Ribeye Steaks & Pine Needles

In this blog, I try awfully hard to be truthful; I believe being truthful in hopes of being helpful is one of the only reasons a person should put their thoughts out into the world. Maybe this will help, maybe this will hurt, but by God it will be truthful.

I am a member of the hordes who cannot believe the story that's come out of Stanford's campus this past 7 days.  Last year (January 2015), a woman was raped while unconscious behind a dumpster.  Her rapist was a Stanford student (the survivor was an older sister of a current student). He was quite literally "caught in the act", chased, captured, and held until police arrived on the scene.  The woman he raped had no knowledge of her attack until she came to in a hospital bed, nurses extracting pine needles from her hair. She learned further horrifying confirming details via police reports and the Internet.   She described this entire experience in a heartwrenching "letter" to her rapist, read aloud at his sentencing.  She experienced what so many survivors do: depression, anxiety, fear of crowds & public places, guilt, shame.

The reason this 2015 rape is now in the media is because of the recent sentencing of the perpetrator.  He was given SIX MONTHS in a county jail, with probation following.  He must also register as a sex offender (this is standard for anyone who has been convicted of multiple sex crimes).  The maximum sentence that he could have been handed for the THREE felonies he was convicted of in this case was 14 years in a state facility.  Instead.... 6 months.  

Adding insult to injury, his father also sent a letter to the court, asking for leniency for his son in sentencing.  In this missive, he details his son's depression and anxiety since the incident.  He talks about how his son no longer enjoys his favorite foods (most notably, ribeye steaks) and that he is no longer a happy kid.  He states that "20 minutes of action" should not be held against his son. No, I'm not kidding.  No, this is not from an article by "The Onion".  This is REAL.  ALL OF IT.

I am not a person who likes the word "trigger"; it's been mocked and overused in the media for so long now that it immediately conjures the words "you might be a big baby, so we're covering our asses" in my mind. But they are real. Triggers, at the heart of trauma, are things that provoke a response in a person. Different people have different triggers, ranging from olfactory and auditory cues, to the inability to be in certain places, watch certain movies, or read certain books. Once triggered, a trauma survivor may cry, hide, become depressed, feel anxious, or even go into a full-blown flashback.  That means their brain is literally showing them their trauma again, via every one of the five senses. They re-experience their trauma. Well, I was triggered by this rape reporting. I felt afraid. I had intrusive thoughts. I could physically feel my attack. I could smell my rapist's cologne. I could hear his voice. And then.....I felt pure rage. I am angry, ladies and gentlemen. 

I am angry because what happened to this woman at Stanford was wrong, and her attacker got the proverbial "slap on the wrist". 

I am angry because 97% of sexual assaults go unreported, maybe because survivors are afraid, maybe because they believe it was their own fault. And sentences like Brock Turner's are the reason why survivors don't report. Cases like his are not just the tip of the iceberg, but a drop of moisture on the tip of this colossal iceberg we now refer to as "rape culture".  

When this society hears the word rape, the first thing they ask is "Well, what were you wearing?" "Was it dark out?" "Were you walking alone?" "Did you have any alcohol beforehand?", and so on. I was personally so "in tune" with and aware of this response that I didn't report my own rape. I immediately questioned whether it really happened the way I remember. I knew no one would believe me. No one could possibly think that an overweight, ugly 20 year old would be attacked in that way....I wasn't pretty enough to be raped! I must have led the guy on. I must have had too many cocktails. I must have somehow lured him into a quiet space without any people around so he could put his hand around my throat and force sex on me. My being a member of this society and its "rape culture" made me BELIEVE that I CAUSED a person to rape me. Folks, I've done my share of partying in my lifetime, and I've seen people get absolutely obliterated on alcohol, but they somehow managed to NOT RAPE ANYONE. Alcohol and pretty dresses and flirty talking don't cause rape. RAPISTS do. 

I didn't report my assault, and to this day I am furious with myself, just another facet of my recent blooming anger. I feel I've let women down all over the world. I am a part of that 97%, and it's egregiously disappointing to me. But now seeing the Stanford rape case end the way it has for the rapist, I'm furious at the system as well. I throw my hands up and scream at the television "Well, why would anyone bother reporting rape if their rapist isn't going to be punished?!?!??!" I'm furious at all the people who think that girl must've lied. I'm furious with the judge who felt that the "impact" prison would have on this rapist meant more than the terror, anguish, and triggers this survivor will carry for the rest of her days. While every person is different, I can tell you that these feelings don't fade with time. I was raped 16 years ago, and the thoughts and flashbacks still make me nauseous. I cry sometimes for "no reason".  I suddenly feel scared in a public place when there isn't an apparent threat. This is trauma. This is the terror that never leaves you. I never suffered from claustrophobia until I was raped; now I have a great fear of enclosed space, being buried alive, of things touching or wrapping around my throat. This is what my rapist has left me with. 

When will we learn? When will we stop allowing rapists to walk away with little to no punishment? When will we as a society say that there is never a "reason" for rape, except that a person was attacked by a rapist? When will we show the generations of men & women to come that we stand with them in their time of need, that we will stand up for right in the face of anything? When will we hold ourselves accountable?

When will we no longer need to be so angry?

Damaged Goods

I'm not sure if it's poignant or just incredibly cliche that TV and film lead me to some of my "aha" moments. I have always had an incredible ability to tune everything else in my life out while I watch a favorite show or movie. God help the man or woman who tries to carry a conversation with me while I watch Star Trek, Doctor Who, or "Laura"; that film is like my own private symphony. Every line and look is inspired. 

But ANYway, last night I was taking up too much of the couch during "Downton Abbey", when the Bates family finally got on the same page surrounding a traumatic event. While Anna insisted she was "spoiled", and John reassured her she was not, telling her instead that she was all the more important for what she had been through, I cried a lot, and started to ponder the idea of being "damaged goods" or "spoiled". What does that mean for survivors of trauma, especially something as potentially physically invasive as rape?

We often feel spoiled, I believe, when we fail at something, or cannot achieve what it is we were hoping for. Sometimes we fall somewhere in the middle, like a high jumper who hits the bar rather than sailing over.

My rape happened 14 years ago, but for some reason my body and brain were not ready to handle even thinking about it until now. And so what happens? Far after the event, I have nightmares and flashbacks. My mind races and I find myself asking now "Am I damaged goods? Have I been spoiled?" Media surrounding this subject was something I ignored, thinking "Those poor survivors and families; what must they go through?" This is an inevitable "side effect" of repression. Now that I'm owning things, this same media cuts me to the quick, makes me uncomfortable and angry. My friend Bipolar Disorder seems to have come for another interminable visit, and the anger and fear of my rape comes with it. 

Every morning I wake and I weep. I shower, take my meds, eat, and go about my day, but there it all is, between the crying and the cataloging and the singing. You were damaged, you were attacked, you were made different. 

There are some who say they would never choose to forget what happened to them, that it has made them stronger and more aware. I, on the other hand, would take a lobotomy in a heartbeat. If the TARDIS showed on my doorstep right now and the Doctor offered to erase that night from my mind, I would gleefully ask for the sonic screwdriver to be pointed right at my brain. But that isn't going to happen. And so we move along. 

As I lay in bed that night after that episode of "Downton Abbey", I asked my husband, "Am I damaged in your eyes?" He paused and replied, "It never even entered my mind. Not for a second." 

And so I attempt to move along.