If ever there were a time to talk about sexual abuse, it's now. And if there's one thing victims of abuse would like to tell other victims it's this: Report the crime. If they don't, they may regret it.

Dear Cheryl: I'm an abuse survivor. I didn't report my attack for all the same reasons as other women and men. But I took a self-defense class, which helped me come to terms with the guilt of not reporting. Now I'm more focused on prevention, protection and education than on my shortcomings.

At our class graduation, before we broke the board with our feet, some of us wrote our abuser's name on it. I just wrote "a—holes" on mine because I see abuse as not one isolated event but as a pattern of mistreatment — of myself and others — at the hands of many people. Then I broke the board in two with one kick. My foot stung for a couple minutes, but the moment of breaking the board was delicious. — Mary

Dear Cheryl: When I was 13, I was at my father and stepmother's house. The evening before, I had gone to the skating rink with a friend. She'd introduced me to her boyfriend, who was 15 or 16 at the time. He came to the house that afternoon.

He tried to rape me, but I got away from him. When I yelled that my father was coming, my friend's boyfriend ran out the back door. There was not a scratch on me, but inside I was shaking like a leaf. I didn't tell my dad what had happened because I knew he would have hunted down that creep and killed him and wound up in jail.

I knew I was leaving on a trip that evening. That made me feel safe. There was no way that creep could find me. This all happened 50 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I was 21 before I told my stepmother about the incident. She told me she knew something was bothering me, but didn't pry.

She also agreed that my father would have done his best to seriously hurt my attacker — or worse. This was in the "blame the female" days, and since there were no outward signs of the attack — no torn clothes, no scratches, other than on him — my dad would have been in real trouble.

What made this even worse is that I was 35 before I felt I could tell my biological mother about the attack. I told her in front of my three old-enough-to-know daughters. She told me I was lying and had made up the story.

How sad and how typical of the way my mother relates to me. Who in their right mind would want to make up this story 20-plus years after it happened? The only thing I truly regret is keeping it to myself for so many years.

I'm writing this to you to tell girls not to be afraid to tell someone — anyone — who will listen about inappropriate incidents like this. You never know if you might be saving somebody else. According to my cousin, who went to the same high school as this creep, he later gang-raped a young housewife and ended up in prison. I hope he's still in there. — Nancy

What's the one thing you wish your partner understood about you?

Got a problem? Send it, along with your questions and rants, to [email protected]. And check out my e-books, "Dear Cheryl: Advice from Tales from the Front" and "I'll Call You. Not."

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