I know, perhaps better than most, that the Amish keep secrets. Even conservative Amish families do. My own family, while not exactly Old Order, were conservative. My mamm and datt held my sister and brother and me to some pretty high standards, even in terms of the Amish. Jacob and Sarah fared well beneath that kind of iron-fist parenting. Neither strayed beyond the parameters of the Ordnung.

But I floundered within those constraints. Even as young as twelve, I resented the restrictions imposed on my life, even though I had no inkling of the concept of freedom. I remember feeling as if every aspect of my life was being micromanaged—by my parents, by our bishop, by society and the Amish culture in general. I recall begrudging my brother because he—and Amish males in general—had more freedoms than I and my female peers did. Even then, the unfairness of that chafed my sensibilities.

All of that discontent came to a head when I was fourteen and an Amish man by the name of Daniel Lapp walked into our farmhouse when I was alone and raped me. I learned the meaning of violence that day. I learned to what lengths I would go to protect myself. And I learned that I was capable of extreme violence. I learned what it meant to hate—not only another human being but myself. Especially myself.

When my parents discovered I’d shot and killed my rapist, I learned that even decent, God-loving Amish break the law. I learned they’re capable of lying to protect their children. And, in the eyes of the angry teen I’d been, I knew that underneath all those layers of self-righteous bullshit, they were sinners, just like everyone else.

I spent the following years rebelling against any rule that didn’t suit me—and few did. I defied my parents. I railed against all those rigid Amish tenants. I rebelled against myself, and against God. I disrupted the lives of my siblings. Embarrassed my parents. Disappointed the Amish bishop. When Mamm and Datt began to worry that I was a negative influence on my siblings, I knew it was time to leave. The thought terrified me, but I would rather have died than admit it. Instead, when I turned eighteen, I left Painters Mill for Columbus, Ohio.