The response myth

I've heard and seen several news reports in recent days surrounding a local celebrity and allegations of rape, and the sound bytes have angered me greatly. The names are not important. The fact that the grand jury chose not to indict does not matter here. I have no opinion on whether or not a sexual assault occurred. I will not debate any potential social injustice, and I have nothing to say about whether or not the jury was biased. In short, the case is not why this post came to my mind. I am angered by the sound bytes I've heard; short quotes by learned individuals who use their positions of authority to perpetuate a myth.

[She] did not act like a victim.

So there it is. The myth. According to this extremely intelligent, highly-paid, influential individual, there is some sort of "way" a victim is supposed to act, and if those actions are absent, a victim she is not.

So, I ask you, how is one supposed to behave following a sexual assault? 

(pause here for contemplation)

There is no answer because there is no one right way to react. Rape is an assault, but it's not like being beaten up or stabbed with a knife. There is no gaping hole that requires suturing. Sometimes there are no marks, no bruises, nothing to show for the damage that was done. A rapist is a thief, taking what no insurance policy can replace. For so, so many, rape destroys the most precious of gifts, physical intimacy, because of the scars it creates on the spirit.  Preparedness is not possible; so many times these destroyers are those whom we believe are safe. All we can do is react.

I could tell you about child victims who hid the abuse because they were scared for their (or their families') lives. I could tell you about the women I know who self medicate with drugs or alcohol. I could tell you about the ones who go straight to the phone and call police. or the ones with severe depression, or even dissociate. I could tell you about the women who have become victims again, maybe once, maybe twice, or maybe for the several years. I could tell you about the women who get up and go back to the fields to work pretending nothing ever happened.

But I won't. You've heard those stories before. We all have. All I want you to remember, to know, is that there is no textbook response for a victim of sexual assault, and immediate response does not indicate whether or not a crime occurred. 

Forgiving the seemingly unforgivable

This will likely be an polarizing post. Many will disagree with me, but I ask that you hear me out just the same. I am in year 39 of this journey. Forgiving is something I had to do, and I did it only for me. In this post I will tell you about forgiving two rapists- one who raped me at age 6,  the other at age 14. 

I recently read a series of unrelated tweets about forgiveness, and one in particular caught my attention. It stayed with me, echoing in my head, causing me to reflect on my own experience.

               You absolutely do not have to forgive your rapist. Don't let anyone tell you that you should forgive him.

Fascinating. I have never been given permission to not forgive before. And not only that, the writer is adamant in his point. It's said with authority. Absolute. It's command-like in its tone.

Another blogger I read this week put it this way; you don't owe it to your rapist to forgive him.

And that is when I understood the problem; why some victims believe forgiveness is not necessary or even possible. They believe that forgiveness is about the rapist. It isn't. Forgiveness is about the victim, and the victim only. For that reason I believe that the above advice is incorrect. I believe you owe it to yourself to forgive.

I'm not going to sugar coat this. If you are a believer like I am, you are commanded to forgive. The gospel does not give us a list of sins which should or should not be forgiven. The bible doesn't exempt certain groups from this mandate.  It's a heavy burden to bear, but the bottom line is this, God tells me to do it. And I know one thing about God, if He tells me to do something, it's ultimately for my own good. I don't always understand why or how I'm supposed to do what He says, but I know that when I do, blessings follow, so I try to obey.  Many times I fail, but I try.

It took me a while to work through this forgiveness thing, and my path was anything but linear. I was not given time and space early on to properly, and therapeutically, work through the wounds the rapes created. But over the last twenty years or so I have, quite by happenstance, been given opportunities to share with others in the healing process.

As a young adult I found myself working with teens and young women. I was drawn to them.  I identified with their ambitions, insecurities, and hurts. I saw patterns in these women, patterns of abuse and self-harm. 

As I listened to their stories I realized rape and sexual assault were far too common. The amount of anger in their voices resonated with me. I understood that anger. Over time I realized, though, that their anger was also the root cause of their self-destructive behaviors. I watched them enter into unhealthy relationships, engage in risky sexual behaviors, numb pain with alcohol or drugs, cut, or attempt suicide.  I realized that they continued to think of themselves as victims, that all of their relationships revolved around being a victim. In essence, they were stuck in a pattern of behavior that victimized them even more. 

Was I any different? Not really. On the outside I appeared to have overcome the trauma in my life; I was married with children and a good job. I looked  like I had it all together. I was respected by my work and church communities and often asked to take on leadership roles. 

But I continued to play the victim card with those around me. Being a victim was an easy, familiar role to play. Whenever something went wrong I defaulted to an angry outburst followed by deep depression. I forced those around me to yield to my quickly shifting moods, and it seemed to work. 

As a result I felt stuck. My relationships were superficial, built around walls I put up myself. My marriage was OK, even good at times, but definitely not great. I was not the mother I wanted to be. I was distrusting of people. I would get hurt or angered by others very quickly. I still felt, just as I had felt in my teen years, invisible, disposable, unimportant. I refused to be vulnerable because I thought being vulnerable is what caused me to get hurt.

I was angry, and I was righteous about my anger. I did, after all, have very good reasons to be angry. I was raped. That makes people angry. But there was more to my anger; I allowed that anger to seep into every relationship I had for years after the rapes. When something happened in a relationship that made me mad, I believed that in order to be right, I had to stay angry. I did not want to forgive anyone because I didn't want to have to admit that I had done anything wrong. 

I didn't learn about forgiveness all at once. It was definitely something I had to learn in chunks over time.  I've researched the etymology of the word, its definition, and how it has been used in the bible. I've listened to scores of sermons on the topic. You see, forgives is a hot topic in the church world because so many of us have such a hard time with it. The definition of forgiveness is actually quite simple- it means to let go of anger. That's all, but I think we tend to think it means more than that. 

Here are some things forgiveness isn't:

Forgiveness is not forgetting.

No one, God included, thinks for a second that you will ever forget being raped. Memories of trauma are seared into our subconscious whether we actively think on them or not. Memories are a receipt of sorts; a mental proof of something that occurred. There are repressed memories; I know two events happened to me because someone else witnessed them, yet I do not remember them at all. I have had dreams of events in my past. I can not control them any more than I can being triggered by a smell wafting in the air. Forgetting isn't a reliable measure of healing or forgiving. (See more at this post about forgetting)

Forgiveness is not condoning. 

Forgiving someone does not equal approving of their actions. And it also doesn't mean accepting excuses for the behavior. While I recognize and accept that there are certain circumstances surrounding and leading up to the fact that I was raped, the fact remains that I was raped. If rapist #1 was abused prior to assaulting me, he needs to deal with it. If rapist #2 misunderstood me and the way I communicated my crush on him, he needs to learn some things about relationships. Neither of these circumstances are about me, nor do they excuse the crimes committed to me. I do not condone the actions of either rapist. Both of them took something away from me that didn't belong to them, and that can never be repaid.

Forgiveness is not letting him off the hook. 

Your character drives your actions, all actions have consequences, and consequences can affect your character.  The character of the rapists, not mine, led to me getting raped. And since all actions have consequences, what consequences are possible?

Well, obviously there is legal justice. I wanted to pursue legal action as a tween, but was not afforded the opportunity. I had thought that the statute of limitations ran out long ago, but it hadn't. (you can check your state's statute here.) I have been criticized by some for seeking criminal charges 36 years after the fact, but the framer's of my state's laws obviously felt that the crime heinous enough to allow me to do so. In three years the case has gone nowhere. We've been in court a dozen times, but I have not yet gotten to testify. And while his attorney is confident that this will all just go away, I know it is a heavy mental and financial burden for him. He's has to be in court, he has to pay his attorney, he has to explain to his wife what is going on. He took twenty years of my life. I have taken three of his so far.

But what if legal justice is not an option? I know how that feels too.  I have to trust that first statement: Your character drives your actions, all actions have consequences, and consequences can affect your character. If rapist #2 still has the same character, then his actions have not changed. Yes, that means there are other victims out there, but I hope that if there are, one of them has taken legal action. If there aren't, and his character has changed, then I accept that as well. This is the hard part, accepting something that is beyond your control. BUT- know in your mind that forgiving him is not releasing him from the responsibility of owning up to his actions, should the opportunity become available.

Forgiveness does not minimize the pain. 

I did not ignore the pain when I forgave. If anything, the process of forgiving made the pain all the more real. I think the worst part of the pain of rape is the way it affects how you interact with others. Essentially two decades of my life went in the direction set by the rapist. Hurt people hurt people, I was no exception.  I had long lasting emotional baggage from the first rape. The pain he inflicted on me reached way beyond me. My husband, my children, my friends; those closest to me have been affected in one way or another by my pain.

Forgiving them meant I had to repair relationships with those I love. I had to own my own pain as well as own the pain I caused others. Once I had done that, I could move on to rebuilding trust with those people, and eventually get to the point where I could allow myself to feel vulnerable with them.

Forgiving is not confronting.

Here is my absolute- you absolutely do not need to involve a person while forgiving him or her. Forgiving in absentia is necessary for a number of reasons. Maybe the person is already dead, or you don't know where he is; or maybe seeing the person is just plain too painful. That's ok. You can still forgive, because forgiveness is all about you, not him.  It is an action you take, in your head space, to redefine you. 

Forgiveness is not trusting. 

Let me make this perfectly clear; I am commanded to forgive. I am not commanded to trust. In fact, Jesus himself advises us to be wise in gentleness, to be shrewd even. Astute. Discerning. I am to acknowledge evil and recognize people who intend me harm, but I don't have to let them hurt me again. 

On the other hand, forgiveness is:

Forgiveness is agreeing that he acted in a way to hurt you. 

Agree? Agree with whom? Start with yourself. This is when you get rid of the coulda, shoulda, wouldas; the self-doubt, the self blame. Even though I was a child of 6 when I was raped the first time, I still asked myself "why did I let him do those things to me?" This is the voice with which I needed to agree. 

When you forgive someone you bring to light hurt and harm done to you, and you admit it to yourself. This is hurt that you did not invite, you did not ask for. You accept that someone did something to you which was beyond your control. That can be very difficult to do. Control is something most of us like, it makes us feel safe, it lessens the pain. But let me repeat: something happened to you that was beyond your control. You assign blame to the perpetrator of the action and recognize that you are a victim of his actions.

Forgiveness is choosing not to get even. 

This is my personal favorite. I was listening to Charles Stanley on the radio preach about forgiveness. He said "You know you have forgiven someone when you no longer wish that person would be run over by a truck." Oh how I wished for bad things to happen to the monster living next door. I daydreamed of him being trampled by the herd of cows his father raised, or falling off the tractor while setting tobacco, or me telling his fiance of the things he did to me and ruin his wedding plans. I hoped his ship would sink while he was stationed in Sicily. And later I had similar daydreams about a basketball player in my high school. I was consumed with getting even. This obsession led to a series of incidents of self-harm, including attempts at suicide, the ultimate revenge. I planned for everyone to blame him for my death.

My plan failed. There is no way to get even for rape. There is no action that would come close to causing the pain they caused to me. At some point I realized that I had to be thinking of the rapes more than the rapists were; and the time I spent thinking about it only robbed me of positive energy. 

Forgiveness is disconnecting. 

I'm not sure if you've noticed this, but I will twist my sentences around the block in an effort to avoid using a personal possessive pronoun with the word rapist.  

Rape was an act done to me. They, the rapists, do not belong to me. When I forgave the rapists, I severed the bond I had forged with them. And yes, it was a bond I held. As long as I referred to them as mine, the trauma continued. I know it is simply semantics to some, but by being tethered to the rapists in the words I used I was unable to move forward. Letting go was crucial to me as part of healing. Using articles (a, the) instead of personal possessive pronouns depersonalizes the rape. It offers a degree of separation, it gives me freedom to leave him behind. "The rapist" assaulted "my body" which affected "my mind and spirit." My area of control is limited to what belongs to me, and the rapist certainly doesn't belong to me.

Forgiveness is loving yourself.

Let me ask you something, do you love yourself? Twenty years ago I would have answered this question differently than I do now. Like most abuse victims, I struggled to love myself. I had been demeaned and degraded so often; my cries for love and acceptance met by denial. It is hard, no, impossible to love yourself when you view yourself as worthless.

By forgiving  I have told myself that I am more important than anyone who hurt me is. I let go of the anger I harbored so that I could love myself. That is why I had to forgive, and I had to love myself enough to not allow them to hold any space in my head any longer. You see, the anger I held on to came with self-doubt, self-loathing, and fear. When I let the anger go it made room for love. It made room for the positive things people had been saying to me all along but I couldn't hear. It made room for me to be able to see myself in a different light, and as I have recently found out, a light in which others have always seen me. I've got to tell you, I look a lot better in love than I do in anger.

I will not tell you forgiving is easy. I will not try to convince you to forgive in a certain time frame. I won't even tell you that you have to forgive. But I will tell you that forgiving the rapists is what I believe took me from survivor to over-comer. There is a peace on this side that I wouldn't trade for anything. And while I am still in the struggle legally, I know that the battle is already won. They may have taken a part of me when they raped me, and they may have set my path in a direction I wouldn't have chosen on my own; but I don't have time to be angry. I have too much going for me, I have too many things to do, too many people to love.

I'm curious to hear your thoughts. What do you think forgiveness is? What is it not?

If you have something nice to say, I don't want to hear it

I stood at my aunt's house at dusk two Aprils ago, comforting three generations of cousins as they sobbed  over my mother's death. "I can't believe it. She was just over here. She was so good to us. I'm going to miss her so much. I just loved your mother..."

I was numb. I wanted to scream at them, tell them how angry I was, how deeply their kind and thoughtful words hurt me, but I couldn't. I'll admit it. I have mommy issues. I have hated my mother for a couple of decades, but there is no way in that moment I could have made sense of my emotions to them. And the truth is, nothing good would have come of them knowing the truth about my mother. 

By all appearances, Mary was a good woman and perhaps an excellent mom. She worked hard to support me on her own. She recovered from every disaster to come out on the other side with more than she started. She was amazing with money, and no one could make yeast rolls any better than she. 

I am who I am, for better or worse, because of my mother. She is the reason I can cook, and I cook well. She is the reason I am punctual. Always leave the house 15 minutes before you need to. Better to be early than late- I must have heard that at least a thousand times.  Other pearls of wisdom that were ingrained in me include:

• Friends are not important. 
• People only want to be your friend because they want something from you. 
• We have neighbors. Therefore you can not do anything outside where they can see you. 
• Parties are stupid
• Church is for the weak, and just something you do on Sunday. The preacher doesn't really expect you to do what he says from the pulpit 
• Sex is just for the man, and women who enjoy sex are sluts
• You will never be like those people (referring to anyone I admired) 
• Don't be like your sister
• Therapy and counseling are for the weak

As a child I thought Mary was wise. I would sit at the table with her and marvel at the ways she handled adversity in her life. Growing up with an alcoholic father she encountered situations I could not imagine. I heard about how she stole grandpa's keys to avoid riding with him drunk. She shared stories of running away from neighborhood boys. I realized that I was like her; I had my own secrets to survival. She had no idea how alike we were, but I knew how deep the bond was. 

As a teen I thought she was a tyrant. Her rules made no sense. For example, I wasn't allowed to date, but I couldn't go to homecoming dances stag, because girls who do that are sluts. I wanted to play sports, but I wasn't allowed to because I was a piano player and I might hurt my fingers. And then I was told over and over that I would be stupid to go to major in music in college. But the biggest argument always stemmed from the concept of friendship.

Mary had a simple take on friends- just don't have them. At all. Friends are leeches, hanging around with you only because you offer them something they want. No one needs friends. And truly Mary did not have any. Everyone in Mary's life fell into one of three categories. There were family who needed her, family who no longer deserved her, or the unrelated. 

Over the years I watched as Mary helped various family members. And over the years I listened as she ranted about them, how they were dumb and helpless, how they would never be able to make it on their own, how stupid they were. These were the things she said about my sister, my father, my grandmother, my cousins, even my ex-husband after she would get home from helping them in some way.

I don't have to imagine what she thought about me. I told her I was raped as a child, she told me I was making a mountain out of a mole-hill. I told her I was in a fight on the bus, and that the bruise on my cheek was from getting my face stomped.  She thought it was funny and told everyone we met, laughing about it, right in front of me. I told her I was date-raped at 14, she told me it was time to put me on the pill. I attempted suicide and she told me that was because I was weak. I told her I was placing a child for adoption, she told me I "could at least abort it." She kicked me out of the house twice; once as a junior in high school and the other as a pregnant single-mom.

By the time I reached my mid-twenties I saw Mary for who she was, a narcissistic misanthrope. She had no altruistic intentions when helping people; she had projects. Those whom Mary helped sat in awe of her kindness, which only served to validate her already low opinion of the unfortunate project. Whoever this project was, Mary would be obsessed about it. She would visit her project once or twice a week, and make sure all the the project's needs were met. This would go on for a while and then suddenly, without warning or explanation, Mary would cut off all contact. Since these were family members, my sister or I would inevitably run into one of her projects and be asked what had happened to Mary, why she wasn't around any more. We had no answers.

I finally freed myself of  relying on my mother at age 23. Despite my effort to set boundaries, simply to protect myself, Mary still had a negative affect on my life. I felt obligated to maintain a relationship with her for the sake of my children, but I limited how much I would tell her. Even so she found ways to meddle, attempt to sabotage even, my relationships with my husband, children and in-laws. She called John, more than once during the first years of our marriage, and warned him that I was bi-polar, depressed, and often suicidal. She took my children to see movies I told her I didn't want them to see. She convinced my in-laws to write her into their will, leaving everything to her should John die before they did.

But my children adored her. For another decade I continued to fake it for their sake. And then things changed. She didn't show for Thanksgiving dinner. When I called her she told me she had to be at home because she was having a roof put on her house. After that, she just stopped calling. My boys would call her and talk, but she would not have any time for them. Their doting, indulgent grandmother just suddenly didn't want anything to do with them. No explanation. That was somewhere around 2007. She did not attend Jared's graduation or any of John's high school basketball games.She did not see the kids on any holiday.

Mary died in April of 2013. It had been at least 5 years since any of us had had any contact with her. But she contacted her sister and nieces regularly. When they couldn't get a hold of her, they called my sister. Mary had probably been dead a week. The coroner said it appeared that she sat in her chair and died peacefully.

I knew my mother's death would be hard for me. I knew it would bring to the surface all of the feelings I had successfully compartmentalized for so long; feelings of anger and abandonment. In a strange way I was prepared for that. I even had a counselor waiting for my call. Seriously, I had seen her a year earlier to prepare myself for talking about the rape, in detail, for the first time. She recognized on our first meeting that my mother was one of the demons I needed to exorcise.

I was not, however, prepared for others telling me what a wonderful person she was. I was not, and am still not, able to listen to people talk about their wonderful memories of her. And I don't say that to demean those people; I know that they genuinely have those positive memories. But I also know that they did not have the pleasure of seeing Mary's ugly side, which is the part I remember most. Standing there on my aunt's stoop, watching my cousins fall apart, hugging them while they cry on my shoulder, hearing about all of the interactions they had had with her in the last month; it was simply salt in a wound.

I decided long ago that the cycle ends with me. I am not my mother. My husband and children make sure that I do not become my mother. I know that I  have not yet forgiven her because I am still angry with her. I very much want to let that go, and it is getting better. Forgiving my mother has been so much harder than forgiving the men who raped me, but it is something I have to do, so I continue to work through it.

But in the meantime, please avoid telling me how great she was. I know you are being nice, and it's not you, it's me...but I just don't want to hear it.

Justice

I used to get angry when I heard sexual assault victims talk about not pressing charges and seeking justice. "You don't know what it's like," they would tell me. "It's like being assaulted all over again." That is true. I did not know what it was like, I had no idea how violated they felt recounting the events over and over again to

For so long I was envious of those
who had an opportunity to confront
 abusers in court. 

strangers. But since we are being honest I can tell you that my anger was fueled by one thing: jealousy. I was so envious of them; they had everything I didn't have. They had support of family and friends. They had time on their side. Many had physical evidence. It seemed so simple to me, just press charges and seek justice.

And then I found out that everyone who had had an opportunity to help me seek justice 30 years ago lied to me. I had been told by my parents, educators, counselors, and even a police officer that the statute of limitations had run out in 7 years. The bastard had been protected by my silence during the only period in which I could have sought justice. I trusted them. And they lied.

Maybe they meant well, but the truth is, rape of a child under the age of 12 in my state is a class A felony. There is not a statute of limitations on class A felonies. On February 12, 2012 I gave my statement to the state police detective and started the wheels of justice moving. I knew it would be a long and difficult process. But I have only one goal: get his name published as being accused to open the door for other victims to go through. Anything else is icing on the cake.

I am up for the fight. In the last three years I have had 27 interactions with the system. I have been in court (with the bastard) 6 times for preliminary hearings. I have signed statements and read briefs. I have waited for the judge to make decisions. And I have weekly emailed to victim advocate in the prosecutor's office to help them remember my name and my case.

And 27 times I have dealt with an emotional response that I can only describe as rattling, as if my foundation has been moved, like I'm not grounded. I'm not sad or tearful, but I am a bit melancholy. It lasts for a day or two, and during this time I am strangely gentler than normal. I still can not give this feeling a name. None of the usual emotions seem to  fit. So I just call it rattled and unbalanced.

I did nothing wrong. I did not invite
being raped.  I do not hold any shame.

I do not have unresolved feelings about the rapist. I have been speaking this same truth for almost 39 years. My story has not changed. He raped me. He knew what he was doing. I did not, I did not deserve it, and I did nothing to cause it. It happened TO me, not BECAUSE of me. He holds the shame, not I. He mentally tortured me for the next 6 years that I lived next door to his parents. I have heard rumors that there was a group of older boys who bullied and sexually abused other boys in the town. If so, and if he was also a victim, that truth needs to come out as well. The bottom line is simple, the truth must come out.

I am not afraid to testify. This process is complicated, but the next forward step is to have a hearing where I tell the entire story to the judge in front of the bastard and the defense attorney. I am completely ready to do that. I dreamed about being able to do that for three decades. He no longer has any power over me, and I look forward to the day I can sit on the stand and let him hear my words.

And yet, I have this strange unsettling feeling every time I deal with this.

Finally, after encounter #26, I got it. I now understand what sexual assault victims had been trying to tell me.

I am not afraid of the rapist. 

I am afraid of being failed by the system.

Encounter #26 was a phone conversation with the detective. We had gotten a ruling in our favor, and the detective would have to file charges again. I told him I was scared; the prosecutor had told me that she and the judge were tired of the case. He encouraged me by saying "They don't have that option. It is their job to fight for justice for you. I am frustrated for you and will continue to fight as much as I have to for you."  His words were exactly what I needed to hear. I needed to know that someone else, someone with more power than I have, was willing to fight for me. 

Every brief, every motion, every hearing takes us one step closer to justice. But every brief, every motion, every hearing is because of some legal wrangling on the part of the defense. I have to believe that these maneuverings on the part of defense counsel are intentional because she knows what I believe- if this case ever gets to a grand jury he will be indicted. He admitted to abusing me to the state police. Once he is indicted, perhaps the flood gates open.

But each time I wonder- will the judge decide in my favor? Will justice reign? Will I ever get to tell my story on the record?

I was failed by so many people in my past. My parents. My friends. Psychologists. A psychiatrist. Teachers. School counselors. Boyfriends and even an ex-husband. All of these people told me to get over it. Move on. There's nothing that can be done. People I trusted, people in power and with influence over me, disregarded my desire for justice as teen histrionics.

Will I get the same treatment from the legal system now? Will I be told, as matter of law, that justice is a gift I don't deserve? Will I be discarded as a case that doesn't matter, dismissed and not believed?

With the words of the detective ringing in my ears I identified the lie in which my fear is based: "You are not worthy of justice," and I have replaced it with the truth:

I am worthy of justice and worth the fight.

I find it amazing how much more support I have now. My love holds my hand during every court appearance. All of my friends offer words of encouragement whenever I give an update. None of them have ever discouraged me from continuing this process. They want to help me. They join me in spirit during the fight. They celebrate the victories and mourn the losses with me.

I don't expect that unsettled feeling to go away. I did not ask for this fight, but I will finish it. I know that defense counsel will continue to throw road blocks into my path. But I am worthy of justice, and I am worth this fight. Other victims of the bastard who raped me are worthy of justice and worth this fight. And if you are a victim of sexual assault I tell you-

You are worthy of justice and worth the fight.