Stepping Out of the Silence
- Kathy Mattoon
- Jul 30
- 6 min read
Updated: Jul 31
CONTENT WARNING:
This post contains sensitive content related to rape, abuse, and trauma. It may be difficult to read, especially for those under 18. Please proceed with care – and, if you’re young, only with a parent or guardian’s permission.
This is not easy to write. But it’s time. For years, I carried the weight of my silence like a secret chained to my soul. I was raped. And I was abused. And for a long time, I said nothing. I buried it deep, thinking if I didn’t speak it, maybe it wouldn’t define me. But silence doesn’t heal wounds. It just lets them fester in the dark.
My story isn’t easy to tell, and I’m not here to make it palatable. I’m here to tell the truth. Because maybe – just maybe – my truth will help someone else find their voice.
I grew up in a home where abuse was a quiet reality. Not from my parents – but from my brother. My memories stretch back to age five. I was just a little girl. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t have the words for it. I just knew I felt unsafe in my own home.
Then came my teenage years, and things only got heavier. At 15, I met a guy through my neighbors. My mom didn’t like me hanging out with them; she didn’t trust their influence – but she let me go anyway. I think she thought the less I was around, the less conflict there’d be. And maybe she was right. But the price of peace in our home was me being unprotected everywhere else.
He was older, charming, and seemed interested in me. When he asked me to be his girlfriend, I said yes. Part of me just wanted to feel chosen, seen – especially after so many years of being hurt and ignored. At first, things seemed fine. But it changed. Slowly. Manipulatively. He pushed me to rebel against my mom. To sneak out. To lie. To put him before everything else.
And I did.
Because the rush of it all felt like freedom. I was a caged free spirit. I had been silenced for so long, told who I could be, what I could say, where I could go. So, even sneaking out a window felt like a rebellion, like breathing. I didn’t see then that I was just walking from one cage to another.
I started sleeping with him. At his apartment. In his basement at his mom's. His mother knew I was underage, and no one said a word. No one stepped in. I look back and wonder how many adults saw me and chose to look the other way.
And then – one day – it all shattered.
He snapped. I told him no.
Not tonight.
No, I don’t want to.
But no wasn’t a word he accepted.
He shoved me against a wall, wrapped his hand around my throat, and told me I didn’t get to say no to him. That my body was his. I tried to fight – tried to kick, to run. But he slammed me to the ground. I can still feel that cold floor against my skin.
He climbed on top of me. Pulled my pants down. Covered my mouth. And he raped me.
I lay there frozen. My voice was gone. My body went limp. It was like time stopped, and I became invisible, even to myself.
When he finished, he walked away as if nothing had happened. He got in the shower. Said he’d take me home after. I waited until I heard the water running, then I ran. No shoes. Just ran down a hill until I found a payphone and called my mom.
I didn’t tell her what happened. I just begged her to come get me. But before she could, he showed up. Took the phone from me. Told her we just had a fight. And she told him it was okay to bring me home.
He drove me home.
I sat in that passenger seat, pressed against the door like I could disappear through it. He acted like we just had a disagreement. Tried to kiss me goodbye.
And my mom? She thanked him for bringing me home “safe.”
Safe?
I had never been less safe in my life.
That night was just the beginning of the nightmare that followed. He came to my window. Tapped on the glass like a ghost I couldn’t get rid of. I started sleeping on the floor of my parents’ room out of terror. My mom didn’t understand. She just wanted me to stop crying so I would not wake up my dad.
Until one night, the tapping came again.
This time, my dad heard it. He opened the door with his shotgun in hand. My rapist rounded the corner, hands up, acting confused. My dad told him to leave and never come back. And for the first time, I felt seen. My dad didn’t know the full story. But that night – he protected me.
I eventually got a restraining order. He stalked me for a while after, watched me from a distance. But I refused to live in fear. I walked to my car alone. Stood tall. I never let him see me scared again.
I didn’t speak the word “rape” out loud for years. When I finally did, it was only with a couple of people – and never in full detail.
The pain twisted everything – especially the already-strained relationship with my mom. I kept protecting her, even after she failed to protect me. I covered her. I shielded her from the one who hurt me at home. Because I knew she was hurting, too.
She battled depression. And later, Alzheimer’s.
Three days before she passed, she called me to her bedside. Mom lived with me for the last six months of her life. She hugged me – something she never did – and told me she loved me. Said she was thankful for me. That was rare in our home growing up. The affection was not shown. Love was not something freely spoken.
She never knew about the rape. She eventually knew about that abuse at home. But by then, it was too late for justice. She forgot most people, but she never forgot me. And I never told the others she forgot them. One of them was my abuser. What would have been the point? My healing wasn’t rooted in revenge.
My healing was rooted in love.
I know it sounds strange, but I’m grateful for the rape.
Not for the act – but for the way it shaped me.
For the way it broke me wide open and forced me to rise.
I am strong. I am resilient. I am no longer afraid.
I worked for a few years with women who were trafficked – many of whom had stories just like mine. Their pain felt like mine. Their voices became sacred to me.
I live with scars, yes. But I also live with fire. I love hard. I live freely. I never again apologize for who I am.
I will never again be silenced.
If you’re still reading this, thank you.
I know this was not an easy post. And if any part of my story mirrors your own, please hear me when I say this:
You are not alone.
You are not to blame.
Your voice matters.
Your story matters.
And healing is possible – even if it doesn’t feel like it today.
If you are carrying pain, trauma, or silence like I once did, I urge you to reach out. Reach out to me if you need to. Talk to someone safe – a friend, a therapist, or a support group. There is strength in asking for help. There is power in your truth.
And if no one else has told you this lately:
You are worthy of love, protection, and peace.
Below are some resources that may help:
· RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-HOPE (4673) | www.rainn.org
· Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 (24/7 free and confidential support)
Please, don’t stay silent. Your healing matters – and you deserve it.
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Oh Kat!
I am so sorry that you had to experience this awful act of violence and abuse. You are a survivor and you are so courageous for sharing this story with us. Thank you be being open and transparent, despite how difficult that must have been to share. Thank you for advocating for all of us who have walked similar paths. You are not alone either! Never forget that. 💕