time, but he joined in on the feeding.

It was rough. It was an experience that nearly ruined the game entirely for me.

But my mom has always been a rock. She’s always taught her kids that quitting is not an option. That if you want something, you work for it. That no one owes you a damn thing. And no matter how hard it can be, you stay positive, find the opportunity to learn from it, and you keep getting up no matter how many times you fall down.

She not only told us these things, she showed us. She exuded a confidence in us that made us believe in ourselves. When she told me I could do it, I knew she was right.

She is the reason I am driven. She is the reason I take pride in my work ethic. She is the reason I believe in myself. She is the reason I am resilient and optimistic.

She gifted me mental toughness and self-confidence.

And, for that, I am forever grateful.

Don’t underestimate tough love, folks.

“The last time I saw your face unexpectedly it was the worst day of my life.” I thought to myself when I saw her walk through the door.

As all the other kids run and play, carefree, around me, I stand there as the panic consumes my mind, body, and soul. I’m overcome with the simultaneous urge to run toward her and away from her all at once.

The room is silenced by the ringing in my ears until I realize she’s calling me to her.

“Ashley, come here, sweetheart, we need to go.”

I don’t think I want to. If I stay here, I won’t have to find out why she’s come for me. I don’t want to hear whatever it is she has to say. I can’t hear it. I can’t handle any more bad news.

“Please, please, just go away, please.” I try to say, but nothing comes out.

She’s walking towards me now, reaching for my little hand.

As we walk out the front doors, I realize she’s pulled me to a stop. The brisk winter air nips me right in the nose. I can already feel the tears coming and I don’t even know why yet.

“Sweetheart, I’m here to pick you up, because something has happened to your brothers. They’re okay, but Casey has been hurt pretty badly. They were in a car accident and your mom is at the hospital so you’re going to come stay with me for a few days. Okay? Do you have any questions? They’re okay. We can call your mom when we get to my house. Okay?”

All I can do is focus on trying not to cry. Every time I cry these days, it makes other people cry and then I just cry more.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Be tough.” I repeat over and over in my head as we walk silently to the car.

---

About a month after we lost my dad in a fatal car accident, two of my older brothers wrecked on their way to school one morning.

One of them suffered a pretty substantial head injury. When my mom got to him in the hospital he was bleeding from every orifice of his head. He had two skull fractures and suffered from one of his eyes being stuck in a crossed position. He was in the hospital for quite a while and had to do a ton of occupational therapy. For many years he struggled adjusting to how his brain worked differently from that day forward.

We’re blessed to say he has fully recovered now, but it was a scary time for my family.

We were all still very much grieving the loss of my dad.

I was at after school care when a family friend (the same one who was sitting in my living room the morning I woke up to find out my dad had passed away) picked me up instead of my mom and I just knew something was wrong.

Going through these types of traumas at a young age forces you to find ways to cope with very little mental and emotional maturity. It demolishes your carefree child innocence. I remember being a seven-year-old who often worried who I love would be next to leave me forever and I spent a lot of years crying by myself, because I realized very quickly that crying little girls make other people sad.

I still resort to these thoughts and ways of coping. Often. Even as an adult. I have a hard time showing my emotion, letting my guard down, opening up to others. Not in fear of what they’ll think of me, but in fear of hurting them, affecting them, making them feel sad.

The bright side… I learned very early on in my life; if you love them, tell them. Often.

Sitting there next to him on the couch as he mutes the TV and wraps me up in what feels all too convincingly like love, I can feel the tears start to well up and one by one fallout from the ledge of my lids and stream down my cheeks.

“Guys won’t wait around forever. They need physical touch to feel wanted and loved and if you don’t give it to them, they’ll go find it somewhere else. That’s just the way it is.” he tells me… again.

“Well, I don’t want to do that.” I manage between irregular breaths.

He pulls me in close and I rest my head on his chest. It takes everything in me to keep from hyperventilating. I’m trying to slow my breathing and focus on the silent TV so I’ll stop crying, but I keep finding myself getting more and more worked up as he continues to explain how no guy will ever really be interested in me until I give it up.

What am I supposed to do? Was everything my boyfriend said to me a lie. When he made me feel like I was special and told me he loves me, was that all a lie too? Do I really have to accept that no one will ever stay if I don’t give it up and when someone does stay it’s just because I did? 

As the thoughts and questions flood my mind… I realize I’m in full on sobbing mode. I’m so upset I can’t even begin to calm myself.

His shirt is soaked with my tears.

“If you’re this upset… you know what you can do to fix it…” He whispers.

---

I was a freshman in high school when I had this conversation with my stepdad at the time. All of 14 years old.

This man had raised me since I was nine. He claimed to think of me and love me as his own daughter. There were even moments I considered calling him Dad. He gave me away on my wedding day… and left my family 10 months later.

Looking back on my childhood with him, I remember multiple conversations similar to this. I was always told “men are pigs” … but, essentially oblige or end up alone. He would discuss his and my mom’s relationship issues with me in depth, to the point where, looking back, I was put in a position where I was more so his equal than his child.

He was someone who based a person’s worth solely on their accomplishments. He had an uncanny way of making everyone around him feel less-than, but he always knew just what to say to convince you it was okay, because he’d help you get to his level if you just did what he said. He’s one of the greatest manipulators I’ve ever known, someone who appears humble, but is incredibly full of himself and self-centered.

I spent the majority of my childhood walking on eggshells trying to keep the peace under this man’s roof… because I was raised by a narcissistic alcoholic.

And, this situation is just one of the many ways he attempted to ruin my self-worth, wreck my confidence, and essentially break me before I even had the chance to decide what kind of woman I wanted to be.

Luckily for me, he left. Luckily for me, I’m stronger. Luckily for me, I know exactly what I’m worth… and I’m worth loving. I’m worth more than my looks and my body. And I know better than to believe anyone worth having would ever choose to leave.

I watch as the brisk night air breezes across her face and touches mine. Wrapped together in a blanket of a trillion stars I am humbled by our smallness.

As the wind beneath her perfect little nose is sucked in and ever so gently pushed back out of her slightly open lips, I lie there in complete awe of her beauty.

I examine her face and wonder if there is a single thing that could be changed to make it any better. No, that would be impossible.

As I breathe her in I am struck by her innocence. An innocence so substantial I can smell it. It’s heavy and feathery all at once.

Every breath brings her closer to six years old. Six years of love, support, comfort, simplicity. Six years without true loss or heartache. She’s yet to know what it means to yearn for a loved one or find out not everyone will care for her feelings.

Her heart is whole, her soul is wispy.

Life flutters around her and she knows no different.

As I reflect on my own life and everything my 30 years has been built upon, I can’t help but wonder what life will hand her. What lessons will she be forced to learn by the time she stares down at her own child, profoundly struck by so much innocence wrapped up in such a small perfect vessel.

As my own eyes begin to heavy, I whisper, “Be brave, be strong, be humble… and always believe that you are loved more than you could ever know.”

---

We just returned from essentially two weeks of camping. I spent 90% of it unplugged and completely present. Soaking in my family and friends just as much as the sun, fresh air, and crisp river water.

Nature soothes my soul. It recharges me and humbles me.

So, while I was lying next to Siena in our tent each night, I found myself constantly reflective. Reflective on my current life, my past, and my future. Asking myself what I’d like to do next with my career. How I can be a better mom, a better wife, a better me.

Within this reflection I was completely struck by the realization that Siena has this whole big huge mysterious life ahead of her. She will inevitably be faced with challenges and heart breaks and failures that I won’t see coming and most definitely won’t be able to protect her from.

This is one of the scariest, most soul wrenching things every parent faces.

But I’ve always said I will allow my child to struggle, to fail, to battle her way through anything. I will not rescue her at every turn. As difficult as that is. Because, I believe in her. I believe with every ounce of my being that she is capable of overcoming any and everything life could ever possibly have to offer her.

Watching her little body be life under that giant night sky, I saw strength and courage and fire. I have no clue what her life will be, but I know she’ll make the most of it and I know she’ll be okay.

In the meantime, I will hug her tight, feed her confidence, make sure she believes she’s worth loving and when she falls, I won’t pick her up, but instead assure her how proud she makes me every time she finds her own footing.

I creep back down the stairs blanketed with darkness. When I get to my bedroom door, I quietly take one last still earful in before closing the door ever so slowly so the latch doesn’t click. Once it’s closed, I contemplate the pros and cons of locking it.

I lock it.

Making my way over to my bed completely relying on muscle memory in the darkness, I climb up and open my window as slowly as possible. Then I unhinge the screen and quietly place it on the ground outside. Hanging halfway out the window I wonder what the best maneuver for dismounting would be.

Once I hit the dirt, I stand still in the pitch-black silence. Trying to reassure myself no one is coming; I haven’t been caught.

I take three slow steps out from under the overhanging deck above me and my left foot makes a loud crunch in the snow. I stop. Look around, listen, and deliberate over whether running or enduring each crunch slowly would be best.

I make a run for it.

Once I hit the road, I turn back to make sure there’s no sign of movement within the house. The coast seems clear, so I decide to walk the rest of the way.

As I walk down the road only lit by the infinite number of stars above, I can just barely see my breath leading my way. The snow is crunching and slushing beneath my feet and I can hear branches break beneath unknown creature’s feet within the woods flanking me. I’m filled with unsettling fear. Fear I might get caught, fear of something or someone emerging from the darkness and harming me, fear of what I’ve gotten myself into all together.

My adrenaline is pounding in my ears and just as I reach the trailer steps I decide to turn around and run back… except the door swings open and a familiar face invites me in.

---

When I was a teenager, I was a pretty good kid… for the most part.

I got good grades; I came home on time for curfew… usually.

I hung-out with good kids… generally.

Ok… so maybe when I said I was a pretty good kid, I mostly meant in comparison to my older brothers HA

Anyways, despite my best efforts to make good choices… I did make a number of bad ones in my adolescence.

One of which being the time I decided it was a good idea to sneak out of the house at 15 years old or so and walk half a mile down the road in the middle of the night, in the snow, to party with one of my best friends at the time… and a bunch of people who were out of high school, probably five or six years older than me.

I partied all night and returned home just before dawn. My mom never knew… until now.

Uhh… surprise! Sorry! The good news is; I’m alive… I survived it unscathed. 

Don’t worry, Mom, even though you never got the pleasure of grounding me for this, I do vividly remember you waking me up (lights on, blankets off, loudly doing whatever it was you felt the unrelenting urge to be doing so very early in the morning, so very close to my sleeping quarters) about an hour after I crawled through the window and fell asleep insisting I get started on that chore list.

Also, I’m sure karma will repay me tenfold in a few years…

I close my eyes to feel the empty room embrace me. Except it feels more like I’m being swallowed rather than held. I open my eyes to see my feet back to the ground, but it’s only disorienting. I see, but I do not feel.

My stomach is gnawing. It’s an unrelenting feeling of anxiety. Knots. I can’t shake the feeling of vacancy. I am a shell.

I muster the courage to look in the mirror standing before me in hopes of finding myself. Except it only confirms my fears. I see my face, my hands, my body, but when I look into my own eyes I feel even more lost. I stare back, hard, trying to adjust to the darkness.

I close my eyes again unable to endure any more of this person staring back at me.

I desperately search for the last time I remember feeling myself.

When was I last whole? How did I let this happen?

I assure myself I’ve been here before and found my way back. I try to fill myself up with enough hope to take the first step towards my search. My search for who I am, for what I want, what I need… for myself.

How is it possible to feel so heavy, yet so empty all at once?

When I open the front door, the fresh air fills me up. I’m ready. I’m ready to face the world.

And in that instant, I catch the first glimpse of myself. I recognize my strength. The courage is familiar.

I believe I can.

---

I am an extreme empath. I’m an observer, a thinker, an analytic to a fault. I pick up on other’s feelings even if I do not know them. This is why, as an introvert, being in public settings can be extremely exhausting for me.

While these attributes are some of the things I appreciate most about myself, they’re also easy to get lost in. I tend to get so distracted by others wants and needs and feelings that I forget to tend to my own.

In many ways, I want to say “unfortunately” this sort of episode has happened more than once in my life… but, then as I’ve experienced more life, as I’ve picked myself up, found myself, over and over throughout this journey… I’ve realized these particular experiences aren’t “unfortunate” at all.

I’ve been lost many a time in my 30 years. Whether it be due to uncontrollable life occurrences or whether it be due to decisions I’ve made unwittingly. Whether it be in an instant or over a long period of building time. I have been lost.

But, now, I realize, while losing yourself is a horrible feeling, it’s always what happens right before you are found.

And every time I’ve been found, I find a better person than before I had been lost.

So, I choose to feel fortunate for these instances in life. I choose to appreciate the lessons, because if there is one common theme I can take away from each of these times of emptiness… I am more confident in my ability to stand back up, in my strength, courage, and determination… than any other attributes I maintain.

Take care of yourself. <3

Laying here in this room staring at the ceiling, at my phone, back at the ceiling.

I can hardly function in any other room. They all just remind me of him, of us.

This is the only place in the duplex we didn’t spend much time together. Every other room is painted in memories.

The kitchen sounds like laughter. I can still see his proud grin when he cooked our first meal here. Our first place together.

I try to escape to the couch, but all I feel there is uneasiness. It washes over me, attempts to drown me without any remorse. It’s the last place we sat together when we decided it was over.

The bathroom still smells like him. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see me. I see someone new. Someone I don’t recognize. It only reminds me over and over how blatantly lost I am. I stand there, staring into my own reflection, trying to remember the last time I did recognize myself. Trying to remember who I was before all of this. Before him. Before this love wrapped me up and gnawed away at me piece by piece.

And, the absolute last place I want to be is our bedroom. My bedroom. Every last memory of us is piled up, laying in our bed. My bed. There isn’t so much as an empty inch left for me to lay.

So, I lay here. In the spare room. Across the hall from where some of his clothes still taunt me. Where the sheets won’t come clean of him and everything I had wished we were.

I look down and realize he’s calling. I lay there, staring at his name through each and every ring. Willing myself to be strong.

Finally, the rings stop. One missed call and one intentional step closer to moving on.

---

Break ups… they suck.

We’ve all done it. Sometimes they’re one sided, sometimes they’re mutual. Sometimes you’re on the winning end, sometimes you feel like you’ve lost everything including yourself.

To be completely honest, during this particular time in my life, I wondered if I would survive it. I truly questioned if I’d ever turn around and realize it was actually behind me. If I would ever feel whole again. If I’d ever get over it.

I’m also not going to lie about being tempted more than once to give in to the temptation to stay the course. To turn my back on the change I deeply knew needed to happen.

Change is scary.

But, minute by minute, day by day, week by week, and finally, month by month… I realized, slowly but surely, that I had not lost myself in this loss. I had not been broken from this breakup.

I realized I lost myself in the relationship, I was far from whole as this person’s half.

I realized standing on my own two feet, alone, was the most whole I’d been in years.

Finally, I was able to look in the mirror and not only recognize the girl staring back, but I realized I liked her.

And now, a decade later, I thank God for the broken roads and unanswered prayers.

Part V: 

Recently it was made public by the local newspaper who this Blog Series is about.

This will be the last and final entry of this five-part series as, although, I do not believe this story is over for the other parties involved, it is over for me. I feel I have done everything I am capable of doing in regard to my responsibility to share the truth with my community and anyone else willing to listen.

Sharing this part of my life was not an easy thing to do. It was a decision made after a lot of thought, consideration, & conversation with those closest to me. Speaking out the first time was one of the most difficult times of my life &, frankly, I anticipated much of the same outcome this second time around.

For everyone who has supported me, privately & publicly, thank you. I know exactly how difficult it can be to voice your opinion on such topics and I’m sure there have been times you’ve received some form of negativity in doing so. For all of you who have been encouraging, loving, & not only taken the time out of your days to follow my story, but also gone the extra mile to reach out to me personally, I appreciate you. For all of you who have introduced yourselves and done things like embraced me with a sincere hug in the middle of a Fred Meyer grocery aisle, thank you. For all of you parents out there who have expressed your gratitude… nothing has picked me up or driven me more than those reminders. And, lastly, to all of the other victims of far more serious crimes done to you by this man, especially those who have reached out to me and entrusted in me your own stories of abuse; I hope you now feel even just a little satisfaction today.I so wish I could have done you the justice you all deserve. Absolutely no child, no matter their age, their home life, their physical appearance… should EVER be taken advantage off, groomed, targeted, manipulated and abused the way you each were. It is NOT your fault & I want each of you to always know I am here to listen & support you however I can. Know that you are not alone & know that if you ever choose to tell your story publicly, there are an incredible amount of people who will be nothing but supportive of you.

To all of you who have followed my story up to this point, but do not support me; I can’t imagine what it must be like for you to have to seek out this blog each and every week and be forced to read things you find to be so incredibly unfair and inappropriate of me to write about. I admire your resilience and willpower. So, while I have you here, I’d like for you to grant me just one more favor…

Let’s just pretend, for a moment, that this incidence is in fact the one and only time this man has made a “mistake” in his many years employed by Scappoose School District. And while we have our imagination really stretched out here, let’s also pretend I am your daughter. If you don’t have a daughter, it’s ok, if you were able to imagine that first one you have proven the mental acrobat required to believe everything that follows. You got this. Still with me? Ok, now let’s pretend your daughter is in middle school & she receives private messages, frequently, at all hours of the day and night, on all days of the week, rarely, if ever, regarding her education or athletics, but instead almost always in regards to her personal life, her home life, his personal life & his relationship with an adult woman. Fast forward a year or two and let’s pretend your daughter now also receives text messages at all hours of the day (including while in class) and night, all days of the week, rarely if ever in regards to her education or athletics, but instead things like random statements such as, and I quote, “It’s a sledgehammer.” And let’s pretend that the first time your daughter receives a message of this nature she asks him what it means and he refuses to answer and when he sends it a second time, a week later, he finally claims it’s a line from a movie…. whoa whoa whoa, let’s stay focused… we’re not going to let our imagination wander off into what kind of movie that could possibly be from… stay with me. Ok now let’s pretend your daughter is a junior in high school and this same man has told her that while she is actually enrolled in his weight lifting class, she doesn’t have to dress down & participate in the activities the other students are doing, but instead she can just act as his assistant… as long as she still shows up every day… and still receive the same class credit and passing grade she needs. And while your daughter is in this class, he decides to secretly take a very zoomed in image from eight track lanes away of literally just her breasts. Now let’s just pretend he decides to secretly email this image to himself without your daughter’s knowledge or permission to then later view said image in the privacy of his own home or office…. whoa whoa whoa, again, let’s not let our imagination wander too far with that one either.

Ok, NOW, can you honestly tell me that you would still be standing here offended by my decision to speak out and would still choose to stand up for him and his actions? If still yes, well, then I guess we should all just be very grateful you do not actually have a daughter… and if you do have a daughter, lucky enough not to be “like me”, then I guess all I can do for you at this point is assure you that girls with ignorant parents like yourself who do not support and empower their daughters to use their voice with confidence, are precisely the types of girls this man, and a disgusting amount of men like him, seek out and groom until they get what they want.

“Find echoes of another person in yourself.” – unknown

Part IV: 

(If you haven’t yet, read Part I, Part II, Part III)

I find myself at my locker practically wanting to crawl into it and hide… it’s been a long week.

But, I’m proud of myself. I’ve nearly made it the entire week without leaving in the middle of the day. Despite frequent, daily urges; like when I had to remind them to transfer me out of his class before he returned (apparently they were so busy worrying about making sure he felt all warm and fuzzy upon his grand return that they forgot about my state of comfort), or every single time I see him walking the halls again, clearly gaining his confidence back a little more each day. Despite all of the rumors floating around and questions being asked constantly. And all of the tasteless jokes.

In every onset of fight or flight… I’ve fought. I’ve stayed.

I’ve had to tell the story countless times… to the school admin, my parents, the school counselor, other teachers, my coaches, the police, my friends, my friends’ parents… over and over.

I am completely and thoroughly mentally exhausted.

My family has met with the Superintendent, school admin and “him”, as well as the police and attorneys. They’ve gained access to his teaching records and filed a claim to the Oregon Government Ethics Commission so that my name can be added to his file. Apparently, I am not the only underaged girl on his record… and this incident happens to pale in comparison to the others.

Wasn’t a club I envisioned myself being a part of, but… here I am.

Most of the time I wish I would have just kept my mouth shut. It’s only made me feel like everyone I thought I could trust, I can’t and also put me smack dab under the spotlight, which I don’t want any part of… and to top it all off, it doesn’t seem to be effecting him or his job so, really, what was the point…

I’m just focused on getting through the rest of this year and then I’m done. I told Mom I’m graduating early and, under the circumstances, she didn’t argue… although I know it breaks her heart.

Admin isn’t arguing either. Pretty sure they want me out of here just as much.

to be continued… Part V

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It was admitted to me that if the same exact incident happened between two teachers instead of between a teacher & a student… the outcome would have been far different. Apparently, he would have been fired for sexual harassment had he done the same to another teacher, because the teachers union protects teachers, not students.

When I was debating whether or not to write this story, I was leaning towards not. Mostly, because I can see how reading this could actually be more discouraging for someone who hasn’t spoken out rather than encouraging. It’s pretty much every victim’s cause for hesitation; the fear of not feeling heard, or believed, or not receiving any kind of justice… or worse, receiving backlash instead. It gave me pause, but I’m glad I decided to take a chance anyways.

Since writing this story I’ve had multiple women come forward to share their own stories and experiences with this exact same teacher.

After reading my story, they instantly knew who he was, despite leaving him nameless.

There is more than one woman who claims they had sexual encounters with this man when they were students and he their teacher.

Others share countless stories of feeling uncomfortable or groomed. Numerous instances of him being inappropriate. Things like sending late night text messages or in-depth private conversations that most would not deem appropriate for a student-teacher relationship.

When I was in middle school, I would receive late night messages from him via MSN Messenger. He was my basketball coach at the time. He would ask a lot of personal questions about my family and home life. He gained knowledge of my history and would go out of his way to make me feel as if we were friends and I could trust him and confide in him. He would also share personal things about his own life and his adult relationship.

As a young teenage girl, I found him to be funny and kind. I would have described him as a good listener, understanding, caring and non-judgmental. As an adult I understand this was actually a very strategic and rigorous grooming.

Part V of this story will be written when/if this man is ever fired. Part V will be my closure. Until then, this story remains “continued”.

In the meantime:

Dear Prick, I know you’re reading this, and I know you’ve read every word leading up to this. So, while I have you here, you should know, you do not have a true friend in this town. I have heard, firsthand, nearly every single person around you talk shit about you, laugh at you, and/or speak in disgust of you. I know the vast majority act like they’re your friend to your face; either because you’re in a position of power or because they don’t want to waste their energy trudging through your bullshit… but don’t be fooled, everyone knows you’re a tool.