November 2011
I can’t sleep. I have been in Japan for 2 weeks, and every day I mentally mark another X on the calendar. It’s November 2011, and I am 7 months away from competing in the Summer Olympics in London—a lifelong dream. For the most part, I can’t sleep because I am anxious and can’t wait to go home, but also because I am waiting for the bomb to drop, knowing that my secrets are about to be revealed to the world. Somewhere in the U.S., newspapers are being printed. Words are being typed. Not just any words. My words, my story, and I am scared to death.
I hadn’t planned on talking about it. I never talked about it, not even with my closest friends. But something was in the air, something different. It took me a while to realize that what was different was me.
A month prior:
This reporter came into the dojo like all the others. She was very nice and reminded me of a mom; her name was Vicky. She greeted me and my coach, Jimmy, and then she and Jimmy went into his office to talk. I tried again to grasp the fact that USA Today had really sent her all the way from Colorado to talk to me. I was still so uncomfortable with the media attention I was receiving as the Olympics drew closer.
Jimmy and the reporter talked for quite a while, and then it was my turn. As we sat down and started talking, something happened; I immediately trusted Vicky in a way that was different from other interviewers. She was from USA Today after all—a national newspaper. We started with the typical judo questions—how old was I when I started, what drew me to judo, what did it feel like to be the fourth American to become a world champion. Blah blah blah. Then she stunned me with something that I wasn’t expecting: “Jimmy alluded to the fact that you overcame a lot to get where you are. Would you like to share that with me?”
I paused and let it sink in. She wanted to go “there.” I rarely went there, and I had certainly never gone there with someone from the media. I felt tears well up before I could calm myself down. My mind was racing. What should I say? “No comment”? That felt like such a stupid thing to say, and part of me did want to talk about it. The daily news was filled with stories of Penn State, Jerry Sandusky, and outrage for Joe Paterno. No reporters, however, were really placing their focus on the innocent children who had been victimized. I thought maybe no one cares about those kids—why is that? And then it hit me at that moment that maybe no one knows what it’s like to be the victim and that maybe I could tell them . . . And so I did.
“Well . . . what Jimmy is talking about . . . I . . . I . . . I was sexually abused by my first coach. That’s why I moved here.” I stammered and cried through those words for the first time in a long time.
The rest of the interview was then all about that—about my climb up from the bottom. About my own personal hell and the people who had saved me, the people who changed my life forever. I told my story, and I cried, and she listened. She cried a little too. I talked and talked and talked; and when it was over we stepped out of the office and it was like a breath of fresh air. I closed that office door and felt like I had left behind at least a portion of the doubt, guilt, and hate that had haunted me for so very long. I felt so much lighter.
We hugged good-bye, and Vicky told me how proud she was of me. She said that the article would be published in November, and she would let me know the exact date. She wished me well in London and said she’d be watching.
I worked out that night and didn’t think about a thing. I was just another judoka on the mat, striving toward that elusive Olympic gold. No one here had it, and I wanted it. That was my sole purpose; that was my goal. And it felt great.
I started talking publicly about my past so that I could help others. Help others find healing; help other victims know that they were not alone; and help those who hadn’t experienced abuse begin to understand it. That first interview was one of the hardest and most rewarding things I have ever done. It was the day I started talking—and I haven’t stopped since.
This book is a continuation of that effort. It is my hope and prayer that this book will help someone. It is my hope and prayer that this book will help many. Whether you have experienced a childhood trauma firsthand or not, it is my hope and prayer that you will read this book and see the issue of child sexual abuse with new eyes. It is my hope and prayer that you will tell someone what you have learned, that you will share this book with others, and that you will be educated and informed.
I still don’t really know why I spilled my guts in that interview. Since then, however, I have witnessed again and again how the shame and guilt that victims feel works to perpetuate the problem. Abusers prey on that silence, and I’ve decided I will never again be part of that silence. I’ve decided that together, if more of us can break that silence sooner and others can recognize the warning signs of childhood abuse, this horror may just go away.
My name is Kayla Harrison. I am 27 years old. I am a world champion. I am America’s first Olympic champion in judo. I am a friend. Sister. Daughter. Granddaughter. Student. Blonde. Jokester. Reader. Fighter. Mountain climber. Movie buff. Trivia maniac. Baseball fan. Shopaholic. I am all of these things and more. But this is not all I have been. I was a victim for a very long time, and now I am a Survivor.