Paul Wrightsman called himself my father. He told me he loved me like his own daughter. I was 15 when he began raping me.
He told me that having sex with him made me a “good girl.” He said he was protecting me from my mother. But he took me to motels and raped me. When I felt bad and turned to him for help, he sexually abused me. He put his hand inside me while saying, “I want you to get comfortable.”
It continued until I was 19. I told him I wanted it to stop. I said no. He took me to a motel anyway and used those same words. I could not have been comfortable with something I did not want.
For years, I still had to call him my dad. He had promised me a family, then told me that if I spoke about what he had done, that family would disappear. I kept his secret because I believed I had to protect everyone else. The family fell apart anyway.
Later, he threatened to stop supporting me financially if I told anyone. Once again, I was expected to think about his feelings, his family, and what others would think of him. My own feelings and mental health were treated as though they mattered less.
Money cannot erase what happened. It cannot buy back the years I spent afraid, silent, and trying to carry the damage alone. I have written down what I remember because the truth of my experience does not depend on whether Paul admits it.
I spent years protecting him from the consequences of his actions. My silence came at the expense of my well-being. I cannot keep making that sacrifice.
What happened to me matters. My life matters. My mental health matters. I deserved to be safe as a child, and I deserve to speak now. I want Paul to acknowledge what he did and the harm it caused. Whether or not he does, I will no longer pretend it did not happen.