I have read so much over the past two years about how the body remembers the things we want to forget, how even when the dates and details are fuzzy, we can feel aches and sorrow in our hearts. This year is five years since I made the decision to face my rapist in court, and I have felt it more than ever in the past few years since that day. Maybe five years is a milestone year, a true anniversary, I don’t know. But I’ve been writing about it. Been revisiting the court dockets and my own memories to interrogate what the courts have called justice.
I didn’t have great plans for myself or my life at 23. I was happy with the smallness of my life, job hopping, drinking the days away, and more. I was in a new relationship then, I was in love, but that didn’t give me much hope for my future either. All of my life was defined by the hurt I experienced.
About a week before the man I had called a friend raped me, we sat on his couch and made music together. I was drunk and high, and he made me sing Karma Police by Radiohead. He seemed enraged when I sang quietly, he pushed me to be louder and braver. I didn’t understand where the emotion came from in him and I wanted to go home. That experience was one of a couple of experiences I had with him that made me uncomfortable, but this one stands out in my mind as particularly hurtful and odd.
The next week when he text me to hang out, I hesitated. I was with good friends, I felt safe and happy, but he told me he had been sad over his ex wife and needed a friend, so I went to him. He brought me pills, brought me drink after drink until I was woozy and slurring my words. He led me to his bedroom and stopped to say
“I know it seems like I’m trying to take advantage of you, with all the drugs and alcohol, but I love you and I’d never hurt you.”
I would gain consciousness to him raping me later that night.
When the case was going to trial, my rapist and his lawyer proposed a plea deal. I remember getting the call from the detectives and crying. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, I was angry that someone wouldn’t just tell me what to do. I cried and cried and lost complete control of myself in the breastfeeding mothers room at work, all because I was presented with an “easy out.”
I didn’t take the deal initially, I wanted to fight. But sitting in that courthouse months later, listening to the questions I was asked by my legal team as the prepared me for the defense, I felt gutless. My throat was ripped out. I couldn’t think or speak. All of them crowded around me with furrowed brows and upturned mouths. They were worried I wouldn’t be able to do it. And I couldn’t. I didn’t. This day five years ago I took the plea deal and walked out of the courthouse into the October wind and sun, got in an uber, and went home.
Five years on, this story still hurts me. I still cry over who I was then, the pain I endured, the suffering and sadness I felt as a victim of rape. I couldn’t believe it had happened to me, again. My plan back then was to kill myself the next day, and I haven’t done that as I am telling you this story right now. I still struggle with being alive, but instead of killing myself, I’m writing a book about this experience. I haven’t seen any books of poetry written about my experience, and I want them in the world.
For years after my rape I went on not knowing my body. My drinking got worse, I disappeared into drugs and alcohol. I hurt myself every day. I didn’t get sober until 2018, and that changed things immensely for me. For one, I’ve finally had to face that day in full clarity, what happened to me. I finally have sat down and remembered every detail of my assault, the whole ugly thing. I’ve had to be alone with my body and my memories, and it is incredibly painful, but I believe there is something beyond that pain.
One of the beautiful things that came out of my assault was my friends who stood beside me through it all. My best friends came to my aid, cooked me meals, lent me money. When I was on my knees they hoisted me onto their shoulders. My gratitude is for them always, so thank you to Shanai, Cale, Lori, Diehl, and Eliana most of all.
When I think that these people could be grieving the anniversary of my death instead of me grieving the anniversary of this trial, it pains me. I almost left this world. I almost gave up. It makes me so sad for the woman I was, the world of hurt I lived in. I don’t know what my rapist is doing now and I don’t care to. The fact that he is a father now still haunts me enough for all these years removed. Some days, I am happy that I’m alive. Somedays, not so much. Today is one of those days, I’m struggling with my depression a lot lately, and I know that though my mind can tell me I’m better off dead, that doesn’t mean its true.
One day at a time, I’ll be okay. I’ll find my way back to my joy and my passion for living, growing, and making. I love being a poet, that has saved me more than anything. I’ll listen to my sad songs and cry for myself but I’ll be alive at the end of it.