When 28-year-old Dylan Farrow wrote an angry open letter in The New York Times accusing her adoptive father, Woody Allen, of sexually molesting her at age seven, America exploded with opinions.
Many readers believed her every word, their opinions of Allen forever tarnished; others suspected that her mother, actress Mia Farrow, had put Dylan up to it—or even that Dylan was flat-out lying.
But whatever you think of the case itself (no charges were filed against Allen when the allegation was investigated more than 20 years ago, and he continues to deny any guilt), Dylan's passionate public words ignited a conversation about child sex abuse—and sparked all kinds of personal memories for survivors.
Three of them tell you their heroic tales of healing, moving on, getting justice...and finding peace.
I Confronted My Abuser—and Then I Forgave Him
I grew up in a small city in Missouri, and my parents were so normal—Dad was a teacher, Mom a secretary. But I always knew we were different from other families. My father sat me on his lap to open his Playboy and Penthouse magazines and walked around in front of me naked.
At first, when he'd come into my bedroom after I was asleep—I'd smell the alcohol on his breath—he'd lie on me and put his fingers inside me. At some point between when I was seven and 10 (that's how much I blocked it out), it was flat-out rape.
I can't remember how many times my father raped me. I turned to food, but I also immersed myself in schoolwork—all the way through medical school. And I became an emergency room physician because being the calm person in the middle of chaos felt so familiar to me.
I was getting a facial three years ago when the aesthetician put a warm washcloth over my face—the same way my father used to smother me with a teddy bear. ("Just lie quietly," he'd say before raping me.) I jumped up, paid, and ran to my car. I was crying so hard I couldn't drive. I sat there in solitude and started yelling what I had not yelled when I was nine: "Help me! Help me! Help me!"
That year I talked to a psychiatrist about whether I should report my father. He wasn't around kids anymore; he was 65. We decided we'd think about it for a week and then make a decision.
Almost exactly a week later, my father was hit by a car. I flew to Kansas City, Missouri, and walked into his intensive care room. I asked to be alone with him. There, bending over his face, I told him that I remembered everything and that for him to do something that terrible to me, something terrible must have happened to him. I told him I wished somebody had loved him when he was little.
And then I told him I forgave him.
Minutes later, he stopped breathing. I know that my father was waiting for those words from me.
—Jennifer Hanes, 39, an emergency room physician and mother of two in Austin, Texas
I'm Still Getting Stronger Every Day
My stepfather, an Air Force sergeant, pled guilty to indecent acts with a minor, including touching and kissing my private parts and making me touch his. He went to prison for three years, but he still didn't get it. He wrote me letters from prison about the music he was listening to and how he was working out—as if he'd done nothing wrong! Yes, he was punished, but it was not enough compensation for my suffering or truthfulness.
I'd finally told a counselor about the abuse when I was almost 13, after trying to commit suicide. And even after he was sentenced, I continued to struggle—dropping out of school at one point, cutting boys' names into my arms, feeling like a toy to them with no self-worth, running away. Then I had a son at 19, and that kicked everything into full gear for me.
I eventually accepted what I can't change and decided to help other victims. I went to college. I juggled three part-time jobs. I am now a buyer for an aviation company—and every day a stronger person.
—Trisha Fielding, 34, a retail buyer for an aviation company and a mother of one in Titusville, Florida
I Worked With Cops to Convict My Rapist
It was two years ago that I made the "cold call." As I stood there with two detectives, I dialed my abuser's number, ready to lure him into a friendly chat about our "relationship." The cops had tapped his line. I wanted evidence.
I'd met this man—my friend's dad—10 years earlier. At 13 I wanted to be an artist, and he was an incredible painter. Extremely cunning, he saw from the get-go that I was naive and vulnerable, devoutly Christian, and unhappy at home. "I know what you're going through," he'd say. "Your parents don't understand you." I started coming over once a week. I'd sit on his couch; he'd scoot closer to me, grab my hand. "You're beautiful," he said one day. Then he kissed me. I was 13. It was my first kiss.
Within a couple of months, he was forcing me to perform oral sex on him. I felt very confused. I didn't realize I was being worked over by a master manipulator. When I was 14, he started raping me, keeping me around with threats, saying things like "If God brought us together, who are you to rip us apart?"
But I started to see through him, and by the time I was a sophomore in college, he was out my life. Physically, at least. When I fell into the most severe depression imaginable, I knew I needed to tell the police.
The case took a while, but he pled guilty to sexual abuse of a minor and will serve jail time.
I'll never forget how nauseated I felt during that cold call, pretending to have even the slightest bit of affection for this guy. I made myself talk sweetly, but the whole time I was so angry, I kept giving the phone the finger! After I hung up, one of the detectives said, "I almost started laughing when you did that. I'm so proud of you."
—Liz Rattan, 25, a recent graduate of the University of Pennsylvania
Congratulations to all three of these courageous young women. Child sexual abuse is not easily overcome. God bless you.
Many readers believed her every word, their opinions of Allen forever tarnished; others suspected that her mother, actress Mia Farrow, had put Dylan up to it—or even that Dylan was flat-out lying.But whatever you think of the case itself (no charges were filed against Allen when the allegation was investigated more than 20 years ago, and he continues to deny any guilt), Dylan's passionate public words ignited a conversation about child sex abuse—and sparked all kinds of personal memories for survivors.
Three of them tell you their heroic tales of healing, moving on, getting justice...and finding peace.
I Confronted My Abuser—and Then I Forgave Him
I grew up in a small city in Missouri, and my parents were so normal—Dad was a teacher, Mom a secretary. But I always knew we were different from other families. My father sat me on his lap to open his Playboy and Penthouse magazines and walked around in front of me naked.
At first, when he'd come into my bedroom after I was asleep—I'd smell the alcohol on his breath—he'd lie on me and put his fingers inside me. At some point between when I was seven and 10 (that's how much I blocked it out), it was flat-out rape.
I can't remember how many times my father raped me. I turned to food, but I also immersed myself in schoolwork—all the way through medical school. And I became an emergency room physician because being the calm person in the middle of chaos felt so familiar to me.
I was getting a facial three years ago when the aesthetician put a warm washcloth over my face—the same way my father used to smother me with a teddy bear. ("Just lie quietly," he'd say before raping me.) I jumped up, paid, and ran to my car. I was crying so hard I couldn't drive. I sat there in solitude and started yelling what I had not yelled when I was nine: "Help me! Help me! Help me!"
That year I talked to a psychiatrist about whether I should report my father. He wasn't around kids anymore; he was 65. We decided we'd think about it for a week and then make a decision.
Almost exactly a week later, my father was hit by a car. I flew to Kansas City, Missouri, and walked into his intensive care room. I asked to be alone with him. There, bending over his face, I told him that I remembered everything and that for him to do something that terrible to me, something terrible must have happened to him. I told him I wished somebody had loved him when he was little.
And then I told him I forgave him.
Minutes later, he stopped breathing. I know that my father was waiting for those words from me.
—Jennifer Hanes, 39, an emergency room physician and mother of two in Austin, Texas
I'm Still Getting Stronger Every Day
My stepfather, an Air Force sergeant, pled guilty to indecent acts with a minor, including touching and kissing my private parts and making me touch his. He went to prison for three years, but he still didn't get it. He wrote me letters from prison about the music he was listening to and how he was working out—as if he'd done nothing wrong! Yes, he was punished, but it was not enough compensation for my suffering or truthfulness.I'd finally told a counselor about the abuse when I was almost 13, after trying to commit suicide. And even after he was sentenced, I continued to struggle—dropping out of school at one point, cutting boys' names into my arms, feeling like a toy to them with no self-worth, running away. Then I had a son at 19, and that kicked everything into full gear for me.
I eventually accepted what I can't change and decided to help other victims. I went to college. I juggled three part-time jobs. I am now a buyer for an aviation company—and every day a stronger person.
—Trisha Fielding, 34, a retail buyer for an aviation company and a mother of one in Titusville, Florida
I Worked With Cops to Convict My Rapist
It was two years ago that I made the "cold call." As I stood there with two detectives, I dialed my abuser's number, ready to lure him into a friendly chat about our "relationship." The cops had tapped his line. I wanted evidence.
I'd met this man—my friend's dad—10 years earlier. At 13 I wanted to be an artist, and he was an incredible painter. Extremely cunning, he saw from the get-go that I was naive and vulnerable, devoutly Christian, and unhappy at home. "I know what you're going through," he'd say. "Your parents don't understand you." I started coming over once a week. I'd sit on his couch; he'd scoot closer to me, grab my hand. "You're beautiful," he said one day. Then he kissed me. I was 13. It was my first kiss.
Within a couple of months, he was forcing me to perform oral sex on him. I felt very confused. I didn't realize I was being worked over by a master manipulator. When I was 14, he started raping me, keeping me around with threats, saying things like "If God brought us together, who are you to rip us apart?"
But I started to see through him, and by the time I was a sophomore in college, he was out my life. Physically, at least. When I fell into the most severe depression imaginable, I knew I needed to tell the police.
The case took a while, but he pled guilty to sexual abuse of a minor and will serve jail time.
I'll never forget how nauseated I felt during that cold call, pretending to have even the slightest bit of affection for this guy. I made myself talk sweetly, but the whole time I was so angry, I kept giving the phone the finger! After I hung up, one of the detectives said, "I almost started laughing when you did that. I'm so proud of you."
—Liz Rattan, 25, a recent graduate of the University of Pennsylvania
Congratulations to all three of these courageous young women. Child sexual abuse is not easily overcome. God bless you.
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