Tuesday, July 23, 2013


You Are No Longer a Father to Me

I was 16 when I went on my father’s computer and found a significant amount of child pornography. I ran outside in shock and vomited over and over onto the lawn as a tepid rainbow arced above the cornfields in the watery Kansas sky.

Minutes earlier, I’d been in his office in front of the desktop computer, scanning his browser history, clicking his bookmarks. I don’t know what I was searching for—evidence of an affair, maybe, or just run-of-the-mill porn, which was taboo enough at the time, in the place. But I’d had premonitions. Already, I wasn’t comfortable being alone with him. My skin crawled if he put his hand on my shoulder, and I locked my bedroom door at night.

Until that point I had refrained from approaching the question of what exactly these premonitions implied. I was a young 16, sheltered and naïve from my conservative Christian upbringing, an introverted child in an insular family in a remote Kansas town where we attended church three times weekly and morality contained no gray. I was suffocating in this environment; my veins seemed to compress. But I was wildly sensitive to guilt and I felt terrible for even suspecting my father of anything. I prayed nightly for forgiveness even as I continued locking the door.

That day I found online galleries and photographs of teenage and prepubescent girls. I found archived fictional stories that jolted me even more. As someone who spent hours a day in a book or at my keyboard, I knew the power of stories, and these were graphic ones: of dads molesting and raping their young daughters.


My dad had an oversized presence in our family of four. A man who I only later recognized was deeply insecure, he demanded deference from anyone he considered below him: his employees and customers, staff at restaurants and stores, and of course, his wife and two daughters. He could be jovial and animated, with a smart sense of humor. But at any perceived slight, usually imagined, he’d explode into anger. I was often the source of those slights, and I had recently discovered that staring coolly back at him while he rebuked me made him frantic with rage at my lack of reaction. It was a cycle that fed itself until we were fighting almost nightly, and the bitterness between us grew.

He worked hard at the small construction business he owned. He had a restless, ceaseless energy and was audible wherever he was in the house, slamming cabinets and drawers, making phone calls at scream volume, whistling tunelessly through his teeth. The only time we couldn’t hear him was when he closed the door to his office, which he had begun doing more and more often. When I decided I wanted more justification for my bitterness toward him, it was easy to conclude that behind that closed door was a good place to start looking.

After I found the porn on his computer, the question continued to haunt me: what was this knowledge confirming? I had always known something, in some small and subconscious way, but why? I searched my memories gingerly, like someone investigating a noise at night, terrified of actually discovering something but propelled to keep looking regardless. Years later, I have found no evidence other than the suspicion itself.

I was left with the problem of what to do. If my father had taken the pictures himself, it would have been a clear-cut matter of going to the police. But, while viewing photos online was certainly a perversion, was it a crime? Fictional stories were even less actionable. I thought of publicly exposing him by going to the church elders, but then my mom and sister would find out.

I thought that telling my mother would destroy her. She had recently begun medication for depression, and she suffered from chronic pain and other mysterious and debilitating symptoms that would be later diagnosed as an autoimmune disease. Her husband had given her stability, a beautiful home, and two daughters, but he also gave her an unending stream of criticism and ridicule.

Would she be better off without him? I wondered. But that was assuming she would ever leave. We were taught that the Bible only condoned divorce when the other partner had cheated. "I'm the only one in the world who could put up with him," she would say, not flippantly—she did firmly believe God paired her with him for her attribute of tolerance, choosing her for the cross of her wifely duties and blessing her with a heavenly reward. She wouldn't leave.

I felt, too, like I couldn’t tell my older sister. She had left for college earlier that year, and I was jealous of her escape. But I couldn’t see any benefit to her feeling the same betrayal I did. She is sensitive and compassionate; people have always wanted to shield her from the world’s realities, and I felt the same way even as I resented her for being older than me but more naive.

In the end, I left it up to my dad. Returning to his computer a few weeks later, I deleted all the links and photos, scouring his bookmarks clean and even deleting photos he had taken of my friends and I swimming in our pond one recent summer afternoon. Then I waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. That evening my mom came down to my bedroom and knocked on my door. “Were you using dad’s computer?” she asked. I steeled myself and then said that I was.

“He’s mad because he thinks you deleted some of his files,” she said. “From now on, just use the basement computer when you need one.”

I was shocked, and then crushed. Not only was he unrepentant, but he was actually insinuating I was in the wrong for invading his computer. Still, I could not bring myself to approach him. I didn’t have the words to express what I felt. And I couldn’t demand an apology from him because I was in no way ready to forgive. Instead, I wrote seething letters that I hid away undelivered: “How long has this been going on? How long have I unknowingly trusted a pervert? I will never make that mistake again, with you or anyone else. You are no longer a father to me.”

The next three years I swamped my life with friends and activities so that I would be home as little as possible until my own escape to college. My father and I kept our distance from each other, rarely interacting. Eventually the day arrived when I packed up my car and drove the eight hours to my new dorm home, where I was finally able to exhale.


Like most people, I changed during college. I discovered alcohol and at times over-relied on it. I wrestled with and discarded many of my convictions about sin, sexuality, and hell. After college, I moved farther away and cultivated a life where everything had a space with boundaries and nothing overflowed. In that way, I could dissect people neatly out of my life if they wronged me. I traveled to far-away countries and delved into cultures I had never even imagined in my hometown. In one dark year, I pushed the edges of my capacity to hurt myself until the stronger and weaker parts of me united in a firm “Enough.” I emerged in time to meet a wonderful man who stilled something inside of me that I didn’t know was raging. Together, we moved away even farther.

I was able to largely forget about my father and the world I had left behind. On visits to home, I had a few moments when I’d soften toward him. I’d see his eagerness to entertain, always buying the latest toys and gadgets to show off to guests. I’d notice his sharp sense of humor, remember capability and drive to provide for his family. I’d hear stories that humanized him, like when he was forced to make arrangements for his mother’s funeral as a young man of only 18 years old. I would see traits of him in myself: my impatience, my inability to tolerate ignorance.

More importantly, he seemed to have slowly changed over the years. As his business stabilized, his irritability softened. He became more attentive, less critical toward my mother and more involved in church. Once, on a call with my mother, the conversation turned to him. “He told me the other night that he regrets being a bad father to you,” she said, her voice puzzled across the distance.

I kept my mouth shut—a habit deeply ingrained by then—but the comment felt like a stone, smooth and hard, lodged in my chest. I knew I would never again run into his arms, but forgiveness no longer seemed fully out of reach. I wondered how much I could judge him for impulses never acted upon. Could I hate the pervert but still love my father?

Then my sister announced her pregnancy with her first daughter. I pictured the little girls in the photos and stories and felt wracked with fear: that he hadn’t changed, that he was capable of acting on these imagined scenarios, that the extra layer of familial distance might embolden him.

I had no choice; I told my sister. On a long evening drive during a visit home, we cried together as she tried to accept that our father could be a threat to her child. I felt that I had doubled the burden rather than halved it, but as we talked about how she’d deal with this, I took comfort in the vow that his damaging instincts would never spread beyond the two of us.

I often feel ashamed for just the existence of my pain, which is nothing compared to the hurt inflicted by parents who’ve beaten, molested and raped their children. But still I mourn for the girl I was, standing in her yard surrounded by cornfields, filled with disgust and fear and an impenetrable loneliness. I want to reach out to her and stop her from making the mistakes I know she’ll walk into.


Recently my parents came to visit me for the first time at my apartment in New York City. They’ve never been overseas, and New York was by far the biggest culture shock they’ve experienced. I’d always seen my father as a capable, towering figure, but when I met them at the airport I noticed his gray hair and hunched frame. As we waited at the baggage claim, my mother said he had been white-knuckled throughout the flight’s turbulence.

Touring the city, I tried to demystify the subway system so they’d be able to explore while I was at work the next day. My mother, so accustomed to depending on my father to make her decisions, didn’t even listen. My father was bewildered by the many numbers, colors, and transfers. When we rode in a subway car that had the wrong line showing on the display map, he threw up his hands in exasperation, insisting that there was no possible way of understanding how to get around. Out of context, he was dependent on me.

That day I saw us clearly: an old man, overwhelmed by a subway map, and his adult daughter, finally at ease.

Sarah Dee lives and writes in New York, where she only occasionally gets lost.

Photo via Marcus Crafter/flickr

53 Comments / Post A Comment


oh, wow.


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@zbzxbery737 Cool


After reading this, I sat here at my desk and stared off into space for a while, thinking. I don't know what to say other than thank you for sharing this with us.


@frigwiggin Seconded. I couldn't... can't form sentences at the moment, but this about says what I've been trying to get out.


@frigwiggin totally agree. i'm sure this wasn't easy to write or attach your name to, but thank you for doing so.

Heat Signature

Hi, I'm a stranger on the internet telling you that you made the right decision when you told your sister. My years in CPS inform my opinion that your niece is safer because of that decision. I'm sure we all feel better now.

Also, this was a very brave piece and very absorbing and well-written. Thank you.

Quinn A@twitter

@Heat Signature My time volunteering on a sexual assault crisis line informs my agreement with every word of your comment.


@Heat Signature Yes. And hopefully when your neice is old enough to understand, her mother can (though I hate that she will have to) tell her daughter the same thing my mom told me about one of our family members, "We will never let you be alone with him, it is always okay to say you want your mom or dad with you, and if you ever tell us something bad happened, we will believe you." I will never know what made my mother feel like she needed to tell me that, but she did and it made me feel safe. (I'm 27 and have still never been alone in a room with him.)


This is gorgeous. Thank you for sharing it.


If The Hairpin doesn't make me cry at my desk at least once per workweek, it's not doing its job.

(Seriously, though, this was beautiful and moving and I can only imagine how much courage it took to share this story)


For anyone reading this who might need this information, it IS illegal to possess child pornography. Even if he didn't take the pictures himself, simply storing the files on his computer, receiving them as downloads, accessing them on websites etc is all illegal under federal law. You can report these things to local police and to your state attorney general. Again, just posting this in case anyone reading this article is in a similar situation and doesn't know what to do.


@Radio_LJ Ahhhhhh god yes you are so right. I appreciate how much bravery it took to write this piece and how incredibly difficult it must have been, but my brain is just SCREAMING. The writer seems confident that her father never acted on anything, & sure he didn't take the pictures himself, but there isn't anything to support that being true except that he didnt abuse HER. I am not judging her reaction: how many teenagers could turn in their own dad? And everyone tells themselves what they need to live, you know? But Jesu Cristo he really should be thoroughly investigated.


@Radio_LJ I will say (and Dan Savage has explored this on a few episodes) that I continue to be torn. Child pornography is illegal, dangerous, and certainly alarming. It can be a sign of other, more destructive behaviors. But we are not equipped in this country to do anything other than jail pedophiles, and that's not what some of them deserve. There are people out there who have struggled for years with what they know they want, but have never acted. Much like people with other fetishes that are unachievable , some of those people rely on pornography to release pressure. Many of them have never, ever touched a child. Yet, because of the way our legal system is constructed, they cannot reach out for help, or they will get jailed, even if they do not own child pornography (I know that is not the case here) and have never abused a child. We are doing these people a disservice.

Cat named Virtute

@Radio_LJ Keep in mind that actual children are hurt by child pornography though, and that by buying, downloading, and distributing it, it creates and perpetuates that industry. If someone with a pedophilic fetish reaches out to a therapist, that therapist is required to notify the authorities if at any point they think that actual human minors might be hurt, which is exactly as it should be. I certainly don't deny that jail is not at all the best way to with people who struggle with this, but acquiring child pornography is NOT a victimless crime.


@ Cat Yes, yes, yes. It's complicity, and that's bad, even if it's passive.

Judith Slutler

@Cat named Virtute exactly. I can't fault the author for not reporting, to me it's a similar situation to the choice whether or not to report sexual assault. But yeah, not a victimless crime.


@Judith Slutler @Cat named Virtute
Yes, & perhaps even more importantly, we can't morally "require" someone to turn in their own father. I understand where the others are coming from on this thread and completely agree with them about how horrible and damaging this sort of crime is, but there is still something uniquely difficult and awful about turning in your own father that I don't think we can demand it of others, even if it is a morally better course of action.

I'm Right on Top of that, Rose

@Radio_LJ Thank you. While the writing was fantastic and it was a gutsy story to tell, I was entirely distracted that this man was out hurting children for years. I am glad she told her sister though, to save her niece.


@harebell To be clear, I'm not demanding the author take action against her father. I simply want people to know that possessing or downloading child pornography is a crime and if anyone finds him/herself in a similar situation, they absolutely can alert the authorities.


@crosberg As others have already pointed out, it's not okay to victimize children, even if you're "only looking." Anyone who engages in such fantasies is contributing to an industry that exploits and harms children. That makes them morally and criminally culpable, even if they've never physically harmed a child in person.


I am in deep and reverent awe of you and the poignant telling of your story. I experienced sexual abuse at the hands of my father. I identify with you greatly and see you as a role model for all people who come from abusive homes. Sending much love to you.


"That day I saw us clearly: an old man, overwhelmed by a subway map, and his adult daughter, finally at ease."

That line just broke me.


This was a beautiful piece of writing and my heart goes out to you.

The lines 'I wrestled with and discarded many of my convictions about sin, sexuality, and hell.' and 'I emerged in time to meet a wonderful man who stilled something inside of me that I didn’t know was raging.' both really struck a chord with me.

Thank you for sharing this.


Wow. Thank you for writing this. I've been trying to write the story of my own weird dad stuff, and while the details of our stories are not the same, it still feels a bit uncanny.

Oh, squiggles

There is no guarantee that he hasn't or isn't currently abusing young girls. I know this is a difficult subject, but...I can't help but feel terrified for the people who weren't warned about him. I wish you had turned him in, then and there. I wish you would turn him in now. I know people are flawed, but he needs help, and ignoring this kind of red flag can lead to innocent children being abused.


Thanks for sharing this. I don't even know how to begin to respond, but the telling was beautiful and rattling at the same time.

Briony Fields

Thank you for this. You've put into words something I struggle with a lot: the guilt and confusion over that instinctive feeling that something is wrong. I was sexually abused by my father and what astounds me still about the whole thing is how profoundly difficult it is to reconcile these awful acts with this person you call Dad who clearly cares for you in some way, however flawed. I think you captured that perfectly.


I feel in awe and nauseated at the same time. My discovery of "teenage" (whether they are actually 18-19, under 18, or in their 20s and just young-looking, no one can ever really know) porn on my father's computer when I was in high school was the first time I ever felt uncomfortable around him, and the first of many, MANY wedges that have led to our likely-permanent estrangement. I am brimming with confusing feelings and this stunningly-written piece has just reminded me that I really do need to find a new therapist and start going again.


@Alli525 The same thing happened with me and my stepfather, though we aren't estranged. I just feel weird around him, and did especially when I was younger (30 now). My main issue was that every time I used his computer before I found the porn, he was afraid I would find the porn and would berate me, saying I "broke" the computer and was barred from using it again. I was always so confused as to how I could have hurt the computer, but once I found his hot teen sluts I realized what was going on. I never told anyone, and he is totally harmless outside his fantasy world, but still. ICK.


I am the granddaughter. Not in this story, but in my own. Unfortunately, no one protected me, and I was molested until the age of 12. Only after I began distancing myself from my grandparents did my grandfather attempt to apologize for his actions. It haunts me to this day that I never said anything, but I'm not sure I would have been believed. Or it would have been swept under the rug, which is how our family handles dysfunction.
Thank you for telling your sister and possibly saving your niece from abuse. Sending my love and all the good vibes.


@TheMissus Internet hugs and all the vibes to you, too.


Thanks for sharing your story Sarah.
It was my aunt who told me my dad was a child molester and another aunt and my stepsister confirmed it. As a child I only saw him every other weekend - my parents were divorced - so wasn't subject to the same conditions as his other victims, but I still worry that he abused me and I've repressed it. That is very unlikely but knowing what I know has made me paranoid. When I found out - I was 22 - I cut off all contact with him and, as other relatives failed to keep my address confidential, I now have no contact with his side of the family.
I understand why people are concerned about reporting these things to the police, but you can't charge a 16 year old with that kind of responsibility. (In my father's case the police were told but fucked up the whole thing by questioning one of his potential victims - my younger halfsister - in front of him, so that didn't go so well.) The responsibility for this kind of crime rests solely with the criminal.

honey cowl

Wow. I read this earlier today but haven't had the words to respond. This kind of writing is gutsy and powerful. Thanks for sharing with all of us.

no easy answer

Yes, I'm glad you wrote this. Yes it is brave. Yes it speaks openly about a subject we so desperately need to speak about openly. And I identify with a lot of it. But the last sentence just doesn't sit well with me. " . . . a daughter finally at ease"? It feels like an attempt to wrap up an what was a perfectly fine and powerful and effective personal narrative with a happy-ending bow, and knocks the wind out of it for me. I see so many women do this when writing about their lives and it just kills me. This need to reassure the reader, "Don't worry, lots of bad shit happened, but it all turned out ok at the end."

At ease? My own narrative is that my father acted on his . . . desires? perversions? curiosity? whatever you want to call it, and I will never be at ease around him. I'm never at ease, period. I haven't been at ease since I was about eight. And even before then it was touch and go.

I know it's complicated, trust me. As I see him get older, I do feel a kind of sympathy for him. We have similar temperaments. There are things about him I like. I have some good memories of him. But that doesn't change the fact that I will never be able to trust him, and that he hurt me so deeply and completely shattered my world as a child and nearly destroyed my psyche with a few acts of selfish indulgence.

I know very well what it is to love and revile someone simultaneously. To be so full of doubt about your own parent, your own history.

It's made me feel a lot of things, but "at ease" isn't one of them.

Well, I guess I'm glad somebody gets to be at ease. I'd sure as shit like to know what it feels like.


@no easy answer Agreed! As women we downplay the bad things and make excuses: "Oh, he's just grumpy today, I'll talk to him later, he's tired, he's not really like this- the alcohol makes him that way, etc." Sometimes things are not ok but we wish them to be so much.

This is a wonderful piece and mirrors some of my own feelings about my dad. When I was little I wasn't affectionate towards him like I was to my mom. So much so that I clearly remember him telling me he's my real father and I'm not adopted-- I was inwardly shocked because I had been thinking, hoping, that he was not actually my father and had not said a word to anyone, or written it anywhere.

My dad drank, went to work as a nurse after drinking all night, and often drove my brother and I around while drinking. We never had heart-to-heart talks, never chummed around...he attempted to have some bonding time occasionally but I was too hard hearted towards him already that I never gave in or softened towards him. I never knew why we weren't close until I was in college and his carefully hidden drinking started unravelling. As I grew older, away from home, I purposely pushed him out of my mind. When I came home to visit I might see him for lunch and he would be awed by my proficiency with a smartphone. He became smaller to me, as his hair turned gray and his belly paunched from the ascites.

He was sick, and I gave him the attention my education and career had fine tuned me for: the attention of a jaded nurse, interested in his symptoms, the disease process, if he'd had medical attention for that jaundiced skin, but deliberately no time for personal interactions. I despised him for turning my childhood with him into a lie: never himself, just a character.

I am one of those people who are "at ease" only through the mercy of death. My dad eventually succumbed to multiple organ failure as a result of the years of replacing his blood with alcohol. I am ashamed to say that, though I was not mean towards him, I was not very nice when I had a chance to say my last goodbyes in the emergency room. At the time, in the rush of so many emotions, I did not know what to say so I was distant, just watching him, asking inane questions. I still could not bring myself to be sympathetic, to be kind, to reassure him that my brother and I were following his wishes, even though I bawled my eyes out for the next two days after he passed away. I resent myself even now for not being kind. I am thankful that he is not suffering anymore, as well as thankful he cannot manipulate anyone else like he did his entire family and various girlfriends. Looking back I try to remember the good traits my dad had, try to remember when he tried to connect, to be kind, instead of sullying my memories with resentment. Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not.


@bethasaur Yowsers. That is basically my "dad" story exactly, except his organs haven't failed just yet (but he's definitely sick - paunched belly and cirrhosis diagnosis and all - so I don't know how long it will be, but he's certainly not going to live to be 90). But even while he's living, sometimes thinking about his good qualities works, and sometimes it doesn't. It's a constant battle.
Oh, and ETA that I reeeeally identified with her description of him as a confused oldish man, but I agree that I'm not sure "at ease" is the right term (I mean, she's permanently going to be freaking out about him being around her niece, right?) - but I think certainly confident and comfortable in her own skin and own world came across loud and clear.


@bethasaur I feel for you in reading your story. Yet, to read you "resent yourself for not being kind" how could you expect that of yourself? My father was so emotionally abusive to my mother that she became mentally ill. She never recovered and, years later, committed suicide. I've always thought his rage was driven at his self-hate at being gay. But it's one of my finest moments, I feel, that I wrote him an email and told him what a vile person he was, the contempt I had for him bullying my mom and my siblings, and how what he did to us is a felony in my home state, with no statute of limitations. Despite this, I still find I've internalized his rage and contempt of me and struggle with idealizing suicide. I don't keep these secrets about him anymore and my family shuns me for that. But I will not be silent.


Maybe she is "at ease" because he is finally weak and dependent, as though she had finally conquered him.


It's truly odd to see someone who was so forceful in our formative years soften with age. My father was abusive towards my mother the entire time I lived with them (up until 22), but she never left him. I can't say his personality has changed greatly, and he's still abrasive as hell, but he has become someone who is just a little bit harder to remain unforgiving (which I am) against, just by virtue of age. Seeing him with our dog nowadays reveals a softness he never seems to have had for any human being.


others first thanks for sharing it is really gorgeous post.

And then Katie said

Thank you so much for sharing this intimate and highly nuanced story.



This is so well-written. I hope your father eventually comes clean to you, and asks for forgiveness.


So well written and powerful, and I just want to share my sense of compassion: I'm so sorry you had to and in some ways still have to go through this. Not fair at all...


So many people seem to be coming forward to talk about being abused by their father, a history which I share. But it's weird, because I've never seen it before. When I read articles about rape and abuse people come forward, but no one ever seems to come forward with stories of incest. It seems to be different... like double the shame. Not that it was worse than other kinds of abuse-- for instance, it wasn't rape. People have lived through worse abuse than me, but I couldn't go home, there was no escape. And it's not shame. I never felt guilty about what he did, I always knew it was him, and honestly knowing that made me feel like I could make it and be healthy and be who I should have been in the first place. I made it through having to live with him until I was 14 and have visits until I was 18. It gave me the strength to cut ties when I was 18, directly, confronting him with what he'd done and threatening to go to the police if he ever attempted to contact me again. Not the strength to go to the police-- it's not just turning in your father, it's what the fall-out will be. After I told my mother what he did, she in the middle of a heated argument threatened to send me to live with him. When I told my aunt what he'd done she responded with "If that's true-" and I didn't hear the rest. No one else in my family knows. But that's the other thing. The constant unspoken wondering why I don't talk to my father, my lies about my father (he died when I was two is what I say to strangers), me insisting it was for a good reason but not wanting to explain it (Christians saying forgiveness will bring me peace without knowing what they're asking me to forgive), because I don't want the pity of a person who hasn't lived through half of what I have, a person I honestly consider lucky and weak. It's just different. I was molested is one thing, I was molested by one half of the couple that brought me into the world and raised me was meant to protect me (and failed over and over again) is a whole other ball game. You just can't trust anyone after that. My biggest fear is marrying a man who molests my kid, and honest to god if anyone ever touches my kid I will kill them and that is not hyperbole.

yeah its me

I experienced very "light" (is that possible?) abuse by 2 caregivers and my mother kicked my stepdad out after catching him masturbating to my sleeping form... I have horrible anger about it. I can't imagine your history, but I can relate to the anger. hugs


@yeah its me I do relate to your anger.

Briony Fields

@Pippa I think it is unfortunately, way more common than people think - a fact that both terrifies me and makes me feel slightly less alone.

yeah its me

I think this is a well written piece. As a victim of abuse (and mine wasn't horrific, by any means) I know how I've struggled to make peace with my history, and it breaks my heart to hear of a pedophile, active or not, going unreported.
That said - my own stepfather, who was kicked out after my mom discovered he had been masturbating to my sleeping form, went unreported. I was in Grade 6 at that time.
I will always wonder ALWAYS WONDER who he has went on to molest - and still can't stand proud and point my finger. I'm 36 now.
So I guess I can relate to most of it, aside from your security that no one else has suffered from your (my!) silence. Hugs.


thank you Sarah Dee, thank you Pippa, thank you yeah its me. the only person I could ever have truly killed (not hyperbole) was my father. so many women understand 'the haunting.' I'm in a relationship with a wonderful man now, and still haunted. that he watches porn (adult; nothing illegal) sometimes devastates and disgusts me because of my way too early exposures to porn and sex via my father, via an older male relative. I hope we make it through this. I'm 30, still scared, but I'll never stop trying.


After reading this, I sat here at my desk and stared off into space for a while, thinking. I don't know what to say other than thank you for sharing this with us.

Cappiee C Cappiee@facebook

No one understands HOW these two "issues" relates, but I blame the social programming of society.
Thank you for sharing this story, but you are telling an intimate experience of the treatment of a child.
I hope you will equate your story from the childs point of view: if you hate the way your Father was toward children, they you must feel equal disgust living in two States that have Federal & State tax expenditures for killing them in the womb.
But this is not a child problem, it's only half-problem for children. NOT!
When one criticizes one serious problem of children, while ignoring a worse one, it is just like being molested to death.

Cardenas Naida@facebook

My name is Mr Cardenas,my wife was having affair with a senior secretary in her office. I love this woman so much that i would not want to share her with any body. i told her to retire from the job and i would take care of all her needs but she would take it because she is been embraced by everybody in her office, this normally leads to quarrel every-time. i tried all i can to please her and she will promise to be good , some days later she will turn back to her normal way.
i was nearly loosing out, i could not focus in my job, my whole life was full of sorrow and i was thinking i should kill the other man my self and put an end to all this until i saw a testimony from a blog on how DR EDIONWE could cast a love spell to bring lovers back no matter what is behind the disappointment. so i decided to write him via email. edionwesolutiontemple@yahoo.com and now all my wishes are exactly as i wanted. She told me everything that has happened secretly in the past and i forgave her as DR EDIONWE instructed me to and she loves me and care for me as i ever wanted. i know there are many spells that do not work but i want to assure all you out there no matter what you have been trough to have faith and believe that this is the final solution to your problem.
Even if my job is taking most of my time, the little free time i have , i will share the good news to everyone in the world because i know that with love brings happiness and hope for a long life.

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