At 8 am on November 15, 1987 I found myself sitting in the high school office conference room, surrounded by my parents, my brother, my guidance counselor, a social worker from Vermont Social and Rehabilitative Services, and two detectives from the city police department.

I had done nothing wrong and neither had my brother.

I had, however, told the school psychologist about my uncle sexually abusing me over the course of 12 years. I had done so because I thought my little brother might be experiencing the same thing.

He was.

I thought if I reported it, no one would believe me, but they’d have to investigate and maybe that would make my uncle stop.

They did believe me, and they did investigate.

My uncle was supposedly a pillar of the community – a veteran of two wars, a disability advocate, and the longtime state commander of the DAV.

He was also involved with the Boy Scouts.

The investigation quickly mushroomed into a much bigger deal, as the police uncovered a child pornography and trafficking ring. A number of men were arrested in three states.

I was told I was a hero, but I didn’t want to be one. I sure didn’t feel proud of myself. I was embarrassed and ashamed, and seeing the case all over the news didn’t make me feel any better. I wanted to crawl under a rock and disappear.

But that day, 36 years ago, we sat in the conference room, while our classmates wondered why the cops were questioning my family. To this day, I don’t have words for all the rotten emotions I felt. Less than a month later I attempted suicide. When it didn’t work, I tried again, and again and again. I had no hope.

Like previous November 15s, today I spent a lot of time reflecting on my path. So much has changed. I’m not a teenager anymore. I trust my therapist today. I no longer think God hates my guts. I have (step)kids of my own, and grandkids, that I love to pieces. I still struggle sometimes, but I ask for help.

I still carry that old shame inside of me, but beside it is also a realization that I was brave. Courage isn’t the absence of fear, but rather moving forward anyway. I really was a hero. So was my brother, in choosing to tell his story too. We protected other kids from fates worse than our own.

Today I know hope is real. It lives inside of me.  

My very first Invincible Hope post was called, “Hope Is Real, and It Lives Here.” Read it here.

If you are thinking about suicide, help is available. In the US, call or text 988. Please don’t fight these thoughts alone.