Trigger Warning: This article contains sensitive content that may be distressing to some readers. It discusses topics such as [violence, abuse, mental health issues]. Reader discretion is advised.

My experience is one of being groomed and exploited, from inside my own home.

There are two parts to my rape. One, the rape itself. Two, and maybe the part that haunts me most, is how we got there. I struggle with the seventeen years I spent dutifully fulfilling the role of daughter, only for that relationship to boil down to a game in which I was just a pawn. It feels, in a word, shitty. The years of grooming. Years of preparation for the moment that I would prove my value to him. Waiting like loose change in his back pocket for the day that he would remember me back there, spend me on a lottery ticket, and take home all the winnings for himself. I wish I knew what his prize was. What was I worth trading for? 

My rape should be considered trafficking. Whether my father was motivated by power, status, sadism, sickness, or money–I may never know. How ironic that, at the end of his life, he had very few friends and no money.

I never saw the three men who raped me before that night, and I never saw them again. I was seventeen. I came home from being out with friends. My mother Roxie was out of town, enjoying a summer of weekends at the lake with a friend. When Roxie was out of town, there was no curfew. There was no need to come home because no one was looking for me. But that night, I found four grown men in my home, awaiting my arrival. The three strangers were sitting with my father on the screened-in porch behind the house. I will not forget the candlelight, the August humidity, or their laughter. The memory is forever etched into my mind like a painting. The artist—my father, Art. How fitting.

I stood at the table, not invited to join, but expected to stay. To entertain. I knew the routine well. I laughed and turned on the charm like I had been taught. I told jokes that were inappropriate for my age but that I knew would be seen as daring and fun, maybe even sexy. For my grand finale, I said goodnight by taking one of their glasses and downing it—solidifying my maturity by not wincing as the hot liquor slithered down my throat. I walked away with confidence. I knew I had done well. The laughter, the whispers, the sounds of camaraderie told me so. I imagined how Art would be beaming with pride, but knew he’d be soaking in the attention for himself.

At 2:22 a.m., when the first of the three men came into my bedroom to rape me, I did not hear any laughter. The first man was followed by the remaining two, one after the other. I did not notice the time again. The last man to enter my bedroom to rape me, punched me in my side the entire time. It had been his drink that I took. Perhaps I’d played my part wrong after all.

Without the familiarity—the reassurance—of laughter, I focused my attention on the sound of the water flowing from the pond in the backyard. The reliable and constant rush of water through the filter that kept the pond clean and the fish healthy. The pond that Art had hired a high school boy to dig and help him build. The high school boy who would be invited, after days of digging, to stay for a beer, maybe dinner, maybe more.

I had always been Art’s sidekick. His excuse. His confidant. He would take me everywhere. He took me to restaurants, stores, parties, friends’ houses. I would sit on sofas, atop stairs, in kitchens, and in cold cars. I would wait. Wait for him. The waiting in cold cars would come after, though. After the relationship with his target was solidified, I’d wait in the wings. Always the supporting actress, I watched these scenes over and over again from behind the curtain.

The grooming would take time. The performance would take practice. He would set up a joke and I would take it home. He would start a story to engage his audience, and I would strategically cut in at the perfect moment, finishing off a tale I had heard before, maybe several times. Art always wanted to be the center of attention, and I was there to help. I legitimized him, disarming his targets. How bad could he be with his little girl by his side, laughing and playing along? I was his artful dodger. That was the role he taught me how to play. 

From an early age, I questioned the people who seemed wary of Art. Most people he encountered were as drawn to him as I was, so those with their guards up fascinated me. I saw them, but I could not read them. I could not understand what stopped them from seeing me. When I think of these people now, I wonder what they truly let themselves see. I wonder what they ignored. If they were able to see past his facade, surely they were able to see past mine, too.

I often wish they had tried to rescue me. I wish someone had spoken up about the things they saw, or at least whispered about the things they suspected. But adoring Art was a rite of passage for anyone who got close to me. Anyone I ever dated would rave about Art, his comedic timing, his grandiose stories, his witty banter. In protest, I would instantly break up with them without an explanation—to spite a facade of my own.

The morning after that August night, I woke up, took a bath, and thought about killing myself. However, there was another, louder thought in my room with me that morning. A voice telling me to get up, to hide the bloody sheets, and to carry on. Tell no one. I named that voice Rebekah. I do not know why Rebekah saved me, why she thought me worthy of saving, but I am forever grateful.  

Art never had to tell me not to say anything. I knew the rules. Roxie came back from her weekend, and life went on. Although she was astute and particular in all matters of her household, Roxie never mentioned my missing sheets. Maybe she followed rules of her own.

When I was in the fifth or sixth grade, my sister, G, told me that Art was hitting on her boyfriends. I remember Roxie saying that G and Art had “the same type.” I knew what that meant and knew it should disturb me. Old enough to see the red flags everywhere, but too young to act. Roxie was the adult; she had the power of choice and perspective, yet she carried on as if content in her role, further cementing me in mine. 

It took years to say the words, “I was raped.” I found some resolution, some peace, in allowing myself to speak the words. I became comfortable talking about it, so I did. I learned to pull power from it. Now, I think I am in a new phase. This is the part where I really look at the years leading up to my rape and decipher the truth of how it happened, examine the why behind Art’s actions. How could he groom me? Why was I not protected? How could it go unnoticed?

I have only just realized that this phase has arrived. Only now am I beginning to see it necessary to adjust my lens. Yet again, decades later, I am faced with the familiar and formidable road before me, one that is unpleasant at best, and at its worst, completely and utterly devastating.

Although an uphill battle, I believe that telling my story and being seen by others and by myself is an invaluable exercise. What I have come to learn, adopt, and incorporate into my personal and professional practice is the importance of today-the sanctity of the present moment. How does my past experience come into play as I interact with the world around me in real-time? How do the techniques that I’ve used over the years-techniques that have kept me safe-affect my present life and the people in it? This is my new path. This is the role I choose for myself.