i had the opportunity to speak to a group of caseworkers and advocates who work with survivors or sexual assault. i shared my story and advice on working with their clients. i have shared my story on the blog
here. below i'm posting what i read at the training. i'd love to read feedback if you have any.
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frozen with fear
stumbling naked in the darkness
dreading his return
praying for it to subside
crying for help
touched by acid rain
begging for mercy
consumed by his ignorance
raped by his distorted views
lost in his dysfunctional world
dressed as a different woman
confused about what went wrong
asking why
hearing his bullshit excuses
wondering how things will end
hating him and all that support him
craving vengeance
weighing the consequences
feeling alone
running from reality
drinking to drown him out
leaving behind the important things
denying what happened
trying to cope
learning to live again
moving on slowly
excusing him for his stupidity
suffering each day because of him
growing up to prevent a reoccurrence
Spring 1996
Good Afternoon! Thank you for inviting me to speak at your
training today. I can only imagine how
difficult your jobs are on a daily basis.
The work you do is so important and can really make a difference to
someone who has been sexually assaulted. Thank you for showing up everyday to help
survivors.
I’m here today to share
my story and provide some insight into what is helpful when working with
survivors of sexual assault. I realize some
of you may be survivors or have worked in the field a long time. What I’m sharing is just one perspective
based on my experiences.
It happened on a random
Saturday night in October 1995. “It”
being the rape that followed a fun night out at a local bar. What I thought was a brief stop on the way to
an after party, turned my world upside down.
Many were present to
witness my transformation from innocent co-ed to self-destructive rape victim,
but only one man touched me. Some guys
left because they could not stand to watch what was unfolding before them. I could have been their sister. Their aunt.
Their mother. This group milled
around in the driveway making small talk and trying not to think about what was
happening to me. The others, his
supporters, stood on the sidelines and cheered him on. Literally.
He was their hero, their role model.
Nailing another conquest was admirable.
My concept of time and
space became distorted over the next couple of hours. What lasted close to an hour, felt like only
fifteen minutes. The time was later
confirmed for me at the police station when I watched the video that was
made. Prior to the viewing, I had
totally blocked out my “acting debut.” I
watched the tape twice. The finale was
when he pushed me toward the bedroom.
Guess he was modest and didn’t want to be filmed naked and vulnerable.
By that time, I had
totally left my body. I don’t remember
much. I was just waiting for it to be
over. At some point, I started
crying. When he realized this, he
stopped. Guess a small part of him
understood human emotion. He left the
room. I passed out for a while. When I woke up, I debated jumping out the
second floor window and running down the street to safety. I opted to let him drive me back to my dorm
instead. When he brought his car to a
stop, he insisted on a “good night” kiss as if we’d been on a date. I obliged.
I should have taken my chances with the window…
It had been a long
night, but I couldn’t go to sleep yet. I’m
the type of person who has to know why and wanted to make sense of what
happened. I talked with two of the guys
who left when things got out of hand.
They told me they didn’t agree with it.
They told me they tried to stop it.
They told me their voices fell on deaf ears. All that was left for them to do was to
comfort me. We watched Disney’s Aladdin
before I returned to my dorm and tried to wash the terrible night off of me.
Before I went to bed, I
made a final attempt to make sense of the night. I called “him”. “Him” being the guy who believed it was okay
to have sex with me without my permission.
I told him what happened was a mistake.
That it should never have happened.
These words made him angry, and he told me to never say them again or I
would regret it. I hung up and went to
bed. It was 7 AM.
On Monday night, my sorority
sisters ushered me to the police station.
Going to the police was scary. I
had been drinking at the club, but I was only 19. I was worried about getting in trouble for
underage drinking. I was also concerned
about what would happen once the police went to question the guys. Who would they believe? I told the detective everything as I
remembered it. I made sure to tell him
about the videotape because I thought that would help show what happened to me.
The guys were cooperative with the police and turned it over.
After the two viewings,
the detective explained the video wasn’t evidence that would help me. I said, “Uh-uh” instead of, “No.” It didn’t count as me not wanting sex since I
did not clearly state, “No.” At the
beginning of the video, while my clothes were still on, I said that I was not
going to kiss anyone for the camera like the guys were trying to get me to
do. I said I would tell a story instead.
Well, I didn’t really “say” these things.
I slurred them. Since it was
dollar night at the bar, I had a lot to drink before arriving at that
apartment. Anyone watching the video
could see how drunk I was. I didn’t
quite realize what was happening until it was too late. I never gave a clear “no” because I was
scared and felt like I was watching the scene from above. The video made things worse for me. Discouraged, I dropped the charges not even a
week later.
I am thankful on a daily
basis that social media and YouTube were not “a thing” in the mid-90s. Instead of having my naked body available for
anyone to see with the click of a button, there was one VHS tape and the police
had it. Today, when I hear stories about
girls being assaulted and guys taking photos and videos to post online it makes
me sick. I am thankful that the visual
proof of that night is gone.
The weeks that followed
were hard. I was having a difficult time
dealing with what I was feeling inside.
I was hurt. Confused. Lost.
I felt unsafe in a world I once trusted.
I tried counseling on campus, but it wasn’t enough to keep me from
spiraling out of control. I mostly
skipped class to sleep during the day and got drunk at night. I wanted to feel numb. On nights I didn’t drink, I would jump in my
car and drive far away from my college life.
I liked being near the water and under the stars. But no matter how far I ran, I couldn’t
escape. He was in my head. I would drive back to my dorm feeling extremely
hopeless. Thoughts of suicide soon
followed. I had to be “talked off the
ledge” several times (figuratively). My
life was a mess. I was failing all my
classes, and I didn’t know how to get out of the hole I had been pushed into
that night in October. I finished up the
semester on autopilot.
Going home for winter
break offered me some clarity. It was
nice to put distance between me and the people and places that had made my life
hell. I didn’t tell my family what
happened. When my grades came in the
mail, a .69 for the semester, I laughed at the irony of the number and promised
my parents I would party less and study more.
I wanted to go back to school and get back to “normal”. I returned with a renewed spirit.
My first step toward
healing was the poem I read at the beginning.
I took what happened to me and put it into words. It made more sense on paper. I showed it to one of my English professors
and he wanted to include it in the student literary publication. Although I published it anonymously, I was proud
it was out there for people to read.
Time went on. I felt the need to talk about it less. I felt like I had my life back. I felt stronger. I graduated, got married, earned a Master’s
degree, and had a baby. Life was
good. Things weren’t perfect. I still had nightmares from time-to-time,
especially in October, but it didn’t cripple me anymore. I stopped asking, “Why did this happen to
me?”, and I adopted the philosophy of, “What does not kill you makes you
stronger.” I also began to believe that
everything happens for a reason, even if we don’t know the reason. I was finally okay with not knowing why.
Then in October 2004, I
had a nightmare involving my rapist. It
took place in the present instead of the past.
It scared me and brought up all those old feelings. I didn’t feel safe anymore. I wanted to run-away, but I couldn't abandon
my family. I decided to return to what
helped me the first time, writing.
I created Kalle, a woman
who thought suicide was the only way to escape the memories of her rape. I poured all my pain out onto the page, and
my wounds started to heal. By the end of
the story, Kalle discovers she is a survivor, not a victim. She realizes she can't let dreams send her
back to the past, and she has to stay focused on the future. The story, “Healing Old Wounds” became the
main story in a collection I am working on.
The collection is called Old Wounds, and I hope to get it published one
day soon.
When Kalle became a
survivor, I did too. I wasn't a victim
anymore. I didn't let him
"win." An amazing thing
happened; my nightmares stopped. I can’t
remember having a nightmare about him since the one in 2004.
I survived a horrible
experience, and I'm here to talk about it.
So, I do; I talk about it. I
share my experiences with other women to give them hope that things do
get better. It took many years, but I was finally
able to make sense of everything. In
2005, a friend of mine was raped while attending UTSA. I called and emailed her regularly to check
on her and encourage her. She later told me the reason she got out of bed
everyday was my strength. She wanted to
be strong like me. This was the biggest
compliment I had ever received and is the reason I am here today. If I can give just one woman hope and
strength, what happened to me was not in vain.
Everything happens for a reason, good and bad. This bad thing happened to me so I could
become stronger and help others. It
shaped who I am today, which I wouldn't change for anything.
In addition to sharing
my story today, I was asked to give some advice about working with
survivors. You've heard my story and
know I didn't seek much professional help after I was raped. I’ve put together some thoughts about what
could have helped me along with things that did.
First, I would have
liked law enforcement to be more supportive. The detective was nice, but I feel
like he talked me out of pursuing charges against the guy who raped me. He told me how the tape worked against me and
how life in a small college town would be difficult if I went to court. He told me lawyers would bring up the fact
that I was drinking and what I was wearing and all my past sexual
relationships. Maybe it was his job to
let me know the realities of pressing charges, but the bottom line is I didn't
give consent. Maybe I didn’t say, “No”
accurately, but I didn’t say, “Yes,” either. The detective should have wanted
to fight for that. (By the way, I was
wearing jeans and shirt that wasn’t low cut or revealing in any way)
When working with
survivors, word choice is so important.
Use the word survivor from the beginning. It took me nine years to change my
vocabulary. Being a survivor is more
empowering than being a victim. It was
amazing how different I felt about myself when I changed the label. Although law enforcement uses the word victim,
remind your clients daily they are survivors.
Have them repeat it if you have to.
Consistency is key. For a long time after, I needed to feel safe
and be able to predict things. Since I
felt so much craziness on the inside and didn’t know what I would do next, I
counted on those around me to be there and stay consistent. Unfortunately, this didn’t happen. Some of my sorority sisters doubted me and
said I misrepresented the them by being drunk, raped, and filmed. Some of the guys from the fraternity, who I
considered friends, felt they had to side with their brother no matter how much
they disagreed with it. One guy went so
far as to come explain the fraternity motto of “Love, Charity, and Esteem” to
me in hopes that I would understand why he could no longer be my friend. It hurt to be doubted and abandoned by the
people who were supposed to be my friends.
This instability added to my depression.
There was also a lack of
consistency in my therapy. I attended
individual and group sessions on campus.
One of the girls in my group tried to commit suicide, and the therapist
felt the safety of the group had been compromised. I really enjoyed the group and was hurt when
it stopped. My advice is to be as
consistent with the survivors you work with as possible. Be there for them when you say you will. Encourage them to find one or two friends or
family members who can be there no matter what.
Advise them to stay away from negative people who aren’t sensitive to
what they are dealing with.
I found peace and
strength through writing. It’s what
worked for me. I think it is important
to help survivors find a positive outlet for their feelings. I did so many self-destructive things after I
was raped. I wish there was someone to
suggest positive things sooner. Turning to alcohol and sleeping all day were so
easy, but not really helpful to the big picture. Not everyone is a writer like me, but
everyone has activities to help him or her relax and feel better. Encourage the survivors you’re working with
to find a positive outlet that works for them.
Once they find this outlet, encourage them to not turn away from it.
Before I wrap things up,
I want to share how important advocacy is.
Your clients probably won’t start off strong enough to fight for changes
to the laws or the rape culture, which our society has been embracing for
years. When I sit down to write out my
story for presentations like this one, I am very careful with my word
choice. Part of that is the writer in
me. Part of that is me not wanting to
blame myself for what happened. I did
nothing wrong no matter how the fraternity brothers tried to spin it. Yes, I had been drinking a lot. Yes, I was the only girl in the group. In my defense, I was with a group of guys I
hung out with all the time and felt safe with them. One guy, who always gave me a creepy feeling,
decided he didn’t need consent to do what he wanted. I learned after that night in October 1995, I
wasn’t the first girl or the last girl he raped. He felt entitled. It’s not my fault; it’s his. It took me years to realize this and change
the way I told my story. Instead of
listing my mistakes and talking about what I should have done differently, I
tell the facts about what he did to me.
He made mistakes that night. He
did wrong. I don’t want to sound like a
political commercial, but our conversations need to change. Instead of telling our daughters not to get
drunk and what not to wear, we need to tell our sons not to rape. Until the survivors are strong enough to join
me in this fight to change our culture, you need to fight for them. Do what you can to be vocal about our current
laws and help seek justice for those who have been sexually assaulted. Also, constantly remind your clients what
happened to them is not their fault.
They did not deserve to be violated.
Thank you again for
inviting me to speak at your training today.
I hope you are able to take something you heard back into the field with
you. Once again, thank you for all you
do every day.
