The first presidential election I remember is a night I would like to forget

This is the original version of this opinion piece that ran Oct. 24, 2024 in USA Today.

This year’s presidential election is about women’s rights more than anything. In light of that, I decided to tell my story and the details I had never shared with anyone until recently. I worry for all the girls out there who are dealing with or will deal with similar.

In 1976, Jimmy Carter defeated incumbent Gerald Ford to become president. I was six. That night, my stepfather raped me the first time.

It would be the first of many over the next eight years, and 48 years later, it might as well have been yesterday. It was dark, a TV on top of a chest of drawers broadcast election results. I was in my mother and my stepfather’s bed watching. My mother was at work - she worked third shift at a plastics plant.

I had fallen asleep. He took my pink flannel pajama bottoms off and forced himself inside me. I cried. I had no idea what was happening.

I was persuaded to write about this by an old friend, a high school flame. We recently have been in touch again - though we had been social media friends for at least 10 years. We have been having some deep conversations as we reconnect. He encouraged me to write about the many years of molestation at the hands of my stepfather, even though it’s painful, even though I’m OK, even though it was so many years ago. Why? Because it might help someone else. Because it might help me.

This is incredibly unpleasant to write about it. I am tense and sick to my stomach as I type. I don’t like remembering. I tried to write about it in a fiction writing class in college - figuring I could hide the truth in the fiction name. I dropped the class after writing a first chapter. Too much, too soon.

I’m scared of what I don’t remember. I’m worried my family will be mad at me for writing this - not sure why they would - this happened to me. My siblings all lived with our Dad and stepmom to four of us, mother to two, after my parents got divorced in 1973 and they got married in 1975.

Before publishing a version of my story in USA Today, I spoke wtih my family, all except my dad who passed away Nov. 16, 2022. They were incredibly supportive.

The last time my stepfather - Steve - touched me was in 1984. I was 14. My biological mother - Paula - had left to be with her lover. Left me to tell Steve she was gone. Left me alone with him. Two weeks. I was alone with him. He made me sleep in his bed.

When my grandparents found out their daughter had left and left me alone, my granddaddy came to yell at Steve and to tell him I needed to go live with my dad. Granddaddy accidentally let the dog out who ran away. I don’t know who called Dad. I don’t know what was said. I know the next day, the nightmare was over.

I took very few things with me - no childhood photos, a couple of books, a few clothes and stuffed animals and Barbies. I have none of my elementary school class pictures, none of my poems or doodles or writings from the newspaper I wrote in sixth grade or birthday cards from friends. It’s OK because I was finally safe.

I never told my Dad. I didn’t want them to feel bad or guilty for not letting me move in with them the first time I seriously asked them when I was 12 or 13. I was OK - why upset them, I thought.

I used to dream about calling my Dad to come pick me up to live with them, but thought no one would believe me. I told one of my sister’s once - the summer after I moved in with the rest of the family - four sisters and a brother. She didn’t believe me. About 15 years later, she apologized for not believing me but we didn’t talk about what happened.

What happened.

A lot happened. I suspect I have blocked out a lot of the incidents. I have vivid memories of a few times. Too vivid.

Election night when I was 6.

A couple of incidents in middle school. A trip alone with him in sixth grade when we went to Anderson, Indiana. The two weeks in 8th grade.

What do I remember? I’m not sure you want to know. I’m not sure I want to tell, but I will.

I remember how it felt at 6 years old. What is that? What’s happening? What are you doing? He told me it was OK because he loved me. I knew it was wrong and this wasn’t love. He was an adult and I was supposed to listen to him.

Every time that I remember, he said it was OK because he loved me. I sometimes talked back and told him it wasn’t OK. I remember screaming once - he slapped me. Most of the time, he came into my room when I was asleep. He didn’t wake me first, he just climbed on top of me. When I was in middle school, I started having nose bleeds as soon as he touched me. That sometimes stopped him. Sometimes, it only delayed it. Maybe I had the nosebleeds previously but I don’t remember the incidents or my mind’s way of dealing with them.

I used to ask God why this was happening. I used to talk to God. I used to think, well, if this has to happen to someone in my family, it should be me. I’m OK. I’m going to be OK. I thought my older sister had dealt with way too much already - remembering the fighting and the divorce and the affair that led to the motorcycle accident that led to the divorce. She didn’t need to take on this too. My younger sister was so much like our mother, I thought she would have enough to deal with in her life, and I was right. So I thought, OK, I have to bear this burden.

At 13 or 14, I had a boyfriend - a first real boyfriend I guess you’d say. One night, Steve made me sit on his lap watching UK basketball. He made me take my shirt off and touched my breasts. He asked if my boyfriend did that. He did not. I had only kissed boys. He told me to show him how I kissed my boyfriend. At this age, you would think, I could walk away and say no and get out of the house. He controlled me. He told me no one would believe me and I would just cause trouble for everyone. It seems ridiculous now that I didn’t do something. Do something! I didn’t enjoy this. I didn’t want this.

I don’t know where my biological mother is. I don’t know if she knew. I don’t know where the stepfather is, whether he is still alive.

I know I’m OK now. I know I am resilient and I can handle anything if I survived that. I wish it didn’t happen. I wish I didn’t have those memories. I wish I had turned him in. I hope he didn’t molest anyone else. I hope my biological mother didn’t know - how awful if she did. What a terrible human, if she did. I can’t bear that burden though. She will have to.

I imagine there will be people who respond harshly to this. I hope not. And I hope there might be someone who reads this who understands, unfortunately.

You can call me. We can talk about it. Or you can just know we both know.

I was lucky in one way, somehow I didn’t get pregnant. Somehow I didn’t have to deal with that, figure out how to get rid of a pregnancy or figure out how to carry a rapist’s child. I don’t want that choice to be taken away from any girl or woman. It will be if we don’t fight for it.