Breaking the Silence: My #MeToo Survival Story and Urgent Plea to Protect Our Children from Pedophilia

I'm about to share a deeply personal secret with you, one that I kept hidden for nearly a decade. It's a memory from my childhood, back when I was just a seven-year-old girl.

My parents were musicians in a band called Nightflyer, and this often meant spending my evenings at our babysitter's house. Her name was Nina and she was a warm and loving Peruvian woman who felt like a grandmother to me. Those memories hold a special place in my heart. Nina taught me card games, introduced me to the basics of Spanish, shared her favorite movies like 'Selena,' and showered me with affection. We'd take leisurely strolls through her neighborhood, collecting coins we found on the ground to treat ourselves to those irresistible $0.10 pretzels from the gas station. As I sit here typing this, tears well up in my eyes because I'm uncertain if Nina is still with us, and reminiscing about those times fills me with a profound longing.

Nina had a large and welcoming family, and her children and grandchildren became an extension of my own. I have fond memories of playing with her two granddaughters, inventing games, and even dreaming of becoming famous pop stars together. Her granddaughters, were incredibly sweet and kind, and their laughter still echoes in my mind, even though we haven't spoken in over two decades.

Of Nina's adult children, one of her sons took a particular interest in me. He was in his 30s, and I remember how kind and fun he appeared when I first met him. He taught me how to salsa dance right in Nina's living room, brought me thoughtful gifts, tickled me, and shared jokes that filled the room with laughter. I'll never forget the sheer excitement I felt when he called my mom and asked if he could take me to Kings Island. That night, I could hardly sleep, anticipation coursing through my veins. While I don't remember many details about that day, one thing stands out: I got so dehydrated that I nearly passed out, and he had to carry me into one of the restaurants to get some water.

Because he had become such a significant part of my life, my parents decided to make him my godfather when I got baptized. During the baptism ceremony, something unexpected happened that still brings a smile to my face. When the priest asked me if I was ready, I responded matter-of-factly with a resounding "No." The entire church burst into laughter at my innocent honesty. I was just a kid, and the reason behind my response remains a mystery to me. However, after the priest poured the water over my head, my new godfather wrapped me in a warm hug, and we celebrated together with the rest of my family at our home.

As I reflect on these events, the timeline may be a bit fuzzy in my memory, but I'll do my best to piece it all together. In the months following my baptism, I remember sitting in the car with my godfather, driving through the heart of downtown Cincinnati. I was curious about the homeless people we passed by, and I expressed a strong desire to help them. He, however, cautioned me, saying it wasn't safe. My determination to aid those in need led to a heartfelt conversation where he explained the essence of helping others. He was a deeply religious man, though the specifics of his faith escape me. What I do remember vividly is his unwavering commitment to guiding me spiritually.

Then came a day when I was seven years old, at Nina's house, and my godfather paid us a visit. Nina spent countless hours in the kitchen, crafting mouthwatering Peruvian meals. On that day, he asked me to accompany him upstairs, and I followed him up the stairs and into the guest bedroom.

Something felt off as he asked me to sit on the bed, but I trusted him. I followed him to the bed and took a seat. I recall him trying to fill these moments with idle conversation, and I began feeling increasingly uncomfortable. At some point, he went from talking to touching, and proceeded to molest me.

When he was finished, he asked me what was wrong, and I was in such a state of shock that I remember pointing to the ground where I had spilled my glass of milk and telling him, "I spilled my milk." He assured me that it was no problem and offered to clean it up for me.

I cannot put into words how deeply this altered me as a person. The way he manipulated me into believing this was a normal experience made it so difficult for me to come to terms with the fact that I had been sexually assaulted. I'm fairly confident it happened on more than one occasion, but this is the only occasion I can remember vividly. I spent years trying to push that memory away, but some nights, it would just creep back in, and I'd end up crying myself to sleep. When I was about 10, I plucked up the courage to ask my mom for a silver nail file, one of those sharp ones, just in case I ever needed to defend myself. Downstairs, my dad had a weightlifting machine, and I started using it, hoping I could get strong enough to protect myself. If you take a look at some childhood photos of me, you'll see a scrawny little kid who wouldn't stand a chance against a grown man.

When I was 11 years old, my cousin Tony let me listen to his Linkin Park CD, Hybrid Theory, as we embarked on a road trip. As soon as Chester's voice filled my headphones, something deep within me stirred. It was as if he reached into the depths of my soul, taking hold of the pain and transforming it into an undeniable strength. I played those lyrics on repeat because, for the first time, it felt like someone out there truly understood what I was going through. Witnessing how Chester channeled his own pain into power throughout his career, giving a voice to those who had suffered, made him one of my greatest heroes. Even now, he holds that special place in my heart.

(I remember the day when the news of Chester Bennington's passing reached me. I was at an airport in Australia, and the shock and sorrow hit me like a tidal wave. Rest in peace, Chester Bennington. Your music carried me through the toughest times of my life, and your impact on countless lives will never be forgotten.)

As I ventured into my teenage years, I discovered more bands like Atreyu, System of a Down, Evanescence, and Bring Me The Horizon, each serving as a lifeline during my moments of pain. Instead of directing my anger towards others or myself, I found solace in their music. I began to embrace the dark attire, frequenting Hot Topic, and emulating the style of Amy Lee with her iconic skirts. Let me tell you, it really freaked my parents out. My mom insisted I get rid of some of my black clothes and limited my nail polish to just navy blue, not a shade darker. I was so frustrated at the time, but we look back and laugh about it now.

When I turned 16, a pivotal moment came crashing down on me like a ton of bricks. I bought my first pack of cigarettes and got caught smoking, and the consequences were dire; I was grounded for what felt like an eternity. Sitting alone in my room, I reached a breaking point. I couldn't bear hiding my painful secret any longer, and acting out wasn't providing any relief. So, without any prior warning, I burst into my mom's room and let the truth spill out: I had been molested by a man my entire family trusted.

My mom's initial reaction was a mix of shock and concern. She immediately wrapped me big, comforting hug. In that moment, I found the courage to confide in her about my fears regarding my godfather and the possibility that he might be harming other girls in Nina's family. Promising to take action, she assured me that the next morning, she would contact an attorney.

A few days later, I found myself in a downtown office, face-to-face with a pro-bono attorney who was ready to champion my cause. She was a badass, no-nonsense woman, and though she intimidated me a bit, she was incredibly kind to me. Sensing my nervousness, she guided me through a series of questions, all essential to building a strong case. This remarkable woman had taken my case not just out of professional duty but also out of concern for the safety of Nina's grandchildren. She assured me that these were the kinds of cases she wholeheartedly embraced, and I knew I was in capable hands.

Months passed, and the day of the trial finally dawned. I stepped into the solemn courthouse, scanning the room until my eyes locked onto Nina, emerging from the bathroom. She had come to support her son, but seeing me, she rushed over, enveloping me in a comforting hug that soon gave way to tears. Her words were lost on me; I was simply overwhelmed by her unexpected gesture of kindness.

As the proceedings unfolded, it was my turn to face the courtroom. The defense attorney, a stern and intimidating man, called me to the stand. It played out much like those gripping scenes in the movies – the kind that sends your heart racing. My godfather, opting to remain silent, let his attorney do the talking. There I stood, a trembling 16-year-old girl, visibly shaken as he began his line of questioning.

At first, his queries seemed harmless, but then he probed deeper, pressing me to recall that fateful day of my abuse. As you already know, I remembered it with harrowing clarity. I recounted every detail, right down to the spilled milk, my voice trembling more intensely than ever before. The attorney's gaze bore into me, steeped in skepticism, as he posed increasingly intrusive questions. How long had the abuse endured? What time had it been? Which day of the week? How many other times had it happened? These were questions I had spent years trying to repress, and I found myself incapable of offering coherent answers.

My face flushed with embarrassment, and I felt utterly humiliated. Then came a request that pierced my heart: the attorney asked me to stand up and sketch a picture of Nina's house, marking the very room where the terrible ordeal had taken place. My heart sank at the mere thought. It was an imposing task, to stand before my abuser and his entire family, to traverse the courtroom, trembling hand-in-hand, and illustrate that house. My heart raced a million miles a minute, but I summoned the strength, drew the picture, and circled the accursed room.

The attorney continued his relentless questioning, and when he finally declared, "No further questions," the air seemed to thicken with doubt. "These people think I'm lying," I thought, and it felt as though my world was crumbling around me.

Then, my fierce attorney took the stage, projecting an aura of unyielding confidence. She swiftly commanded attention, with a subtle smile signaling a pivotal moment. A projector whirred to life, unveiling a previously unseen video – an undercover police officer confronting my godfather. The tension in the room was palpable.

As the video played, my godfather's composure crumbled. He stammered, admitted knowing me, and cryptically alluded to our interaction. But when cornered, he conceded, "I need to speak with an attorney." In that instant, my attorney became a force to be reckoned with.

She seized the narrative, highlighting my godfather's deception and the horrors I endured. Her incisiveness revealed the truth, and the courtroom hung in silence. With that fearless move, she turned to my godfather and proceeded to look him in the eyes as she spoke, while addressing her words to the jury. She explained how dangerous it would be to let this man walk free. She retold the story of his religious influence on me, and how much he had groomed me, ending with this: "And then he proceeded to masturbate this 7-year old child in his mother's home." The courtroom fell silent, and the jury's verdict came swiftly: six years in prison.

I've shed so many tears while writing these words. I told Cameron that tonight might be tough for me, but I felt a strong urge to share this story. To conquer my addiction, I had to face this trauma, embrace the pain, and release it. Therapy, journaling, taking my abuser to court – all these steps were vital. Eventually, I realized I had to let myself cry when those memories hit, instead of trying to push them away, so I allowed myself to do that. But ultimately, you know what helped me heal the most? Forgiving him.

It took me a long time to come to this place, but a couple of months ago, I started to think deeply about what it would be like to be a pedophile. It's important to note: pedophilia is categorized as a disorder of sexual preference, NOT a sexual orientation. I saw a post online by a man who said he had fought attraction towards children for years, and was so ashamed of it that he contemplated suicide often. He had never acted on his urges, and seemed to very much understand how harmful it would be if he did. He wanted to get help, but he was too afraid because of how our society treats pedophiles. He was afraid of ruining his relationships, and that if the truth comes out, he would have no choice but to end his life.

There were other posts by pedophiles who had acted on their impulses, and abused a child, and it absolutely ruined their lives. They hadn't a shred of self-respect or worth left, and wanted to commit suicide.

My heart sank when I read this. We've all seen the Dateline show "To Catch A Predator," and we're hearing more and more about the prevalence of child trafficking. We know this is happening way more often than we'd like to believe. BBC News shared in an article from 2018 that they estimate the prevalence of pedophilia to be 5% of the general population. That means, chances are, you know or have met several pedophiles in your life without realizing it. You may have a close relationship with one and have no idea. Is there a way to help these people before they ruin their lives and harm innocent children?

I came across a thought-provoking post on Reddit titled "Simply being a pedophile (non-offending) should not be a social crime, and the fact that it is produces a world that is less safe for children." It stated:

"Imagine a man at the beach who sees a little 7yo girl in a bikini and out of everyone on the beach, he experiences his strongest sexual reaction and strongest sense of arousal to her. What is your reaction to that man? What if I told you that man had never offended? That he had never committed any crime whatsoever in his life? Does that change your perception of him at all? Or do you still perceive him as a danger and a threat?

Now imagine you are that man. It is you whose biological impulses direct you towards the most vulnerable of us all. What is your reaction to yourself? Disgust? Shame? Is it not reasonable to assume that the majority of pedophiles would react to themselves in the same way?

How could they not? So far as I'm aware, this is the only group of people that society shuns so hard that even their thoughts are a social crime. They are shunned right down to their biological impulses regardless of their behavior.

Again, imagine yourself as a pedophile. Who would you feel safe disclosing that information to? Your spouse? Siblings? Parents? Closest lifelong friends? Would you even feel safe disclosing that information to a therapist? Would you even feel safe reaching out for help anonymously on the internet?

If you did disclose it, do you think a person would even feel safe to publicly direct a pedophile towards helpful resources? Might they be afraid that that might make them appear guilty by association? Indeed, how many of you who have read this far are already suspicious or have outright concluded that I am a pedophile?

When we shun people to this extent, to my mind we leave them with only one reasonable option: to go in search of people who will understand them - other pedophiles. That could go one of two ways. Hopefully, the majority of them choose to seek out a support group aimed at preventing them from offending. Or maybe they find pedophiles who engage in the behavior and swap child porn.

Overall, my position is this: You can and should expect the average pedophile to be just as reasonable and compassionate as you believe the average person to be. I'd imagine the overwhelming majority of them are well aware that their impulses are a problem, that their impulses are a source of great shame for them, and that they know how much damage they would cause in the life of a child if they ever acted upon them. And if we created a world in which pedophiles felt safe to self-identify and were confident that they would receive support upon doing so from literally anyone who wasn't also a pedophile, then they would be less likely to offend, and children would be more safe." (Here is the full post: https://www.reddit.com/.../cmv_simply_being_a_pedophile.../)

Wow. That is powerful, and I couldn't agree more. I found an organization called Virtuous Pedophiles (https://www.virped.org). I wonder, if my godfather had found resources to help him, would things have been different? Maybe, maybe not. But I know he was a god-fearing man who believed in right and wrong. I can't help but believe he could have changed if he had found an organization like this. There is another interesting article on the subject here. "I Spent A Year Living With 'Non-Offending' Pedophiles": https://www.vice.com/.../i-spent-a-year-with-non...

I implore you to share this post, to share my story with everyone in your circles. It's an uncomfortable subject, but the stark reality is: 1 in 9 girls and 1 in 53 boys under the age of 18 endure the horrors of sexual abuse or assault. According to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN), every 9 minutes a child is sexually abused in the United States, and 93% of these children know their abuser. We MUST engage in this conversation, and we MUST find a way to provide help for these abusers to prevent more innocent lives from being shattered. Your act of sharing could be the lifeline that prevents another young girl from enduring the same suffering and trauma I went through. Together, we can make a difference.

Additional Sources:

https://www.rainn.org/statistics/children-and-teens

https://www.gillibrand.senate.gov/.../senator-kirsten...

https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-28526106