Timothy Charles Stark

February 5th, 1977 - October 11th, 2019

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One day in the summer of 2007 I finally found the courage to tell 3 of my friends that my brother Tim was molesting me at night while I tried to sleep. They convinced me to tell my mother, but he denied it and she believed him.

After he finally admitted the truth, Darlene Stark told me, her 12 year old daughter that had been sexually assaulted by her own brother for months, that we could report him to the police, but that it would ruin his life and he would lose his 1 month old daughter Grace. That was manipulative and far too much guilt for a traumatized 12 year old to take. I just wanted to pretend it never happened.

So Darlene let Tim stay around and because no one ever talked about it, I began to question if it had even happened and in turn I constantly questioned my reality.

But then he continued to assault me at his apartment in Kalamazoo, all while his daughter Grace and his fiancé Melanie slept in the other rooms. Even down the road at the Luth’s house I remember being asleep on my back in their living room and I saw him standing over me lifting up my shirt.

Why would I bother telling my mother that he never stopped? Telling her the first time was the hardest thing I ever had to do and she only protected him. I didn’t have the strength in me to do it all again.

I became dependent on drugs and self harm by age 15. My mother knew and never got me therapy. Money wasn’t an excuse because we were dirt poor so I had good health insurance through the state. And again, because nobody ever talked about it, I was in a constant state of derealization, questioning whether my reality was even really happening.

That was until I was 18 and Tim was doing his AA program and he told me what he had done to me and he begged me for forgiveness. It was the first time in years that I thought maybe it did really happen. I lied and told him I forgave him and it wasn’t his fault and he asked for a hug. I wanted to die right then and there and I think a part of me did die.

Why did I have to be the adult in those situations? Why did I, the victim, always have to put my feelings aside for the good of this monster? I never deserved any of that and the people who were supposed to protect me failed me.

My sister Yasmene had the resources to get me therapy and take me away from that house where I was emotionally abused and neglected for my entire life, but her excuse is that my mom wouldn’t allow it because she didn’t want to lose the welfare checks she got for me, which were her only source of income. My mother could have gotten a job, she just didn’t want to.

The only person who cared was my brother Ali, who agreed to take me in and get me away from my mother and Tim when I was 16. We made plans and then he died a few months later. My only escape route, the only family that actually cared about me, just gone.

And to make matters worse I didn’t get to see Ali at Christmas a few days before he died, all because my mother had to cause drama. She wanted my ex friend who hated me to dog sit while we went to Wisconsin for Christmas, and I begged her to find someone else because I didn’t trust this person not to go through my personal things. My mother didn’t care and said it’s either the ex friend stays or I do.

So I missed Christmas and didn’t get to see Ali one last time because of my mother’s selfishness and lack of empathy. The emotional and physical abuse and neglect from her is a whole ‘nother story, like having no running water for 3+ years, her breaking my first pair of glasses by slapping me across the face and then refusing to buy me a new pair even though we had good insurance, and my vision is permanently damaged to this day. And her playing the victim and causing all of my friends to hate me because they were convinced that I attacked my mother, instead of the truth which was that she backed me into a corner and yelled in my face until I felt I had no choice but to push her away, and the list goes on. She too should be in prison.

Now I’m a broken person, I’m terrified of people, living in fear every second of every day to the point where I’ve lost my hair. All thanks to this disgusting man and the people who protected him. I will forever regret not reporting him and my mother, and I hope that he and every other man who has put their hands on me without my consent never finds peace.

Don’t waste your energy mourning him or giving sympathy to his mother.

Zorana Rankovic

April 29th, 2023 at 1:10pm

I remember when I saw my dad one year, we went to Michigan and back to my Grandma Darlene’s house by the lake. It was a beautiful summer day and we went fishing together. I had never much enjoyed fishing alone but with him it was fun, he made it interesting to me and he would always make me laugh, even if we were supposed to be sitting quiet and still. I can picture the exact spot we were in, even if it was very long ago. The picnic tables and the grass, and the trees and the fresh smell of summer. We sat together and fished and talked, and when I left he handed me a box of minion tic tacs. I remember this specifically because I loved minions at the time; my grandma Darlene made me a crochet minion that I still have to this day in my room. I remember I cried when we drove away, and I was holding the box of candy tightly in my arms. I will forever think of my father every day when I wake up, for all the little things and beautiful pictures he drew for me when he sent letters. He was a good man and he worked very hard to stay that way, and he always did his best to make people laugh. I miss him dearly.