Katrina Davis Is Really Inspiring.

Her blog, Life., has lately been about her husband's deployment to Africa, and her attempts to overcome a childhood abuse. She plans to reach out to her mother and tell her about this great atrocity, and just kind of let her family know about the pain she's been dealing with.

And I just feel like that's really brave.

Because I've always reached out to my peers with my problems; to people that, I feel, would take my problems at face value and not blow them out of proportion or underestimate them. I could especially never talk to my mom about something important. I'm just not that brave.

I think the single worst moment of my life happened at my father's house. I was sitting on his couch, crying, because he was telling me that I was "walking the wrong path," and that I would end up a drug addict and an alcoholic. This was at a time when I had never smoked a cigarette, never touched a single drop of alcohol, and never even thought about doing any sort of drugs. I was, however, anorexic and abusing dietary pills (which I don't consider to be recreational drug use.) My father had no idea I had these problems, he was just accusing me of doing the things he thought all teenagers did: the things he had done as a teen.

And I'm sitting on the couch, thinking of how unfair it is that I can't even fight back, can't defend myself, because everything I say he twists around to mean something else. I'm flustered and I'm angry-- at him for doing this, at myself for letting him, at Heather for sitting in the next room and ignoring us, at my mother for not fighting for custody of me-- and I can't even bring myself to look at him. I just sit there and think of all the angry words I could say but won't.

And my father ruined our relationship in one sentence, in one moment.

Because that conversation, that hour of me crying and him talking, I would have let that go. I would have forgiven him for that.

But when he looked me in the eyes and said, "You think you've been through a lot, but you haven't. You've been spoiled and taken care of your whole life. You don't know what pain is, yet," I knew that not only did my dad know nothing about me, but he didn't care too.

My dad never asked me about the years of my childhood he hadn't been around for. Didn't bother to catch up on the months he'd been in Aruba, dealing cocaine and living with prostitutes. Didn't know how I'd been treated the year he went to rehab. Didn't know that I had, in fact, been abused. Didn't know what had been going on in my life, and didn't really want to find out.

My dad had a preconceived notion that I had been living this pampered life of leisure, and that was the only reality he would ever accept.

I'm really proud of who I am.

It took me years to get there, but I eventually did. I've talked a lot about my childhood with Michael, who had to work hard to make me realize that the things that happened were not my fault. It was a rocky road that I had absolutely no adult guidance on.

John Scaife will never know about what happened to me. And, you know, that's okay. It's none of his business.

It's not like he was ever a real father, anyways.