Former TLC Star Jessica Willis Fisher Recounts Reporting Her Father for Molestation in New Memoir
Sean Fisher Jessica Willis Fisher
Editor's Note: This story includes graphic details of childhood sexual abuse.
Jessica Willis Fisher is sharing her harrowing story.
In her new memoir Unspeakable (out Nov. 1), the singer-songwriter, 30, looks back on life with her family, and the sexual abuse she suffered at the hands of her father, Toby Willis, before they found fame on America's Got Talent and their short-lived TLC series The Willis Family.
The family band's TV show was canceled in early 2016, shortly before Toby, now 52, was arrested in September 2016 and charged with one count of child rape. Three additional counts were later added, and in July 2017, Toby — a father of 12 — pleaded guilty to four counts of child rape and was sentenced to 40 years in prison.
Throughout Unspeakable, Jessica opens up about confronting her trauma and leaning on family and her husband, Sean Fisher, throughout her healing journey. Below, in an exclusive excerpt from the book, Jessica recalls summoning the courage to put an end to the pattern of abuse and reporting her father to the authorities.
"This book is my witness statement," Jessica, who sings of her painful past on her debut album Brand New Day, previously told PEOPLE.
Thomas Nelson Unspeakable Cover Art
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Chapter 1: Early Childhood
When I go back to examine the earliest memories of my life, I can distinguish three short scenes. They are slight and delicate, like tiny glass sculptures, best not to squeeze too tight lest they shatter and disappear altogether. They spring forth without preamble and then dissipate without much in the way of context, unmoored from the gravity of time. Strange what survives the weight of years; strange what falls away. First, I can remember being potty trained. Or, more specifically, I can remember the last time I purposefully avoided going to the toilet, instead defying my mother and peeing in my panties. I am hiding under the knobby legs of the old upright piano and must have just relieved my miniature bladder because I can feel the carpet damp and slightly warm underneath me. The memory is almost just that single instant. It fades away at the faint promise of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that will finally coax me out of my hiding place.
Next, I can remember crouching in the dark with expectant glee, each of my limbs spring-loaded as I wait with stifled breath underneath a draped table in a loud and crowded event space. There is a stiff bow in my hair and my socks are trimmed with white lace, folded down to touch the buckled strap of my squeaky patent leather shoes. At any moment, a pair of my young relatives will lift away the tablecloth and find me in our boisterous game of hide-and-seek, and I will shriek in shock and delight before scurrying away at their triumphant shouts.
And finally, I can remember my tiny body laying atop my parents' bed. I am wearing a loose old adult-sized T-shirt in leu of a nightgown. I can hear the white noise of a shower running somewhere out of sight. My father is there, leaning over me, touching a part of my body I don't have a name for with his large warm hand, talking about things I do not understand. "Daddies like it when mommies do this . . ." His voice is not a whisper, just quiet. There is a flash, a blank of time, and then comes a sequel to this tiny scene, clearly still the same setting, likely only moments later. My father is out of view now and my mother is emerging breezily from the bathroom, as young as I can picture her. Her long, wet hair is twisted up in a striped towel, her body wrapped in a pink shin-length plush robe with matching sash. Her lightly freckled skin is freshly moisturized, and she is bright and happy with little creases at the corners of her eyes. I feel as if I should speak. But I am only three or maybe four and I don't have the necessary words. In many ways, I will stay frozen in the power of this moment for the next twenty years.
Sean Fisher Jessica Willis Fisher
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Chapter 27: For the Record
In the morning, I forced myself to eat. I layered on increasingly heavier clothes until I admitted I was not shivering from a lack of warmth. Staring at my face in the mirror, I half wished I could slip back into my dissociative, compartmentalized state of five months ago. Instead, I had to trust my lips to move when I commanded.
I must give them what they need, I told myself. Don't panic. Don't overthink. Just say anything that's true.
I drove to the TBI office as steadily as I could manage and still arrived early. The lawyer met me in the parking lot. She was practically a stranger and just what I needed—a human security blanket.
Upon entering the long brick building, we were led to a rectangular boardroom with midnight blue walls and a large pill-shaped table in the center. An oversized sculpture of the Tennessee State seal hung centered on the narrow wall. We were offered bottled water and black high-backed chairs with leather padding. The lawyer introduced herself to the two serious-looking men in short-sleeved button-down shirts. I could tell they knew each other, and their small interaction was an unsettling reminder I was now surrounded by people whose daily job included the handling of crimes and witnesses.
The men sat. Farther to their left, a calm African American woman smiled gently. The short-haired man directly square with me introduced himself as Special Agent Holt and said the smiling woman was a victim services coordinator. Speaking softly, she said she would remain present for the interview and be my point of contact for any help I might require throughout the duration of the case. I thanked her, and the room grew still.
I felt Holt's keen eyes lock onto me, steely under the fluorescent lights. I noticed his brawny shoulders set firm. He thanked me for coming in and asked me to verify I was there of my own free will. After outlining the hotline call as the initial reason for their investigation, he eased into a few preliminary questions such as my full name, date of birth, place of residence. I didn't want to make any mistakes and sheepishly explained that since leaving my family home, I'd been sleeping in my cousin's living room, and was now in the process of moving in with my boyfriend's family. I gave them both addresses.
"Where did you last live with your family?"
I gave them the address of the last rental house and couldn't remember the zip code. We'd been on the road too much over those last few months for me to fully memorize it. I explained we'd lived in a succession of rentals after our house burned down in 2004. At least, I thought it was 2004, the day after Christmas. I was flustered, berating myself for not taking time to recall or organize such details of the timeline beforehand. Would my story be discredited if I got basic facts wrong?
I said we had moved from Chicago when I was nine. Or at least, we'd moved right around my ninth birthday. Holt assured me I was doing fine; he would ask me for more detail when needed. He requested the names of my siblings, and I did my best to sound confident on their ages. When I used to introduce everyone on stage, it seemed as if I couldn't get down the line without making a mistake.
In one long and laborious discharge, I vomited out my hidden history, sometimes disordered, frequently awkward. When I recounted instances of sexual abuse, cold sweat poured down my sides while the teeth rattled in my head. I promised them I was okay, I just needed to keep going. If I lost my train of thought, Holt would ask another question to get me going again.
"This is with his fingers?"
"Yes, with his fingers, he would touch me there."
"Over your clothes or under?"
"Both."
"How often would you say this happened?"
"I don't know, I . . ."
"Five times, 10 times?"
"No, more like a hundred . . ."
"A hundred times?"
"It was night after night, over years . . . not all the time. He would stop doing it for a while. They blend together. But if I had to guess, at least a hundred for sure, yes."
"Which house was this in? The one that burned down?"
"Yes, well, all the early houses. Because of what the room looked like, I know the first time I can remember was around four years old, in Chicago. It could have been earlier. It's just my first memory of him doing that."
Sean Fisher Jessica Willis Fisher
Excerpted from Unspeakable© 2022 Jessica Willis Fisher. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by W Publishing, an imprint of Thomas Nelson.
If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, please contact the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673) or go to rainn.org.
