Exposing The Abuse I Lived Through
By the Kautman and Randolph families in Arizona.
Welcome
This page is dedicated to me sharing my own personal accounts, memories, and experiences throughout my life, of real abuses. Why? JUSTICE.
My mission is that when someone searches the perpetrators names, and their supporters, then their dark actions will be brought to light, and they will no longer be able to hide in the shadows. These people have children, grandchildren, or access to children in public, so preventing further abuse from happening is essential.
X Silence
X Shame
A “Normal” Childhood
I used to think I had a “normal” childhood. But as I became an adult, I started remembering deep imbedded shame that I was carrying because of the secrets I was expected to keep. Not only me, but every single person on both the maternal and paternal sides of my family.
I realized that having a drug addicted father is actually “normal” in my family. However, it is also abuse.
It is considered “normal” to be sexually abused in my family. And it is also abuse.
My point being, just because something may be normalized, does NOT make it ok.
X Secrets
X Abuse
Who was involved in the abuse?
My very first abuser, was my mother, Valerie Ann Kautman (born Valerie Ann Randolph). While she was pregnant with me, she tried aborting me herself, on several occasions. I’ll spare the details on that for now. However, my mother knew about the abuse by my father and my grandfather (her father), but she chose to do nothing.
Once I was born, my father John Bradley Kautman Sr, was the main abuser. From infancy to around 6 years old, my father sexually abused me. However, physical, mental, and emotional abuses lasted much longer, at least until I was a young adult. He was also a drug user, from marijuana to other harder drugs.
My maternal grandfather, Allen William Randolph, sexually abused me as a toddler. He was a truck driver, a drug user (mostly different kinds of pills), and an alcoholic. A vile man. He passed away in 1996 from cancer. I remember my mom came in and woke me up in the morning and told me my grandfather passed away. I just laid in bed all day, not really crying, just feeling numb and like all of the energy had been removed from my body.
My maternal grandmother, Judith (Judy) Ann Randolph (born Judith Ann Olsen), knew her own children were being abused by her husband Allen Randolph, but she did nothing to protect her own children. Thus, the pattern repeated with her grandchildren and great grandchildren.
I remember being in Kindergarten and talking about very sexual things to my friends at school. The teachers found out and spoke to my parents, telling them that if I didn’t stop, there would be a report and investigation. I was threated by my parents, so I stopped talking about the sexual things, that a 5 year old shouldn’t even know about in the first place. Unless, of course, she was exposed to those things and they became her “normal” every day life.
Through the years, hearing different stories from different family members growing up (including my own mother and father) and collecting different pieces of the puzzle, my opinion is that my father is actually a closeted gay man. So to hide his own internal shame over being gay, he dated my mother and she got pregnant. She was 18 years old. They were married on May 26th 1982, she was 5 months pregnant, and I was born later that year in September. The irony is that he is an extreme homophobe, and racist.
The saddest part about all of this, is that the pattern continued for another generation.
It is my hope, that the pattern ends here.
Back in 2015, when I started remembering the abuse I suffered at the hands of my father, I decided to make the very difficult decision to confront both my mother and father about it. They both denied it. My father tried to gaslight me. My mother however, tried to save face. Absolutely heart broken, just wanting to hear some glimmer of responsibility, I chose to cut contact with all family members on both sides of the family and I have not had any communication since.
That was probably the most gut wrenching, and single most difficult decision I have had to make in my entire life. However, to rephrase what I told my father below, if I can’t trust myself (and my memories) who can I trust? The below are screen shots of our actual text conversation.
I am blue, and my father is yellow in this conversation. What you are reading is from a man who is an extreme narcissist abuser, who cares more about himself, how he feels, and how he is perceived, rather than how upset and distraught his daughter was feeling. This is the very last conversation him and I ever had, and ever will have.
I spoke to my mother for a couple more months, until she said these words: “I am no longer going to be in the middle”. Referring to between me and my father. You see, he was upset that I continued very basic conversation, practically just pleasantries, via text and email with my mother after I cut contact with my father. She wasn’t in the middle, I never spoke to her about my father, except in response to her telling me things he said, or her asking his questions.
After a couple months, I came to the conclusion that she was not willing to take responsibility for the role she played in my abuse, nor believing me that my father abused me. All I wanted to hear from her was “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Just those few simple words, but to no avail.
So, on November 25th, 2015 I sent her the below letter, severing any further communication with her. I have redacted some names.
