Why I Am Writing This

   From the moment my daughter told me what had happened, my world was shattered. I couldn’t imagine us ever being happy or normal again, and the strings of court cases and local authority check ups had me even more convinced that we were doomed to be a broken family, forever. The police and the local authority assured me that we would move on, we would be okay. They told me that sadly these situations do happen more often than people think, to nice normal families just like mine. They tried and tried to offer me reassurance, and promises that one day the whole ordeal would be a distant memory, but nothing helped.
I googled grief, in an attempt to understand the whirlwind of conflicting feelings eating me up inside.
I googled support for families who have been through the same thing, with hopes that maybe there was something other than offers of counselling and play-therapy for children. I didn’t want the reassurances of professionals who saw our situation as a tragic case number, I wanted someone who had felt the horror that I was feeling, and I wanted them to tell me that it would be okay.
I didn’t find what I wanted.
I learned that people don’t discuss these things, and while I understand that these situations are awful and none of us want to dwell on them, the point is that they do exist. Sexual abuse should not be a taboo subject that we brush under the rug and only cry about at two in the morning, when nobody can hear us. We encourage our children to tell us about these things, and then we tell them not to talk about it afterwards; I don’t think that’s fair.

  So here I am, dear reader, writing anonymously to anyone who finds themselves in a similar set of circumstances, who sees no light at the end of the tunnel, telling them that it will be okay.

We survived, and I’m here to tell you how.

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