Eleven — my story

This is my story.
This letter was originally published in 2006 on the imtellingonyou.org
website — a website I held onto until this year.
I wrote it to a stepfather who’d adopted me after he and my mother were married – their marriage did not last.
This letter was an attempt at closure for me, and, hopefully, repentance for him.
He died in 2011 – that was my closure.
Just seeing CSA can be a trigger for many women, CSA or child sexual abuse has lifelong, often emotionally crippling, sometimes devastating repercussions for women who where abused as little girls.


pamela spurling

[cp_dropcaps]Y[/cp_dropcaps]ou have had another birthday. I think of that every time August rolls around… your birthday’s coming. Most all my life, August, to me, means it’s your birthday time. German chocolate cakes remind me of that, too. But August always reminds me of another thing ― many other things.

It might seem that bitterness, resentment or ungratefulness causes the writing of this letter or even, perhaps, an ulterior motive or hidden purpose —not so. I am writing this letter simply because for too many years I’ve not been able to make sense of my childhood, the events that shaped who I am today and how I respond to circumstances and why certain situations trigger deeply rooted coping mechanisms and reactions. You may wonder, after all these years, why I’d write these things now—why bother? What benefit is there in rehashing these things? Why risk the harm or the anguish it might cause? It was so long ago. Yes, but for me, it was like yesterday.

It was 1970. I was eleven years old. Eleven years old. Several of our children have passed their eleventh birthdays and so I am keenly aware of how old eleven is, how sweet eleven is and how innocent eleven is―how young eleven is. Eleven is a marvelous age. Eleven is that marvelous age when a child is just old enough to delight in maturity and a measure of independence, engage in meaningful conversation, ask intelligent questions and articulate thoughts and yet young enough to still delight in childhood games, to be read to, to be tucked into bed, to play with dolls and toys and to ride bicycles just for fun. I was that way at eleven. Still roller skating and playing with my dolls and toys — still wearing size ten and twelve Buster Brown clothes and enjoying colouring books, still setting up my bedroom to resemble a nursery for my dolls or a schoolroom for my imaginary students. I remember that I loved to bake cookies and make toast and I loved swimming in our pool and playing dress-up. I was a young eleven. I was an innocent eleven. Though essentially unaware of sexuality —my own or anyone else’s— I did have a deep seated understanding that there were private things— things I didn’t really understand, but I knew they were private, nonetheless, and completely inappropriate for me at that age. I knew that.

Eleven. What a young, innocent age eleven is.

The rest of this letter must be written. And I will know that you have read it if you reply to me. I know I must remain silent no longer and this letter will be published in hopes that other’s lives will be helped and encouraged and other women will be free from the bondage of shame and despair over past sexual abuse. That they will be free from fear of their oppressor. I pray it will be used to encourage fathers to protect their daughters, for mothers to protect their daughter; and I pray that others will be free from the oppression of secrets. Secrets are an ugly cancer.

As I sit here—fingers on the keyboard between me and the screen—there are hot tears in my eyes and I find it difficult to focus and difficult to breathe. I am shaking now as I prepare to type sentences of detailing that part of my life – of your life that I have never typed before… and words I have never formed into printed sentences for others to read. But my story is not untold, for I have shared my story many, many times and I have found I am so not alone and the events of my life and their effects are not rare or incidental to myself.
I often wonder how different my life would have been had the events beginning in August 1970 not occurred or if they had been different. That August, my uncle Bud was depressed, hopeless and suicidal. He found his answer at the end of a shotgun. He solved his problems in a moment of desperation. My mother, in an attempt to help him, had visited him prior to his death. As I look back to that August, I see that she could not help him and she was also not there to help me; she was one of the two people in my life that I trusted and depended upon to help me – there was her and there was you. My father.

Under the guise of instruction or education, I saw you open the little book. I knew of the little book… you probably still have that little book on your shelf. I had known of it for some time. I never read it because it was one of those “naughty books” or at least, that’s what I thought it was. I was innocent. I knew I should never look in that book. Isn’t the innocence of innocent children sweet? So trusting, so clean, pure and undefiled. You said you needed to tell me about growing up and took me into your bedroom― it was bright in there, the pool outside and the air conditioner was beneath the window― the curtains were open and you sat on the end of the bed. A mirror was on the wall dividing the two closets. That book described in detail anatomy and sexual behaviour, and for whatever sickening reason, you felt it your duty that day to share that book with me, to tell me to undress for you, to stand before you, for you to touch me…..[portion removed]…there, you began to undress and detail yours. What happened next is nothing short of shocking behaviour for one who was supposedly a protector. A trusted protector. Reprehensible behaviour for a father toward his daughter.

For whatever reason, for whatever demented reason, you felt it your duty to show me what happens to a man when he is rubbed a certain way and then you took my hand and made me continue to rub you and I still recall the frightened, stunned surprise I felt at the culmination of that activity. You know full well what I am describing for it sickens me too much to type it any more explicitly. But you know and I know. You will always know, and I will always know. And that activity would be repeated many, many times over the next three years.

This would happen many times in many places — always in secret and always as a favour and always with some comment that I was your beautiful girl. It would happen in the backyard… at the end of the patio. It would happen in the garage. It would happen in your bedroom and it would happen behind the garage. It would happen when my mother was away and it would happen when she was sleeping. When I would swim in the pool, several times you would come into the pool and suggest that we… [portion removed] … It is nothing short of revolting to consider a man and a child in that way. I never understood all that at the time ―but I did know that whatever you were doing was wrong ―very wrong ―and I would quickly jump out to wrap up in my towel and hide in my room. Each time, a part of me would die. I was numb and pretended I was not there. I felt dirty and ashamed.

On one occasion in your room….[portion removed]… crying, moving away from you, crying and moving to the pillows at the top of the bed ― deathly afraid, though I didn’t know what you would do to me, I knew instinctively that what you intended to do was very wrong and I could not let you touch me and now as an adult, I know full well what your intentions were.

I learned to hide and bury emotions. I learned to hide those feelings and fears. I could never get clean enough, work hard enough ―be enough. If It Is To Be It IS Up To Me you would say. And I knew… if it was to be it was up to me to try and squash all those feelings of fear and anxiety.

Your demands for perfection permeated every area of my life ―thus I was obedient to you ―even to the humiliation of those acts; and in the face of fear: I would obey you. You were domineering and I knew you would hurt me if I didn’t obey you. Trouble is, I now know that you couldn’t do that for it might reveal your wicked and depraved behaviour. Neighbors might know, people in Redlands might know, or, worse: my friends might know. It tormented me that someone might find out or worse (remember I was 11, 12 and 13 years old), that my friends would find out and never come again to our house or be my friend any longer. Children want more than anything to be accepted and normal (whatever that is). You were a very charismatic person and I just knew that it was my place to act like nothing happened… just like you would say to me: This didn’t happen. But it wasn’t nothing― it did happen. It happened many times; I knew it and you knew it.

I know it today more profoundly than ever.

Soon I knew I must never be alone with you and would panic at the thought that my mother would go away or that I would be alone with you and no one would help me. When you came into my bedroom in the dark, in the middle of the night [portion removed]… so that you would leave me alone. Fear gripped me all over again. There was nowhere that was safe anymore. I hated the nighttime; I was afraid to go to sleep, afraid to stay awake.

Now… A great revelation sweeps over me with such force and intensity that it takes my breath away. I realize something I’ve never considered up to this point and the reality that dawns on me is staggering and I am completely overcome with astonishment at the realization that has washed over me.

You enjoyed a powerful career, you’ve reached levels of achievement and prestige most men would envy and give anything to have, lofty titles that have brought respect and notoriety in the community and in the banking industry. You might’ve even had the respect of your peers. And your thesis was published at the Pacific Coast Banking School at the University of Washington. You enjoyed the fringe benefits and advantages of that career. Prestige, titles, Country Club memberships and no doubt, financial freedom, all have been things you probably took for granted through the years – like you deserved them. No doubt you worked hard for the things you’ve enjoyed –no one’s questioning that. No doubt, you probably thought you were justified in all you achieved and acquired: that it was all your doing.

So, that great revelation that washed over me?

That great reality is this: What if I had told my secret? What if I had told someone beside my mother the dark secret that plagued me? What if I had told a school counselor, in Redlands, for example, my deep, dark secret and what if others had found out the truth? What if my High School counselors in San Francisco had been given an answer when they asked me if anything was wrong? The reality of that truth has assaulted my thoughts and I am aghast at the stunning reality of the truth.

The reality of the consequence for you had that truth been told is staggering. You know and I know that men go to prison for a decade or more for actions less than yours. Sobering, isn’t it. Men, for far less, go to prison and when they are released, they have police records that follow them and for the rest of their lives they are registered and known and convicted sex offenders. It is so staggering isn’t it?

That is a confounding reality.
You’re where you are today because I never told.

Have you ever thought about that? Really. Does it grip you? Do you gasp at the thought that you are where you are today because a little girl was so terrified of the consequences of revealing your sexual advances and required activities? Do you gasp at the thought that you could have/should have spent time in prison for those activities? Do you gasp at the thought of where you would be today had a little girl had the courage to tell the truth about you?

Teachers and School counselors are required by law to report cases of sexual abuse and they would have done so in my case had I whispered even a word. They would not have been afraid of you, for to them your community and social standing and reputation would not have been more important than the safety of a young girl. They weigh facts and they act on them. But… I was frightened to death that you would hurt my mother if I told anyone of your twisted and depraved, licentious thinking and your carrying out of incestuous lust.

I had reason to believe you would, indeed, hurt her, for I had seen you grab her in arguments you had with her; especially when you came home from a dinner party where you no doubt had been drinking Gibson’s “up” or wine by the carafe. I had seen you with your hand around her neck or shaking her to make her stop screaming or crying so loudly when you two would argue. Amazingly, she argued with you over trysts or affairs you were having with other women. I had seen you forcing her to stop crying and yelling when you argued with her. I didn’t know the difference between emotional hurt and physical hurt… that it was the emotional hurt you were talking about… when you said, “We don’t want to hurt Mother.” We. We? We don’t want to hurt mother? See your cunning ploy? You made me feel as though *I* was part of the hurting Mother, too. So I believed you. I was a child –a child– and I could only reason from what I had actually seen or heard; as, again, I didn’t grasp the subtle nuances of life at that point. I was not mature enough to understand the subtle nuance of the word, hurt. Truth is, you were more afraid of what she would do or say to you or about you than you were of “hurting” her. And you probably knew that too.
You know, I did have teachers ask me repeatedly if there was something I wanted to talk about with them; they would ask if something was wrong; they, too, knew something was not right, they couldn’t pinpoint the problem but they knew that there was just something wrong. Well, no kidding. But I never told them because I was too afraid of what would happen.

Isn’t it a curious thing that you would wage a legal battle for my adoption as your daughter less than two years prior to that first incident? That you would battle against my birth-father, to bar him from ever seeing me or having any part of my life, all for the right to be my father; that he was deemed unfit— and you, more qualified to be my father. In that adoption, my legal identity was completely changed, from my school records to my original birth certificate ― all completely changed. I, for all intents and purposes became (and legally am today) your daughter.

You became then, and are to this day, legally: my father. It was as if you engendered my trust ― I wanted to be like you… people even said I looked like you. I wanted to have a deep cleft in my chin like yours― I was glad when I appeared to have a bit of a cleft chin so that I could look like you. I know today that this trait is genetic, paternally, and so how remarkable that is. I sought to be your helper, your hard worker, your obedient and smart student in school, always your good little girl.

Then consider: the very person I would fully and loyally trust to protect me would be the very person who would entrap me and buy my silence with both compliments to me and the threat of hurt to my mother. You were so very, very clever. I learned to isolate and compartmentalize events. I learned the coping mechanisms that, to this day, make me block out certain realities and run from emotionally binding situations. I felt dirty and ashamed. I was terrified that anyone would ever find out that I did those things for you, for I would never want to be known as someone who was impure in any way. Modesty was important to me.

I hate the smell of Life Buoy soap. I hate the smell of Head & Shoulder’s Shampoo and I hate the smell of Mennen deodorant you used to wear and the sickening smell of cheap non-filtered Pall Mall cigarettes. I hate the sound of briefcase clasps closing and I hated the sound of your alarm at ten-till-six every morning and waiting for the sound of the shower at six. I dreaded that you might come into my bedroom. I hate the memory of hearing your emotional voice quivering as you would hold me close to your sexually excited body and say the words: “You’re so beautiful” or “You’re daddy’s precious girl” or a myriad of other statements you would make at the moment of release.

That was not love and I was not precious to you. You were a sick liar and you were using me. Had I been your precious little girl, you would have protected me. But you didn’t know what love was and you didn’t know what it was to be a protector. I tried to believe you then but I haven’t believed those words ever since. But I was loyal to you. I was loyal to you before and I was loyal to you after those dreadful events —events I knew deep down were horribly wrong but somehow I did not know at the time that they were so appallingly inappropriate and grievously immoral that I should have told authorities and they should have dealt with you. I was loyal and you, you escaped punishment, and you are where you are today because of that. Do you understand that? Doesn’t it grip you?

Soon I could not bear the burden of the secret that was killing me. I had to tell my mother. She was going to leave for the hospital and I knew I would be trapped and I knew you would make me masturbate you. Isn’t it sickening to see the word and think of a child? So, no doubt you were gripped with fear when she called you at the bank that day, August 4th, 1973 and requested that you come home. You must’ve instantly known you were in hot water and your dirty secrets were out in the open and you must have wondered who else knew. I was so very, very afraid when she called you. You were well aware of the accusations she leveled against you that day; but do you know who I was afraid you’d hurt? My mother? No. Me.

But again, using fear as a tactic to totally silence me, after that, you agreed to never “let this happen again.” But you lied. You weren’t remorseful of the heinous acts of sexually abusing a child ― this child ― you were horrified that some how your cover would be blown and your secret nefarious life would be revealed ―you’d lose what you’d sought so long to achieve and worked so shamelessly to appear to be. Worse, your reputation would be tarnished, if not completely destroyed, along with your title, career and prestige. So, do you remember who you blamed? Do you remember that you told my mother it was her fault?!?!?! Can you believe that? What a cowardly thing to say. You were so guilty that you had to transfer the culpability to her.

But, then, you were clever, you knew you had her trapped as well. You knew she was too afraid to leave you, to leave “the life” – you remember, the good life, to which she’d become accustomed, and you knew she liked the benefits too much to reveal your secrets, to risk your incarceration, the shame of a convicted felon, and the loss of her financial security and social standing in the community. So, in a very real sense, she, too, is where she is today because I didn’t tell. But I don’t fault her for that. As a mother myself, I can see how she did what she did and how she thought what she thought and how she thought she was doing the right thing. And she didn’t tell anyone either. At the time.

Eleven. What a young, innocent age eleven is. Twelve is young… thirteen is young… fourteen is young.

Time went on. O, what a victory for you… what a tremendous achievement it was to attain a promotion to San Francisco and to the lofty: One Embarcadero Center: Regional Vice President of the Bank. What an impressive title you had at that time—you no doubt would have done anything to preserve that title and position of importance —done anything, said anything, given anything, hidden anything.

I’ve often wondered why you’ve always gotten away with all that you’ve done and seemingly suffered no consequences or paid no price: for your indecent liberties with me were not your only transgressions. And then I marvel that, for whatever reason, you’ve escaped paying the price. And then it dawns on me that you’ve only escaped outward evidence of paying a price in this life. Much like we all do before coming to the point where we realize we’ve sinned not so much against another person, but against God. Everyone comes to that point at some time or another —or will. For though our sin or transgression is truly against another person, in the end, it is really the Lord God against Whom we’ve sinned, against Whom we’ve transgressed; and in reality, the One before Whom we must stand, confess and repent.

Writing this comes with the stark realization that I may never see your fate this side of heaven. I may never hear “the rest of the story” this side of heaven. I may never know if you repented of those heinous acts of self gratification at my expense. I may never know if you’re remorseful over those events. I may not ever hear you say you are sorry to me and I may never hear you seek my forgiveness for those atrocities. I bear the shame of your sin.
But I know that the same God who sees me, who redeemed my soul through faith in the LORD Jesus Christ, and who has provided every single thing I have needed throughout my life, is the same God who sees you and your life. He is the same God who saw me at age eleven when you began to sexually use me: coercing me to relieve you and then persuading keep silent about it —even telling me: “this did not happen.” HE saw it happen —He saw me then and HE sees me now.

It did happen.

It happened many times and you were such a persuasive “father” that I had to obey—fear compelled me, shame compelled me and embarrassment compelled me. But mostly, it was fear. Fear governed my days and has for many years since my introduction to fear.

It was fear that would make me pull every drawer out to block the opening of the door in the upstairs bathroom at Lake Merced Hill. I don’t see yellow and white oversized cane print wallpaper today that I don’t think of that period of my life. I do not see Dior diagonal print roses on white comforters and sheets without thinking of that period of my life. Occasionally a wave of fear washes over me and I gasp at the thought of that little girl in your arms. I gasp at the thought that I was threatened by you —again— this time, when I was eighteen year old.
Consider what would have happened had I revealed that you had come into the bathroom while I was showering ― that you had actually entered into the bathroom and into the shower that July day in 1977― … [portion removed] …alone with me in the house. My mother was out of town ― I was trapped. It was the day you had bought me a car ― not the car you for years had promised ― far less, but a car, nonetheless. I was confounded and terrified once again and once again I had confirmation as to why I had always had reason to fear being undressed or alone with you in our home. .. [portion removed] …you followed me into my bedroom and [portion removed]… Was I to give in to you?

Did I owe you something? What did you really intend to do that day? I had reason to fear you ― and you proved it that day. How I praise the LORD that I stood up to you and denied you whatever you were intending. I am gripped with the reality of that now as I also have had a few of our children pass not only their eleventh birthday, but their eighteenth birthday as well. And the thought of a man entering into the locked bathroom —where the drawers where pulled out to block the opening of the door— and into the shower or bedroom of one of my unsuspecting children just grips me like a vice and sickens me to the core of my being.

My thoughts race, my head and heart are pounding now as I relive that day in my thoughts here — consider it now and consider the horror of such an action in the life of a young girl. Though you tried by touching me, I didn’t relieve you that day. I told you so — this time armed with knowledge, maturity, and self defense, you knew I would not; and I quickly got up to dress… and you watched while I dressed as quickly as I possibly could dress. And I would never touch you again —I would never let you use me or abuse me again. Knowledge is a powerful weapon.

Resolve is even more compelling.

You may recall, that night, you had me drive my new-to-me car across the Bridge, and at dinner I fumbled nervously for conversation as I was gripped with terror over what could happen that evening. I was petrified in my thoughts. Later, as I drove — you beside me in the passenger seat — of my brown Pinto, fear captivated my thoughts and I prayed to God that there would be no stopping, no engine troubles and that I could escape that situation somehow. I am grateful that that was the last time you were a sexual threat to me; never more careful, I knew I would never/could never let myself be in a situation where you could ever come in on me again — I was vigilant.
I resolved then that you would no longer be a physical threat to me ―I would never, ever let that happen again. Though I remained afraid, I would never stand there defenseless again and you would never hurt me again. Looking back and piecing together memories and a chronology of events, it was interesting that over the next few months you would become some sort of vacant, emotionless entity in the home. Now I see why my mother responded the way she did, I suppose. Empty, pointless… nothing.

I was engaged the next month and my plans for marriage incited your anger toward me ―something which completely baffled me: that you would, in an angry fit, attempt to choke me in our kitchen, arguing that I ought to not get married and then pushing me away, you yelled some inane words. It was then that I saw how truly pitiful you were and how depraved your thinking was —what a small, powerless man you were. Here you would attempt to use me and then attempt to hurt me ―how twisted: I felt sorry for you that day. And I have felt sorry for you many, many times since then.

Looking back, I suppose that since you were having another extramarital affair and the fact that, for whatever reason, you didn’t want me to get married, you seemed to avoid me. Maybe you began to have the realization that I might go public with your shameful behaviour… I do not know. News travels fast in San Francisco. But ignorance and fear kept me from doing what ought to have been done then or years before. I ought to have revealed the truth and ought to have dealt with it decisively at that time, or again, as I said, years before.
But then I married and moved to another city and great blessing and sheer relief was what I knew when I was no longer in danger of your advances. My concrete and sobering reality is that everyday since then, I have had the loving protection of a faithful husband ―a man who loves me for who I am and not what I can do for him. I am learning about loyalty and genuine love —two things I knew nothing of when I first married, two things that have seemed to have been permanently distorted. I know what it is to have and be a family, to live without regrets and without shame.

So now, many years later, you’re old. Seventy-seven years old — August rolled around and you had another birthday. Your life is fair spent and you may wonder: why now? Why write this now? Why hash up old memories? Why risk harming you or the people you love. Why dredge up old actions. Well, they are not old to me. They are my daily reality. They never leave me and are not buried in my life and I do not pretend they don’t exist. When I wonder how in the world all that could have happened and why you would do that to me, I realize you are to be pitied.
The reality that you have lived your life free from the consequences of your sin must be staggering and it must be sobering to you. It is staggering to me; it is sobering to me.

There was a death that day in August 1970 – The death of the innocence and the simplicity and security of a child. There was a robbery that day, too. You stole my innocence. You defiled my purity. You destroyed my ability to innocently trust and damaged my ability to fully receive and fully express genuine love and you damaged me emotionally. You destroyed a right view of pure love, sexuality, trust and loyalty that day. That day I entered a world of insecurity, fear and the destruction of innocent purity. You, like a thief, stole my innocence and purity and stained my life. I wonder… how many others you damaged. Was I the only one?

From that day to this, I have had to very carefully work around and learn to restore what was a complex and damaged view of genuine love, of fatherhood, of security and acceptance. I have never been able to forget those events, for those events shaped my life. Those events daily affect my life, for my thoughts were shaped with a marred and imperfect perception of sweet, physical love between a man and a woman. Those scenes, those memories, replay in the theater of my mind and in occasional nightmares and on rare nights when those memories prevent sleep—I do not close my eyes until prayers are answered and truth brings me comfort.

The Truth has set me free from the bondage of fear of you.

I don’t know whether I think you owe me an apology or a debt of gratitude.
You will likely think you owe me nothing.
And you will be right.
For what you stole from me, what you slayed in me can never humanly be repaid or restored. You may deny all of these things. But I will always know the truth. And so will you.

You will always know the truth.

I can imagine at this point you’re looking for some way out, some retaliatory comment, a zinger that will level me; another clever attempt to silence me and retain your cherished reputation and I believe you would stop at nothing to do so. You’re likely formulating something to castigate or humiliate me.

You cannot hurt me anymore —
you cannot control me, nor buy my loyalty, nor my silence.

I am fully cognizant that I was a beneficiary of many things —that I was the willing (and grateful) recipient of food, lodging and shelter – these were your responsibility as a conscientious father. To have done any less would have been a breech that might have revealed your dark side and marred your reputation. Any less and you would not have been able to keep up the facade you so dearly protected and promoted. And I recognize that God did allow and has used the circumstances of my life to bring me to my husband and the subsequent countless blessings the LORD’s bestowed on me, and for that and for all of them: I am eternally grateful. I am eternally grateful to God for all those things and I am able to see them as a beneficiary of many good things. So, I do thank God for the opportunity of my life and what He’s allowed me because of His grace and mercy. Moreover, I know the saving grace of the LORD Jesus and I know that He, in His sovereign grace and will, allowed all these things for my good and His glory.

I wish you the saving grace of the LORD. For the only thing that makes sense to me is that He has spared you all of your life, given you prestige and luxuries most people only dream of and has been merciful in sparing you the punishment and consequences of your sins. You sail around the world and enjoy the benefits of the elite while impoverished people serve you. However, the sad truth is that you are far more impoverished than they.
If I think on it too long I am once again left shaking my head in wonder… nothing’s really ever affected you, why should now be any different? You seem impervious to the truth. Why should I hope that you have a conscience or that you have reverence toward God? I guess I hope in faith because without that, you are totally lost in your depraved sin.

But God. But God who is rich in mercy…
Ephesians 2
3 Among whom also we all had our conversation in times past in the lusts of our flesh, fulfilling the desires of the flesh and of the mind; and were by nature the children of wrath, even as others.
4 But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us,
5 Even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together with Christ, (by grace ye are saved;)
6 And hath raised us up together, and made us sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus:
7 That in the ages to come he might shew the exceeding riches of his grace in his kindness toward us through Christ Jesus.
8 For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God:
9 Not of works, lest any man should boast.
10 For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.

This may be the end of my writing to you. But this is not the end of my story. For every time I must give my maiden name on an official document or when one of my children must do so on theirs, I am reminded who my father is. And was. Occasionally, a flood of emotion washes over me, and I attempt to keep complete composure and recount the truths that govern my life. Many women have heard my story and I’ve heard countless stories that parallel my own. It’s shocking how many men have sexually abused their little daughters and escaped apparent punishment and, moreover, our stories are so very similar: the kinship of sin.

There is some bizarre comfort in the recognition that I am not alone in this travesty that other women have been helped because of my story, my compassion for their plight and pain. I know that the enemy intended all this for evil but God intended it for good and to that end, I accept the grace of God that has been bestowed on me to minister to others the same love wherewith God has loved me.

I know that God has given me countless opportunities to minister to women whose fathers sexually abused them and destroyed their own sense of security, sexual identity and perception of men and even of the LORD. The soil of the ministry of my life has been fertile ground for the LORD to work, to plant and to harvest. I know it now and am grateful to Him for choosing me and using me in the lives of others. I pray for His continued healing and work in my life and in the lives of others. I pray for His work and healing in your pitiful life. I pray you no longer remain in that state. I pray you will be free.

I’ll always know you are where you are today because I was loyal and I didn’t tell on you.

But now, I am telling on you. You are where you are today because I was loyal and didn’t tell on you. But worse would be that you remain where you are today because I didn’t tell you I forgive you. That you’re where you are today because I didn’t I pray you will repent of your sins, that you will look to the LORD and that you will be free in Him. You don’t have much time here on this earth — you’ve lived a long time without acknowledging the grace of God. You’ve lived a long time seemingly free but in bondage to sin and death. Eternity is a very long time. Whether you will be eternally separated from God depends on how you respond today.
And I will continue to pray that you will turn to the LORD. He is your only hope.

Your daughter, pamela


January 19, 2012 — and so this is how his story ends. I’ll never know if he repented, if he was sorry — though his story is a sorry one — he was able to live his life, manipulating and destroying others, seemingly untouched, unaffected by the tragedies in his wake. He sailed along seemingly unscathed. And yet, I believe he could not possibly have peace — he could not possibly have anything but turmoil inside as he advanced his life at the expense of other’s lives and careers. I grieve today that I never reached him in these latter years — I’ll always know that he is where he is today because I never told on him.
And so, this is the end… for now.

2011 — Still waiting for a reply… Always wondering if this letter’s been read by him. Maybe it will never be read by him and perhaps I will never know. But I will know this: in my attempts to contact him I attempted to set things right and I will die knowing I tried. I pray he will not die until he sets his life right before the Lord. I pray he will not die until he has sure salvation in the Lord Jesus.

And to those who have written to me — especially those who’ve suffered anguish at the hands of this man, I pray the Lord will comfort you, heal you and give you peace. I pray the Lord will work all these things together for good.

2009 — I am still waiting for a reply to my letter… and, I suppose it may never come and I may never know the outcome this side of heaven. However, if and when this letter is responded to, I would like to use this site to post letters from other women who have a similar life experience. I would like to offer encouragement that there is hope and healing from childhood sexual abuse—and I do pray that abusive fathers will repent, seek forgiveness of the LORD and of their daughters – the women all over the world who bear the scars of childhood sexual abuse – the victims of the acts of demented fathers.
To the women who are survivors of sexual abuse: You do not have to live in fear and torment – though the effect of sexual abuse is life long. Pray for God’s healing and His divine help. Do not live in bondage to what happened to you in your life. God is merciful and His healing touch is for you… walk on in faith and trust God through faith in the Lord Jesus. —pamela



Again, To Larry Myers: I wrote the letter that was placed in the envelope you see above. A few months later, I posted the contents of that letter here on [no longer active] imtellingonyou.org website. I called the website: “I’m Telling On You” because my letter to Larry Myers was returned to me, unopened. I will resend the letter… for it is, once again, August. And not an August goes by — hardly a day goes by — that I don’t think of the events described in the letter below. I will leave this letter/ this website open for view until the matter is resolved… or until there is no need to keep it here any longer [I closed the website 3/19]. I sometimes have little hope that this letter will resolve this long-standing matter. Perhaps you’re too busy sailing on Banker’s Lady or too busy with other distractions to invest the time necessary to resolve this matter. When a person is running, they seldom stop to address issues in their life. I pray this is not the case – I pray that your heart is contrite and that you stand forgiven before the LORD. I pray you do not go to the grave with this or any other issues unresolved. Most of all, I pray you do not go to the grave without Christ.

[cp_quote style=”quote_left_dark”]Silence in the face of evil is itself evil.[/cp_quote]
-Deitrich Bonhoeffer

Tell the Truth… only the perp and the devil want you to remain silent.

If CSA is your story…
Tell someone.
Tell the truth.
Freedom is in the truth.