I was 43 years old when he confessed and apologized. 38 years I suffered. 38 years. 13,870 days. 332,880 hours. 19,970,800 minutes. 1,198,368,000 seconds. He lived free and clear and I suffered in silence. Locked in the cage that he made.
38 years. 13,870 days. 332,880 hours. 19,970,800 minutes. 1,198,368,000 seconds.
My whole life. Hell.
When his wife got pregnant, I wanted to tell.
When he sang on the choir, I wanted to tell.
When he played piano for the choir, I wanted to tell.
When a preacher laid hands on him to ordain him, I wanted to tell.
When he preached his first sermon titled “We have found the enemy and He are Us,” I wanted to tell.
When I became director of the Youth Choir, and he was the musician, I wanted to tell.
When I got married, I wanted to tell.
When I had an abortion, I wanted to tell.
When I gave birth, all three times, I wanted to tell.
When I had sex, I wanted to tell.
I WANTED TO TELL.
But he told me not to. He beat me so that I wouldn’t.
He’s a BAD man. He’s a reverend. If you can’t reconcile it, how the fuck you think I can? The reverend raped me.
I WANTED TO TELL.
And I did. Twice. The first time, I told mom. She left me sitting alone at a bar. The second time I told my siblings. My brother was “intrigued” enough to confront the reverend. They all distanced themselves from me.
NONE OF THEM CAME TO ME. NONE OF THEM EMBRACED ME. NOT ONE OF THEM SAID ANYTHING TO ME.
My silence was always the most welcome aspect of me.
When I was 15 years old, a teacher took pictures of the bruises he inflicted. She called Child Services. They questioned and examined me. Then they sent me back home. Upon my return, my grandmother beat me for telling.
But I didn’t tell. Not the SECRET.
This year, I turned 50. 2018 marks 43 years; 15,695 days; 376,680 hours; 22,600,800 minutes. 1,356,048,000 seconds.
But silent I can no longer be.
His name is Randy. Reverend Manon.
He’s my dad and he raped me.