What The Hell America!

Caroline Darian’s memoir exposes the depths of betrayal, survival and the battle to hold her father accountable.

The U.S. edition of Caroline Darian’s memoir I’ll Never Call Him Dad Again was published on March 18. Darian is the daughter of Gisèle Pelicot, who grabbed the world’s attention when she opted for a public trial against her husband, Dominique Pelicot. Throughout the highly publicized trial in France, which ignited a global conversation about sexual assault and submission, Darian was a forceful advocate for her mother and for the rights of sexual assault survivors the world over.

Darian founded a movement called Don’t Put Me Under (#MendorsPas) to raise awareness about chemical submission and advocate for rape victims in the criminal justice system. 

Earlier this month, Caroline filed a complaint with the French courts against her father, Dominique, alleging that he assaulted her as well, due to footage of Caroline found on Dominique’s computer.

The following is an excerpt from I’ll Never Call Him Dad Again.

Thursday, Dec. 17, 2020

Mum and I are becoming distant. It’s inconceivable for her that I too might have been one of my father’s victims. Inconceivable because it’s too painful to contemplate, which I completely understand. I do nonetheless resent the fact that she won’t even consider the possibility and take the time to listen to my anger and pain. Mum just keeps telling me to stop putting myself through such nervous and mental stress. Officially, nothing indicates that I was a victim of chemical submission. Nothing proves I’d been touched in any way, let alone raped. But I find no peace of mind in the absence of proof.

I know that my mother has been through worse than me and is doing her best to deal with it. She’s in survival mode, shutting down so as to protect herself from the intolerable. But I have gone to war, intent on crossing swords with my own demons.

Still working from home, I use the time between meetings to maintain the house in an impeccable state. I clean, discard and organise, but what I’m really trying to do is tidy away the question that obsesses me: Did my father abuse me?

You pick Tom up and carry him into the pool. The sun flashes off the surface of the turquoise water. You tell him that today he’s going to swim without his armbands. Quietly, confidentially, you assure him that everything will be fine, that you’ll be right beside him. You stand in the middle of the pool, holding him against you. Tom isn’t afraid. He releases his arms from around your neck. He’s ready to give it a go, trusting that you’re right and that he can do it. I watch from the side of the pool. I’m not afraid either. I trust you.

I open a cupboard full of bedding. A folded-up sheet catches my attention. I recognize the pattern. I bought it just before Tom was born. A second late, I’ve collapsed and am down on my knees on the floor.

The sheet features in one of the photos that I was shown in the police station in Carpentras in November. It’s the same pattern. My father photographed me in my house, in my bedroom, way back in 2013. There’s no room for doubt anymore. His second victim was me.

Thursday, Dec. 24, 2020

For the first time in his life, Tom will not spend Christmas surrounded by his grandparents and all his cousins. Our family has been torn in two: I will be at David’s place; Mum will be at Florian’s. From now on, traditional family get- togethers will be, at best, half-baked. My father’s hard at work with the age-old tactic of divide and conquer. He has destroyed what meant the most to us: our existence as a family unit, our shared roots.

I announce a symbolic decision: to free him from this curse, I’m going to change one of my son’s middle names— Dominique—which, as a loving daughter, was given as a nod to my father. My eldest brother’s name—David—will take its place. As soon as I can, I’ll contact the registry office and start the process.

David, not the most effusive of men, can’t find the words but pulls me into a hug.

Friday, Jan. 1, 2021

Tears have become our default language, because what we’re going through is beyond words.

The first day of a new year, and I’m thinking about my father. For the first time ever, I feel compassion for him. I imagine what it must be like in his cell. Is he cold? Hungry? Who are his cellmates? How is he coping with being deprived of his beloved bike rides?

I realize I still have progress to make. I’ve not yet reached the point where I can treat such questions with utter indifference. The point where my father means nothing to me.

I’ve heard nothing from Mum since Christmas. I miss her. I decide to give her a call. When I hear her voice, I start crying. She soon follows suit. Tears have become our default language, because what we’re going through is beyond words.

Eventually, I manage to express myself: I want to be with her, to stand by her. We talk for the next two hours. At the end, we promise each other we’ll stick together from now on. And that neither will sit in judgement of the other.

Saturday, Jan. 23, 2021

I’m in a good mood when I wake up. It’s a cold, clear, invigorating day. I set off to the market under a cloudless sky. Tonight, we’re invited to David’s house to celebrate two birthdays—mine and his wife, Mélanie’s, who has done so much for me over the past months.

It’s the first weekend since Nov. 2 that I actually enjoy. The day is spent idly but agreeably, and at around 5 p.m., we get in the car to head off to my brother’s.

It proves too good to be true. We’re still en route when Mum calls me. She’s back down in Provence, tying up some administrative loose ends.

“Caro, have you been in contact with the family members of one of the prisoners in Le Pontet jail?”

“Mum, are you crazy? What on earth could make you think that?”

I can tell something has unsettled her. She tells me that she’s received a second letter from my father. In it, he says his life is in danger. And that it’s my fault.

Nothing my twisted father might say could surprise me. But it’s a gut punch to think that my mother might believe him. We’re back to where we were: He’s pulling her strings, maneuvering to further his game plan. I tell Mum to send me the letter. I want to see what he’s invented this time round.

The letter, dated Jan. 9, was delivered to Sylvie, my mother’s friend. Just like the last time. Once again, my father has succeeded in finding a way around the prison system. By the time we reach David’s house, I can’t hold back my sobs. I hate my manipulating father, and I can’t help being annoyed at the way my mother lets him play her. I’d like to salvage the evening, but it’s difficult. Shut up in his cell, my father has ruined my party.

Sunday, Jan. 24, 2021

Next morning, I read the letter in utter disbelief.

I imagine it was you, my dear brother Michel, who dropped off those warm clothes smelling of home. On them I found a hair that came from the love of my life, and it warmed my heart for a few seconds.

I share a cell with a young prisoner whose parents tried to find out more about me by telephone, since they didn’t know what I’m in for, but Caroline told them everything, so my cellmate doesn’t want to be near me anymore. Try to calm her down because she’ll end up getting me lynched. There’s no forgiveness here, so it’s urgent. I’m going to be forced to spend the rest of my life in prison, or at least as long as I can keep on going without any news from outside. It’s too hard, and anyway everyone’ll be happy to see me go. I’m not asking for pity, just a little warmth. Life here is too hard, and Caroline’s anger makes it worse.

My father’s perversity knows no bounds. He has all the time in the world to find ways to profit from my mother’s naivety and provoke my anger in the hope of dividing us. I know he’s a sick man, and he’s lost and alone inside his head, but I’d still like to rip it right off.

I need a few days to come to terms with it all.

Sick to the stomach, I don’t know whether to give in or rise up and fight.

Thursday, Jan. 28, 2021

I now know who you really are. We all do. … We’re all in this to the end.

I’m working at home, taking part in an online meeting, when Paul drops an envelope onto my desk. It looks official.

Having duly examined your request, submitted as his legal representative, to change the first name of Tom Jean Dominique, born the 25th July 2014 in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris, and having reviewed the supporting documents provided, it has been concluded that the change is motived by legitimate concerns, as defined by article 60 of the Civil Code. In consequence, your son is henceforth authorised to use the first name Tom Jean David.

The relief is immense. Paul feels it too. If I hadn’t gone through with this, I would have felt guilty of neglect. I’ve done something important to protect my son, who is worth so much more than his forebears.

Buoyed up by the news, I even dash off a short note to my father.

I never send it—my lawyer tells me not to—but it felt good to write.

Dominique,

Three months in prison, four letters stuffed with lies.

You’ve always known what you’re doing, and you keep at it even now.

But there’s a difference: I now know who you really are. We all do.

So I’m telling you, stop all your scheming. Right now.

Nothing will stop me pursuing this case. We’re all in this to the end.

You’re dead to me. Definitively.