The Telling

What I was wearing.
Which shouldn't matter, but it does.
Taken on 10/27/19,
several hours prior to the assault

I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn't need a word for that any more than for pride or fear....

William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying

--

You, too, will be pummeled by the telling. 

Mindy Nettifee, “Tender”

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In the early morning hours of October 28th, 2019, I was raped. 

I have a difficult time saying the word rape. I’ve referred to it as a violation, non-consensual sex, the bad thing that happened.

It was rape. 
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I am going to start at the end and tell you what he said as he left my house. I’m going to tell you what he said as he left me naked and shaking in my own living room:

Are you okay? 

(Yes, I nodded)

Good. I’m not going to get a phone call from the police at 3 a.m., am I? I know how you liberal chicks are.

(No, I shook my head)

He left. 
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I’ve written in my journal. I’ve told my therapist, case workers at the crisis center, and the sexual assault nurse examiner (SANE). I told the police officer who took my report. I wrote it on paperwork to get a temporary protective order. I detailed every explicit and horrifying detail on over 20 index cards that are now in a detective’s file. I told my attorney. I gave an abbreviated version to my property manager to be released from my lease. I told my supervisor. I told a few friends. I told my mom. 

Now I’m going to tell you. 

I’m going to tell you, because he specifically told me not to tell. 

I’ve wrestled with the best way to tell this. I tell too much, I’m vulnerable. I say too little, I’m silenced. 

Why am I sharing this story publicly?

Because I was told to be quiet. 
Because he isn’t in jail. 
Because he will never go to jail for this. 
Because I’m angry.
Because I can’t write anything else until this is written.
Because there is a part of me I don’t think I can ever get back.
Because this sits leaded in my stomach and throat and threads coils of him through my skin.
Because I want him out of me and I can’t get him out of my brain.
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All you need to know about him is that we briefly dated. I broke it off. It seemed amicable. We stayed friends. I trust my friends. He wanted to visit. My kids were gone for the night. Why not?

He came over. 

We talked and had a few drinks. I helped him download a music app. We discussed our kids, work, everyday life. Everything was normal. 

Then it wasn’t. 
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It took a few minutes for me to realize what he wanted. I kept explaining that he must have misunderstood. I didn’t want that. I was very polite, like I was trying to tidy up a social misunderstanding. I thought that he would eventually retreat, apologize, and feel embarrassed for the apparent miscommunication. 

He didn’t stop. 

He tore off my stockings and at that point my entire brain slowed. All I could think was that this could not be real. He wouldn’t do this. He is a father of daughters. It isn’t happening. He’ll stop. 

He didn’t stop. 

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My mind keeps circling through all the ways to say no. There are so many ways to say no and I said no in every language my tongue and my body could say it. 

No. I don’t want to have sex. You aren’t even wearing a condom. No. Stop. Please, stop. Don’t do this. I AM CLEARLY TELLING YOU I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS. Why are you doing this? It hurts. I don’t want to. Get off of me. Please, quit. 

No. 
and
No. 
and
No. 
and
No. 
and
I didn’t ask for any of this. 
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There was a moment that was so excruciating and I thought he would kill me. 

What are you doing? 

THAT HURTS. 

He laughed. 
and
He laughed. 

He thought it was the funniest thing that I would be so scared. I was a joke. 

He asked me, 

How many people have you fucked since me? 
Who are you fucking?

I did what he said, because I didn’t want it to hurt. He threatened to choke me and said it would only take thirteen seconds for me to pass out and then he could do whatever he wanted. 

I froze. Completely. I wish I had tried to fight. Weeks later, my attorney would call to say the prosecutor wouldn't take the case.

Maybe if my rapist had hurt me more or I had tried to bite or scratch then he would have consequences? If people could see the damage, then I would be believed? I couldn’t do anything right. I couldn’t even be the right sort of rape victim. 

Please, don’t. I will do anything you want, but please don’t do that. 

I didn’t fight. I didn’t run. I stilled my body, tried to catch the breath lodged in my throat, and seeped my mind out of that moment. I was outside of my own skin, untouched and waiting. Waiting to examine the wreckage, to decide if my body was too worthless to still live in. (trash)
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I looked into his eyes and realized he never cared about me as a romantic partner, friend, or simply another human being. 

That hurt as much as the physical violation. Have you ever looked at someone and realized that they didn’t see you as a human? 

I was an Object. 
Disposable. 

(trash)

I felt like trash.

I still feel like trash. 
_____________________________

He left, I cried. My cat circled around my legs and hopped into my lap. I could not feel anything in the space between my legs. Then I did the absolute dumbest thing a rape victim can do. I tried to make it all slide back to before he was there. If I could make it all go away, then this never happened. 

I cleaned up the house. My kids would return the next day and everything was dirty and wrong in my home. (trash)  I tried to scrub the couch and my mattress. The shirt I had used to wipe him off of me? Into the washing machine. The stockings he ripped? In the garbage. My dress? Bottom of a  dirty laundry pile. 

How could my children come home to this house? How can I get him completely out?

At least I had the good sense to not clean my body. 
_________________________________

It was 3 a.m. 
_________________________________

A friend picked me up in a Lyft and we went to the crisis center. There was paperwork and more paperwork. Someone got me a coffee and a water. I wasn’t cold, but I couldn’t quit shaking. 

The SANE nurse was kind and thorough. 

Let me take a picture of your pretty face.

She swabbed my mouth. I undressed and wrapped myself in a thin hospital gown. I sat on an exam table while she scanned my body with a black light. She took a cotton swab and gently lifted semen samples from my hair. She swabbed my vagina and vulva. 

You have a lot of redness. 

She photographed the abrasions that were forming. She combed through my pubic hair for what he left behind.

(trash)

Then she did the internal exam. 

I wept.

It hurt. 

I could feel shame bruising through my skin. How could I have been so dumb?

She gave me follow-up paperwork for my doctor. I would have to get retested for STIs in three months. My doctor would prescribe an antibiotic to prevent Chlamydia, just in case. Luckily, I have a tubal ligation and didn’t need to worry about a possible pregnancy.  
_________________________________________

I was told I could shower. The crisis center had bins of underwear and bras. Sweatpants and t-shirts. Shampoo and soap. I washed in the scalding water and scrubbed. I couldn’t get clean enough. My body will never be clean enough. He felt imprinted on me and inside me. 

I scrubbed and worried about the dull, throbbing ache between my legs. I wondered what I would have to do to shrug off this feeling of complete grossness. (trash) If I could shed an entire layer of myself and step out of my body it would be over. 
I could still feel his weight, it sat anviled on my chest. 

(trash)
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I went home. I slept while my friend stayed with me.  I alternated between frozen peas and a heating pad between my legs. 

My children came home from school and I sent them to their father’s house. From that day, until my rapid move a week later, I did not sleep in that house alone. I wanted to forget what happened, but my sleep was troubled, I didn’t want my kids to touch me (trash), and I felt unsafe. He knows where I live and what if he found out I told someone at the crisis center?
_____________________________________________

A few days after my rape, I told my therapist that I was not going to report. 

What good will it do? They never go to jail.

Amanda, you could be the first report. In fact, you may be the second or third report. He may not go to jail this time, but you could protect other women.
_____________________________________________

I decided to report.

I went back to the crisis center with a dear friend and a police officer took my report. My friend, the crisis center advocate, and I walked to the court house. I can’t even begin to tell you the stupid hoops one must go through to get a temporary order of protection. I needed his full name, home address, and his birth date to even be allowed to fill out the form. How many rape victims know all of this information? The paperwork was repetitive and endless. I was frustrated and cried in front of a clerk who didn’t seem to understand that I was afraid he would kill me since I made a police report. 
______________________________________________

A week and a half later, I was in my new rental home. 

I was able to do this because I have the world’s most wonderful friends. They put me in a hotel for a few days so I could sleep, they let me stay in their homes, and physically and financially helped me move. They sent flowers, coffee, notes of encouragement, and food. When I went to court for the order of protection hearing, they lined up in front of me so I could walk to and from the courtroom without seeing him.
_________________________________________________

I was interviewed by a detective. He was kind and I know he believed me, but he had to ask me questions that would certainly come up in a court case:

What were you wearing?
How long was your dress?
Why were you wearing a cardigan?
How much did you drink?
Were you drunk?
Was he drunk?
Did you touch him?
What kind of music was he playing?
How many times did you say no?
Did he hear you say no?
Were you afraid?
Did he ask if you were okay?
Did he apologize?
Did you try to move or pull away?
Are you submissive? 

You seem really docile and sweet… like you would do anything for anyone. 
_______________________________________

On November 11th, 2019, I went to court to get a full order of protection. I had my attorney, an advocate from the crisis center and friends to go with me. I exited the elevator and saw my advocate and my dear friend. 

He’s here, she said. He’s over there. 

I counted on him not showing up. My attorney said they almost never show up. I felt the breath knock out of my chest. 

I don’t want him to look at me. I can’t look at him. 

I started crying and I wanted to run. 

I was ushered into an office and my attorney obtained permission for us to go to an empty jury room. 

When it was time for me to enter the courtroom, those wonderful women made a wall of their bodies so I could pass by without seeing him, without him seeing me. 

In the courtroom, I stared at one spot on the shiny, lacquered table. I did not look at him. 

My teeth chattered despite the warmth of the courtroom. I kept thinking of cowered rabbits hiding in the grass and waiting for a predator to pass. Stay silent, stay still, and wait to breathe. 

My attorney spoke. The judge asked a few questions. He answered. He did not contest. He signed and assented to the order of protection. Until 11 November 2020, I have a rectangle of paper that is supposed to protect me. I carry it in my purse, my car, traveling to states far away from him, on quick trips to the grocery store, when I go into the gym....

As if this paper can unfurl protection and call back what was taken. 
___________________________________

How do I end this telling? As abruptly as the entire justice system halted? 

It was simply over. 

He was interviewed by the detective. Everyone - including him - knows that he did me irrevocable and unforgivable harm. 

The rape kit is still being sent to the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. Maybe one day it will be processed and my rapist’s DNA will sit there until another woman decides to report. 

My dress, stockings, and an object he put inside me is somewhere in an evidence room for who knows how long. 

The system is broken. 

(trash)

Allegedly, he relocated to another state, “for work.” I don’t know if that is true. 
_____________________________________

I want to end this with some powerful declaration that I’m okay and a survivor. I’ve repeated the word trash because it is the best way to describe how I feel about myself and what happened. I’m not naive enough to think that telling my truth will erase that feeling. Instead, I’m acknowledging it and sitting with the discomfort until it passes. 

We skip to “survivor” too quickly. It is easier, to think that I could come out of this bruised, but victorious as if this were a battle where I had a fair chance of winning. If I take away the word victim, that negates his culpability. This was a thing that was done to me, not a thing for me to overcome. Survivor puts the onus on me to be strong and move on with my head high. My head is on a body that still doesn’t feel like mine. How the fuck am I supposed to move on? 

When we take away the word victim, we take away the culpability of a justice system that views my body as less than property. If he keyed my car or burned my house down, there would be repercussions. What he did to my body, is “hearsay.” Where is the preponderance of evidence? Do I have to show you what was stolen to prove that it is gone?

I’ve tried to write this for almost three months. I really wanted to end it nicely, but there isn’t a nice ending. 

Do you want to know why I fill-up my social media with the wonderful things in my life: my children, my friends, and all the small joys? I’m trying to remember that there is good and that there are parts of my life that he can’t reach. It is a reminder to stay.

I don’t sleep. I cram the hours with work, and plans, and friends, and a thrum of activity because when I’m alone and in silence he is all I can hear. (trash)
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I want that connection to my body again. I miss it. I miss being able to feel connected to other bodies. The body remembers and my body is wary of everyone. 
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A few days before Christmas, I attended a workshop led by a friend. In this workshop, we talked about how to care for ourselves, find some direction and goals for the new year, and we participated in a guided “inner mentor” meditation. In this meditation, I imagined myself leaving my body and going into the future to talk to my inner mentor. My inner mentor knows exactly who I would be if I allow true self to show; a self untouched by insecurities and wrapped in calmness. She knows my past, my capabilities, and my desires. There are things she wants to tell me about the future.

I’m going to share what I wrote after the meditation:

“She was in a cozy hobbit-like home. A wooden house with a big garden filled with flowers and animals. Her home was warm and stocked with books, pictures, blankets, large windows, and swathed in quiet. I could smell coffee and bread. She is old, with long silver hair, and kind eyes. 

I ask her: 

In the end, what matters most?

Love and beauty, she said. 

I saw images of people - I couldn’t identify the faces - and also flowers, trees, books, birds, and the interior of her safe and inviting home. 

Will anyone ever love me, will I find my true person?
         
She smiled and did not answer. 

What is your name?

Patience

What is my true song?

Be authentic and listen to yourself.

How do I get to where you are?

Listen. Wait. 

She gave me a worn and tightly folded piece of paper and said, "this is a poem. Do not open it. It will unfold in time.'”
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I thought this meditation was about my divorce or finding consistent and true romantic love. (I'm still and forever will be a hopeless romantic.) As I’ve wrestled with this telling, I’ve returned to this meditation and now I understand. It is about me, not another person. I need to be patient. All that is tightly wound will open in time. The ugly and hateful will fade and there will be beauty and love. 
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Until that time, there is only one thing I can do to defy him; one action to remind myself that he cannot tell me what to do with my body and my voice.

And the one thing he told me not to do. 

I can speak.