9 reasons I didn’t report my abuser

Sexual assault is the most under reported crime according to Rainn, and we still don’t know why.

Everyone has their own reasons, and there are so many layers and depths to this question.

While I can’t speak for every victim and their reason, I can share my reasons in their rawest form.

I share to raise awareness. Awareness to those criticizing victims for not reporting, but mostly to share my truths to the victims reading this still unsure of why they didn’t report sooner, or at all.

A report doesn’t have to be to police authorities by the way. A report can be as much as you finally speaking your story to a trusted friend, or sharing it in a meaningful to you way. Sometimes healing doesn’t require legal justice, and sometimes it will never have it and we have to heal anyway. For me, understanding the reasons why I didn’t report sooner have helped me to heal.

I was like a frog in boiling water. I didn’t know I was boiling to death, until I was already dead. Meaning my abuser was so subtle in teaching me the abuse was okay, that it wasn’t until years into it I finally realized I was actually one hundred percent not okay with what he was doing. By then I was so far gone and involved I wasn’t sure what was right or wrong, what was me or him, or how to get out. All I knew was that I was not okay.
I was manipulated by a master manipulator. I was groomed in very specific ways on how to react. How to comply. How to stay quiet. I was fundamentally taught that my twisted and abused life, was normal. I was even given special treatment in the form of shopping trips, money and attention.. so to like those material things must mean I liked the abuse to my pre-teen brain.
I was a young teen, with friends with young teen lives. I wanted to be normal. When my friends talked about their crushes and going on dates, I felt like a freak because of the abuse I had already been through. They would talk and giggle about first dates and first kisses and I would go along, just wanting some normalcy. I felt unworthy of a normal teenage girl life because first dates shouldn’t be tarnished by a manipulator’s abuse on my heart and body. I also felt like if they knew what I had been through they would be scared of me.
I was unprotected by the adult who was supposed to be my protector. My mom knew, and I know she knew because she confronted me and then blamed me and told me to stop. Why would I think going to an authority, or school counselor or trusted adult would help. They would tell the adult responsible for my life who already knew and was mad at me for it.
I was abused in broad day light, in a house full of my family and sometimes my friends. Sometimes while they were in the same room. No one knew. Or maybe they knew, and just didn’t care. Either he was so good at getting away with it, no one would believe me if I spoke up. Or it was so hopeless that even the people who knew, didn’t want to do anything. So why would I speak up?
The confusion. I was genuinely confused and severely hurt. Confused why I didn’t see it coming. Confused why no one spoke up. Confused why it was my fault. Confused why no one could see me hurting. Confused on who to go to and who would believe me when I couldn’t even make sense of the confusion myself.
I was scared. Scared no one would believe me. Scared people would blame me. Scared I would ruin the dynamics of my family. Scared he would hurt me worse if I told. Scared he would hurt my siblings. Scared people would think I enjoyed it. A lot of these fears came true.
I didn’t know what life without the abuse would look like. Life with me suffering in silence was seemingly happy. I knew that me speaking up would cause turmoil and I didn’t know how that would end for my family. So I wanted to suffer in silence for the sake of keeping the peace.
I was embarrassed. There is no embarrassment quite like reliving the memories of my abuse. The shameful and exploitative acts I was put through that no one wants to hear about let alone admit that they were a part of. Its like hearing a horror story then remembering it’s not made up, it’s you. And you just want to hide it away so no one ever knows.

Luckily my experience has a happy ending. One where a teenage girl gets extremely drunk and confides all of her darkest secrets to her best friend. Her best friend encourages her to write down all the details that matter and then passes those notes to her mom. Her mom reaches out to her dad and they go to the police station and get me the justice she deserves.

What they gave me was so much more than an abuser with a prison sentence, and that is the ability to truly heal. To see that people do the right thing when presented with an uncomfortable situation.

It is my hope that my healing in this can help heal others. And shed light on why victims might not be reporting. It’s not as easy as you’d think.

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