Eu conheci uma garota chamada

My job is an advocate for victims of gender-based crimes. I got into this field by what you might call a lucky accident. I saw an ad in a newspaper for a victim/witness worker (the job description for some reason didn’t make me think it was a victim advocate), applied and got the job. The rest is history; I’ve been an advocate for seven years.

However, fifteen years ago, when I was eighteen/nineteen, I was a victim of domestic violence. I experienced serious physical assaults, I was stabbed (I still bear the scar), emotional abuse, coercive control, financial abuse and sexual assault. All aspects of my life were controlled by him. There was no option to say no to sex. I would say no and then realize it was pointless because he wouldn’t stop anyway. At the time, I didn’t see this as sexual assault because it didn’t fit into the narrative of rape or a romantic partner being a rapist.

I testified in two jury trials and thankfully both ended in guilty verdicts. During this time, I had to leave my home with a baby to live in a confidential domestic violence shelter in a different town that was far away from my home and support system. I felt lucky to have an advocate, and I worked with supportive detectives and prosecutors who helped me get what felt like justice.

I have two distinct memories from that time that were life-changing. After reporting, an officer pulled me to the side and said, “he’s going to kill you, please leave.” That brief interaction penetrated through the fog and dissociation and woke me to the danger I was in. The officer wasn’t supposed to do that but did it anyway. I don’t know if they remember me or if they will ever know the impact that interaction had.

The second memory is from the last trial. After the guilty verdict, the prosecutor walked me out of the courthouse to make sure I got to the train station safely. He was so happy and celebrating the guilty verdict. I looked at him, confused. Why is this a moment of celebration? I thought. Again, I was awakened out of the daze I was in, ripped out of the tunnel vision and survival mode. I hadn’t thought to be happy or celebrate; I had just been surviving the trial and the attack of cross-examination I had to endure. I was too focused on proving I was telling the truth and being a “good victim.”

My abuser went to prison twice and served around two years. I was deeply touched that the prosecutor and officer were fighting for me when I didn’t have the strength. These experiences made becoming an advocate special to me, like the universe wanted this to happen.

I left that relationship and never went back. None of that was going to define me. I went on to get a bachelor’s and master’s degree, moved, traveled, and time went on as it does in its never-ending march. I spent years rebuilding and plastering over the cracks. I thought I had built a house of bricks, but it was a house made of straw, unknowingly precarious and could be blown down by a wolf at any time. What recovery, moving on, surviving used to mean to me was not talking about it. I promised to never say my abuser’s name again. I won’t be defined by abuse or domestic violence; I won’t be labeled a victim, I thought. The final cherry on top was becoming an advocate because that meant I had come full circle and I was now on the other side.

I didn’t tell my coworkers that I had been a domestic violence victim. I wanted to be good at my job because of my education, work experience, and skills, not because I had been a victim myself; something that I didn’t choose to be. At times, I felt like an undercover agent, like I was wearing a mask, and was a victim playing dress up as an advocate.

I believed that I was finally safe. But that all changed in an instant. My attack happened at work. I had the left court where I was supporting a victim, and I was walking back to my office, head down, attention on my phone. I was distracted thinking about the court hearing I’d just been in and how happy the victim was with the outcome. I was walking up the stairs to the front of my office building when I was grabbed from behind, groped, and sexually assaulted by a stranger, a random stranger. It was so aggressive I fell forward and up the stairs.

A lot of the misogynistic tropes that society holds about sexual assault do not apply here. It was in the middle of the day, on a busy street in a city. I was wearing work attire, appropriate to be in a criminal courtroom; I was at work, and it happened across the road and within sight of a police precinct. This realization rocked my world.

“What were you wearing?”

“Why were you walking late at night alone?”

“You shouldn’t have drank that much.”

“You should have chosen better.”

“Did you lead him on?”

We’ve all heard victims be asked these questions. I did all the “right things,” and it still happened to me. I couldn’t have prevented it. This time my attacker will probably get away with it because he’s a stranger — suspect unknown.

I am haunted by a nameless face and stalked in this city by his ghost. We walk the same streets, under the same sky, probably drink coffee made by the same barista, and stand on the same platform waiting for the light rail. That face is vivid in my mind; he’s still there in the background, following me wherever I go. I avoid those stairs at work and walk the long way. No more headphones while walking. I’m alert at all times, head swiveling side to side, and my eyes scanning the area.

This attack took away my safety, which I had worked so hard to build. In that moment, I felt like I was stripped naked and torn apart and flagged in front of a crowd. I wasn’t safe from violence at home, and I wasn’t safe outside in the world either. No longer was I a strong, independent woman who had overcome domestic violence and became an advocate. I was a victim myself again.

I never identified with the term survivor. Yes, I survived domestic violence and sexual assault, but I want more than surviving — I want to thrive. I want safety and to be able to live in a world where everyone can walk in the dark, late at night, on a deserted street with headphones and get home safely without feeling scared or hypervigilant. I want to wear a bikini and heels and nothing else and not feel judged or objectified. I also want a relationship where I feel confident in saying no to sex or wearing what I want without fear of my partner getting jealous.

I felt that I was cursed. All I have done in my life is put out love and goodness into the world. I volunteer on the weekends and plant native tree species with parks & rec department. My job is a victim advocate, and I’m that friend who will pick you up from the airport or bake you a birthday cake. But in return, I get violence and abuse.

I’ll never know the life I could have lived, the people I could have been. Trauma, violence, and assault have plagued my life. I’m exhausted from carrying the trauma behind me. My life was shattered. I laid in bed for weeks, crying and depressed, and if I did get out of bed, I had panic attacks. The panic attacks got so bad that I couldn’t breathe, and my blood pressure would go so high I would go to the doctor’s office, and they wouldn’t let me leave.

I had prior knowledge of KCSARC, and from the first call, I knew this was the place I needed to go to get help. I started therapy, and the therapy saved my life; there are no words to even express the impact my therapist had on my life. My trauma was Goliath; I was David. My therapist gave me the slingshot and rock to defeat the giant I was facing. I knew walking would help. I hated it at first. My mind would race, and I just cried, sunglasses on and cap pulled down, but I made myself go on “stupid mental health walks,” as I called them. The combination of therapy and walking got me back on track.

I had been barely functioning, but I had to keep going. Life isn’t set up to accommodate this kind of trauma, and I felt bitter about that. I didn’t have anyone close who would even begin to understand what was happening to me. I couldn’t relate to the privilege of not experiencing intimate violence and trauma. People around me were talking about vacations, date nights, and telling jokes. I wish that’s what I had been able to think about and enjoy. Trauma has a statute of limitations in the real world — your job and friends are understanding at first, but you’re expected to go back to work and carry on, to be the happy and bubbly friend again.

Luckily, I had a preplanned trip to Paris, a much-needed change of scenery. I walked into the hall in the Louvre and saw Nike, tall, powerful, and beautiful, but headless, armless, and one wing reconstructed. Nike had been reconstructed and rebuilt; she is the goodness of victory. In her original placement, she faced northeast, which archeologists suggest means Nike is representing spiritual victory. This resonated with me. I was fighting my own battles on a hard journey to get to my own spiritual victory. I felt like I was also armless, headless, and broken into pieces and scattered. With the help of my therapist, I picked them back up one piece at a time and put myself and life back together.

Art reminds me that there is beauty in the world. Both art and music have always helped me to remember this. Art is the opposite of trauma. Trauma dulls the world and sucks the joy out of it. It isolates you and cuts you off from yourself, your body, and the world around you. On the other hand, art is beautiful and reminds me that there is something worth fighting for and that healing does exist. The arts connected me back to my body, senses, and emotions.

This new trauma reopened old wounds. I was bleeding from two wounds, and I was bleeding out. My past perspective of silence and “keep calm and carry on” wasn’t working this time. I knew this time I was going to have to talk about my feelings and retell my assaults. I was not happy about it at first, but deep down I knew it was the right thing. I didn’t want shame or, worse, pity from others. I have seen the faces of others who don’t know what to say because they haven’t experienced it.

I know that silence only helps the abusers. The first time I heard the song Fairchild by Dave, I was stopped in my tracks. I have always found music moving and an expressive art form that can tell a story, set a scene, read like a poem, or highlight an issue to a wide audience. The song describes what it feels like to live as a woman and the dangers we face. Broader and overarching societal themes around violence against women are also addressed, which isn’t talked about enough in popular culture. Dave highlights the misogyny and patriarchy that seeps into mainstream media, cultural norms, and people’s views, attitudes, and unconscious biases. The result is that it has created a climate that fosters abuse of women and children and protects the perpetrators. The current culture and systems in place make it so that we “all know a victim, don’t know a perpetrator,” as the song says.

I will no longer take on shame or embarrassment; I am giving that back to the abusers. I am returning to sender with no return address. It belongs with them, and I relinquish possession of it.

Rest in peace to the person I was before, to all of the trauma, and to all the versions of me I could have been and the lives I could have lived.

Rest in peace to Emilee.

 

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A jornada de cura e recuperação de cada sobrevivente é única e pessoal. Os pensamentos e experiências compartilhados pelos membros do Empowered Voices são pessoais e podem não refletir as experiências ou a jornada de cada sobrevivente. As opiniões expressas não pretendem representar a visão organizacional do KCSARC.