This will probably be the hardest post I’ll ever write. Its about my father. My father whom I loved and trusted. The voice in the attic had been warning me, preparing me. “Good daddies don’t do that” it had said. Then the flashbacks started. First it was just my father walking into my darkened bedroom wearing his untied rubber-soled shoes. The sliding and clumping sounds they made were ominous. The next flashbacks were of him saying my pet name in the dark “Sander, Sander” as if to see if I was awake. But I wasn’t yet ready for more memories to surface. I wasn’t even telling my therapist about my visits to the attic or the strange flash backs. In the midst of this, I continued writing in my journal. This had become strange. Often I would access memories from the rapes when I would sit down to write and of the remarks they would say to me before and after raping me. “You should be used to this by now” is one I remember now. I cannot recall more now and I certainly won’t try. I hesitate to keep typing. I’ll just take it one sentence at a time. I need to tell, if only for the reason that more children will be believed…if you believe me. I sat in a cranberry-colored velveteen recliner that afternoon. It had become my safe place. The pressure had been building within me for the past hour. This pressure that was relieved by my writing in my growing number of notebooks. I picked up my pen and book and found the next clean pages. I began writing, the words flowing out onto the page without any preceding thoughts. It was almost as if I was taking dictation. “It won’t be like it was with those boys”. It was my father’s voice. “They were bad and rough. I will be gentle. You’ll be daddy’s special girl. It’ll be our secret though.” Suddenly, I threw the book from my lap and came out of this seemingly hypnotic state that was like a trance. I became aware of my breathing and the sound of the cicadas outside the window. I looked around me as if surprised at my surroundings and seeing them for the first time. The hard wood floors reflecting the sunlight, the electric piano against the wall, the bookcase at my elbow all stood out in sharp relief as if I could feel them without touching them. I was relieved to be there. The clock chimed three times. It was nearly time to walk to the bus stop and pick up my son. I took a deep breath and stiffly got up out of the chair. For now, it was time to return to the present.