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| *newsflash* this is the traditional mugshot for upperclass white males. |
This past week, Brock Turner was sentenced to a ridiculously short
sentence (six months) after being found guilty of three felony sexual assault
charges. See here for details. His
victim delivered a moving speech, which can be read in its entirety here. It's well worth the read,
even though it's triggering. She details
the trauma of her abuse, along with the often overlooked trauma of reporting,
the resultant trauma of dealing with the police and the legal
system, the additional trauma of little to no repercussions for abusers,
and the added trauma of a lack of acceptance of responsibility from
the predator.
When I read her speech, I realized trauma truly only begins with sexual assault or abuse. And I felt a sisterhood with her, because even though I've been open about my history of abuse, I've been silent about the trauma of reporting and its aftermath.
As I've been open about my history, I have been amazed by the massive numbers of people who have
come forward, telling me that yes—they were abused too. Literally hundreds of women (and
men!) have shared an appreciation with me about my openness, telling me it
allowed them to feel less alone, less afraid, less damaged.
But I have never, NOT ONCE heard of anyone who
reported their crime. And I have been
wondering this week…why? Am I the only one, out of all the people I know? They say only one in three sexual abuse incidents are reported. I find it entirely possible that even less are reported. But even those who do…why aren’t we talking about it?
Maybe nobody is talking about it because, like me, reporting was deeply traumatic.
This "system of justice" is broken. It breaks us down, while telling us it's fighting for us. It presses us into the box of "victim", telling us we need to sit complacently by while they do the fighting for us...but the fighting is ineffective flailing in the dark. It is fighting for table scraps while the predators have steak. We know ahead of time that the laws are against us; that if the predator had stolen our car or our life savings, he will more likely be prosecuted, convicted, and jailed. That if we were in a court case, our sexual history and mental health status wouldn't even be an issue. Yet, when someone steals a part of our innermost being, we aren't protected, and we are allowed to be skewered in court. This system makes sure we remember good and well that we ARE the victim.
I want you to know, if you experienced the trauma of reporting; You are not alone.
So I break my silence. I
have reported twice; two separate abusers, at two separate times of my life. The first time I reported, I went through an
entire interview, sitting in a stark interrogation room, detailing the abuses I
had experienced and where they happened, in minutae.
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| This is almost exactly what the room looked like. Really comforting. |
Within an hour after my interrogation (umm, "interview"), I received a call from the detective that there
was nothing which could be done against the predator, due to the statute of
limitations. It just happened too long
ago. If only I had reported earlier…
If only my abuser hadn’t traumatized me into submission, denial,
and a dissociative disorder…perhaps I would have.
The second time I reported, it was kind of accidental…a product of
my abuser’s actions more so than mine. Ironically, my abuser took that choice away from me, as he took many choices away
from me. He chose to be public to certain people about what he did, but
refused to accept responsibility. Thankfully, honorable people didn't
take kindly to his "confession-sans-culpability". I was swept
up in the resultant mess.
I spent a year, dealing
with the police and the prosecution as they investigated my abuser...then the
prosecution decided not to press charges after all that time. I have
lived through the interviews, the anguish, the delay of healing (the delay of living) while
waiting for the "justice system" to do their work. I do believe the people within the system are kind,
are dedicated towards making victims feel safe, and do their best;
unfortunately, they were responsible for accidents and delays which should not
have occurred. I believe that I received the utmost of care our department had availabe, and I was still unwittingly
victimized by the people who ought to have protected me. This is wrong.
Unfortunately,
only one person from within the justice system showed any remorse for the way I
was treated, and I do have hopes that my experiences will spur her to press for
changes. I feel too worn out to do any advocating at the moment.
Additionally, the legal system is convoluted and messy,
and—strangely—tied to location. The particular abuse against me is a
crime (even a felony!) in 28 states, but isn’t
even illegal in Ohio.
They tried to find a way to prosecute him, but without a "pattern of
behavior", (i.e. more victims), they couldn't. How strange to hope for more victims. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.
The process of reporting made me feel like a criminal. After
walking down sterile hallways, passing grim police officers, I was placed in a
cold, colorless room with a thick, heavy door which made a loud “click” every time someone entered or left. I wondered if I was
being locked in and observed. I never checked the door, but I did later
find out that I had been videotaped. Perhaps I had been told at the
time—I don’t recall—my anxiety levels at the time muddled with my ability to
fully digest everything told to me. The authoritarian behavior of the
people around me compounded that anxiety and added to it a feeling of impotence
and victimhood. The presence of handcuffs and guns, coupled with the
atmosphere of the room, triggered memories within me reminiscent of abuse I
have endured where shame and guilt was a strong motivator for compliance and
silence.
Over the course of the
investigation, I was repeatedly told to allow the department to “handle” the
case. To try to put it out of my mind. That when any new
development occurred, I would be “the first to know”. But during that
year, there was minimal contact between me and the police department. I
would get panicky every 2-4 weeks, and call for an update. Invariably, I
would be given the same mantra…”We’re still working on it, there’s just so much
info to go through, but when something’s decided…you’ll be the first to
know. Trust me.”
I never even had a
conversation with the prosecutor.
I’m sure the
officers believe they are being reassuring and helpful when
they tell victims that the police department will take care of everything, but
it is most decidedly not helpful. The last thing a victim needs is to
have what little control she has achieved once again removed from her. We
want to feel powerful, and reporting without follow-up, without being involved
in the process, turns us into victims of the police department. We have
simply switched authority figures in our co-dependency.
And I wasn’t the first
to know.
Instead, after a year
of ups and downs, I found out from a third party, IN A COFFEE SHOP, that the office
had decided not to press charges. An accidental slip of information in the prosecutor’s office, and additional trauma was laid on me. I made an utter fool of myself in public, unable to hold back the tears and tremors. I thought I had prepared myself for that day. I knew the laws, and the unliklihood of conviction. Yet the shock caught me. PTSD will do that to you. I was unprepared, in a public place, and betrayed—once
again—by those who had reassured me repeatedly that they were
trustworthy. To add insult to injury, the police lost some of my personal
property, submitted as evidence, irretrievable property.
One of my concerns is that if I,
an above middle-class white woman, can experience victimization at the hands of
the people who are attempting to stop abuse...what's
happening to the marginalized women in
Springfield? I wonder about the drug addicts, the prostitiutes, the homeless...I doubt they receive the care I did. Something needs to change.
Interestingly, I have discovered that I now have some power. Now that there is no
investigation, I could name this man, and say
everything he did, and provide evidence of the abuse. I could splatter
the internet with his crime. And to be completely honest, I enjoy the
feeling of power that gives me over him. That's probably one reason why I don't do it. But mostly I
don't name him because my victimization is a personal thing, and those who are
active in my recovery know what happened, and who did it, and they are watching
out for me.
Even though there was no prosecution, my abuser has experienced
some repercussions. I don’t feel like they are adequate to what he
did. I don’t feel like people are safe from his abusive nature. But
I also know that many influential people are aware of his crimes, which gives
me solace.
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| We are, in many ways, shattered by our experiences. |
Some women have continued past this point. They have fought
for legislation—that’s how 28 states have the correct laws in place. Part
of me feels like I ought to do that. Fight for the greater good. Because that's where the change needs to take place. This is a severe problem, with issues stemming from far up the legal system and beyond into the way our society views women and sexual abuse victims.
But I’m exhausted from the process. Reporting isn’t easy,
psychologically. Police are ill-equipped to deal with traumatized
individuals. And even though I have an excellent support system knowledgeable about trauma-informed care, they are at times dumbfounded as to how to support me. I boldly say that things need to
change, yet I am overwhelmed with my own healing. It is humbling to say
that someone stronger than I must carry that banner.
The “system” failed me. But I haven’t failed. If my abuser hurts someone else, I’m on record. There will be a “pattern of behavior”
established. Knowing that he is not repentant for his crimes, it’s
important to me that I’m on record. I
did my best to stop him from within the system, but if he abuses again, I
will be the pattern. It’s sad that it has to be that way. That us
victims practically have to show up on the witness stand in the process of being abused for it to be prosecutable. That
victims are the ones put on trial. Our histories, our mental health, our
stability; that’s what is on trial. I was told that I would be crushed by
the prosecution, if I was put on the stand. That they didn't think I
could handle it. I'm not emotionally stable enough. But I will be.
And it's because of the abuse we suffered, that we cannot be
stable or healthy enough to face our abusers.
Our abusers make us incompetent witnesses. Isn’t that
ironic?
Maybe some day things will change. Maybe it will be us, the abused; the reporters and the ones who knew reporting was worthless--banded together through our tears and outrage--who find the strength in unity to do what we cannot accomplish alone. We can be champions and heroes for each other and for change.
Because, Beloved sister or brother, you are not alone.
