I've been debating whether or not to write this article for a long time, but a recent night out for drinks and quesadillas with a guy I look up to indefinitely put that debate to rest.

Drinks And Quesadillas Guy and I have known each other for a few years. We try to catch up when I make the trip home every once in a blue moon. We had always exchanged what I like to call "surface updates." You know--where we were working, what cars we were driving, who we were voting for, etc. This night was different. Among the clinking glasses and the cheese strings on our cheeks, he was genuinely trying to grasp who I was as a person, my passions, and how I saw the world.

Now, I'm a pretty open book, but there are two questions that always make me cringe: "Why did you really become a journalist?" and "Why do you never talk about your dad?" For me, the answers to these questions go hand-in-hand, but I've always just said "I love telling stories" and "We just aren't close."

Back to the booze and Mexican food sesh--I was talking about how much I look up to my mom. She's single, almost 50, and still works three jobs so we can pay off our debt and live the American dream. It was that moment when Drinks And Quesadillas Guy asked about my dad. I sat there and had to make a split-second decision: Do I lie and move on or do I open up and show him who I really am? I decided to be honest, not knowing how he would react or if he would look at me differently.

My dad came into my life when I was in the second grade. My dad told my mom he had an epiphany that he needed to be in my life. To 8-year-old me, it was special after years of only having two apples on family trees and helping my friends make Father's Day crafts for their dads.

Having my dad in the house was all fun and full of ice cream trips until my mom went to work. He started testing the waters, eventually becoming abusive in every way possible. I was terrified to tell anyone because I thought my mom loved him, and the threats against me if I opened my mouth were horrendous. I just dealt with it by avoiding home when I could. I joined every club, organization and sport possible so I could go home and go to bed. Nonetheless, my dad would always catch me alone without my mom around.

Years of living hell later, I was 14 years old and starting to realize that there was no point in calling my dad "dad" anymore. He was a sperm donor. I had to tell my mom everything or I was going to go psycho. Long story short, we saved up money to be "just mom and Lauren again." My mom scared him out of the state of Ohio. In fact, he didn't come back to the house for any of his belongings. And the worst part--my mom made me report everything to the police and go to counseling.

Now, I know what you're thinking: How in the hell does this relate to you pursing a career in journalism? Calm yourself. I'm about to tell you.

My dad/Sperm Donor/Rapist was a radio show host in several cities as I grew up. He always enjoyed telling stories, going to promotional events with his colleagues, and meeting his listeners. Typical life of a radio show host? Yes, but Sperm Donor exploited this industry. He used his power of storytelling and community outreach for evil.

Police went through Sperm Donor's belongings and found that I was not his first victim. Investigators found his former victims, and they all had similar accounts of what he did. He would draw in his victims with phone contests and promotional events for his stations. It happened in so many states police passed his file on to the FBI. Investigators classified him as a serial pedophile. Sperm Donor stayed off the radar until my statue of limitations ran out. Thinking about it makes my blood boil.

Once I found out what I found out, it was a no-brainer that I would pursue a journalism career. I owe my career to those other girls, and really, anyone who doesn't feel like they have a voice.

The purpose of this article is to help crisis victims feel empowered. Despite anything bad that happens, something good comes out of it. Mine happened to be a sense of purpose. You are bigger than the moments that make you feel small. You are stronger than anyone who makes you feel weak, I promise.

If my biological father runs across this article, I'll be honest--I don't give a damn. My profiles on social media are public because of the job I have. If he hasn't found me by now, he doesn't know how to use the internet. He can't accuse me of lying because there are too many women who have the same story, and his case is a public record. He is incredibly lucky I didn't use his name or embed a link to his Facebook profile that I recently found. It's all because I strive to be a better person than he will ever be.

As far as life with my mom goes, she couldn't be happier. I will always feel bad she is too grossed out to date, but she has reconnected with friends from high school and realizes how truly loved she is.

So cheers to you, Drinks And Quesadillas Guy. Thank you for being the person to break my silence. Thank you for being an incredible friend. Thank you for helping me realize I shouldn't be ashamed of the hardships that molded me into who I am today. Everyone deserves their own Drinks And Quesadillas Guy.