I am the only person I know who regularly gets money in the mail and hates it. The envelope gives it away. If it was post-marked Publisher’s Clearing House and was the size of an ice cream truck I might feel differently but the letter today is from the State Department of Corrections, Offender Obligation Unit. I don’t want to open it. The girl who takes karate lessons and punches until her knuckles bleed wants to just rip it into a thousand tiny pieces and throw them into the spring wind to catch in somebody’s lawn and eventually be made into a nest. But the practical part of me needs to know. I tell myself that I need to open it because there may be important information in there like when his parole is up and if he’ll get his name off the sex offender registry and if he’s moved to my state or reoffended or… What I really want to know is how much I’m worth.
Today I’m worth five dollars and twenty-four cents.
Back when the verdict was rendered and the plea was bargained and the sentence was imposed, nothing was said to me of money. That came later when my victim’s advocate asked me for my receipts. “Receipts for what?” I asked. The State had paid for my plane ticket to testify and I’d stayed with my brother and his wife. I hadn’t even incurred any food costs as I was too white-knuckled black-curtained panicked to eat. “Oh, he is going to pay you some money dear,” she answered cheerfully. “Certainly you have expenses he has caused.” Can you put a price on mental anguish?
He offered to pay me, once.
“You’re making too big a deal out of this,” he said gruffly, returning to his plate stacked with cheesecake and pie that he had pilfered from my roommate’s wedding buffet. I was a bridesmaid. He was not invited. My roommate hated him. Which was probably why he had made an effort to show up. He probably wouldn’t have come if I had asked him to.
“What you did last night,” I stammered. “It was…” I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t even have the words to talk about it then. Later I would call it the worst night of my life. That day – the Day After – I rubbed my fresh bruises that would not be entirely hid, even under all the makeup I’d caked on them and finished, “It wasn’t right.”
He shrugged. “It’s not what you think it was.”
“What was it?” I pleaded, honestly wanting him to answer the question for me. How could I not know what had happened to me? Tell me.
“It was nothing. Just a mistake we made.”
I knew enough to know that was not the right answer. The only mistake I had made was falling asleep. My mind latched on to the only tangible piece of evidence I had. “You ripped my bra!” It sounded so silly and dramatic when I said it aloud like that and yet it was the one thing I kept coming back to. It hadn’t felt violent when it was happening and yet he’d literally torn my clothes off me as I cried and screamed. Hours later as I sat on my floor numb and shaking, I kept twisting that bra over and over again in my hands and staring at the damage. It was one of those white utilitarian numbers that girls wear when they do not mean for their undergarments to be seen. And yet the thick straps were stretched and torn until both were broken completely apart.
Anyone who has ever worn a bra will know that this is quite the feat. The hooks may break, the underwire may pop out an embarrassing moments, sometimes even the thin spaghetti-type straps will snap at the point they are sown in. But this? This was something else. Some of my other clothing was damaged too but it was the bra that bothered me most. Particularly since it was the only white bra I owned and I needed it to wear under my cream bridesmaid’s dress the next day. Another bridesmaid had helped me pin it together in the bathroom of the reception hall. It took 6 safety pins to make it wearable. And they were digging into my skin as we spoke. Later I would put that bra, replete with safety pins, in my box – the box of evidence I hid in case he ever made good on his promise to kill me.
“Oh, I’ll buy you a new one,” he laughed. “How much do you need?”
“I don’t want any money from you.” That’s what I told him that day and that is exactly what I told the court representative after his sentencing for my assault and the later, more horrific sexual assaults of two other girls.
“I’m sorry honey but the judge ordered him to pay reparations. It’s part of his sentence.” She mistook my silence for something else and continued, “Don’t worry, he won’t be mailing it to you directly. They’ll just garnish it from his wages and the Department of Corrections will send it to you.”
“I don’t want his money,” I repeated flatly.
“Surely you have therapy bills,” she said kindly but with an edge. I was taking up too much of her time with my obstinancy.
I gritted my teeth. She knew I did. She had actually arranged for me to see a therapist. And I’d saved all the receipts like she told me to. But I refused to give them up. There are a lot of reasons I didn’t want him to pay for my therapy. First, I didn’t want to think of my therapist as being on his payroll. Second, the payments – even in their sterility – still tied me to him. Every time he saw how much his check was garnished would he think of me? Think to himself, “Heh, big therapy month for Charlotte. Glad to know I’m still giving her nightmares!”? No thank you.
Despite my protestations, the checks began to arrive as the dictates of justice will not be thwarted – not for offenders and apparently not for their victims either. The universe demands proper pentinence from me for my stupidity on the night in question. The letters became my own personal government-sealed hell. PTSD on ecru stationery. Part of their torture is their randomness. Of course I got nothing while he was in prison. The way I knew he was back on the outside was the arrival of the first check, surprising me on a bright sunny day like a punch to the stomach. For several months I got large-ish checks that left me feeling like an underpaid prostitute and then I got nothing for months. Sometimes the checks were big but more often they are small – but always they are random.
The other problem is their starkness. Take this most recent check for instance. $5.24 arrived after more than a year of nothing. A year of forgetting to be nervous when I checked my mailbox. A year of not hiding ecru envelopes and wadded security-coded papers only to accidentally stumble upon them months later. A year of peace. I started to wonder. Had he been out of work this whole time? Did that mean he had gone back to prison? What if he had done it again but nobody told me? Perhaps he’d finally gone crazy. Maybe this my cut of his gambling winnings. Maybe he was homeless, living out of his car again. Was I taking $5.24 out of a beggar’s cup? And why was the amount so small? Was he working as a fruit picker? Was he unable to get a decent job because of his felony record? Were his problems, after all, my fault – just like he’d always claimed?
I never cash the checks. It’s not that I don’t intend to – as my sister pointed out I could just donate the money to a women’s charity – it’s that I just can’t stand to deal with them. To deal with him. I don’t want to sign my name to the back of a piece of paper that has his name on the front. No matter what he said that night, what happened does not bind us together forever.
The supreme irony of all of this is that of the three victims who testified against him, I am the only one who explicity refused money from him. And to this day I am the only one to have ever received the checks. He couldn’t resist getting in one more blow.
{{{Hugs}}} to you!
Im with bjbella5.
So amazingly written I felt as though I were there with you (kindly but with an edge) and am speechless.
shaking head…
Same here. These are so powerful. So sorry you are getting these random reminders, always when you least expect them. More hugs from here!
This made me very angry. And a little sick. It’s like evil in your mailbox every so often. I wish I knew what to do to stop this.
I understand your pain. No-one needs these intermittent reminders.
Most of the checks will be useless now, anyway, (at least, in Canada, a cheque is only good for a year) so perhaps a cathartic move would be to have a “shredding ceremony”.
Invite your nearest and dearest, or do it totally alone, but deal with them. Put them through a really loud shredder, or have a burning ceremony, tear them into little tiny pieces – whatever works for you. But deal with them and get them out of your sock drawer or wherever you have them stashed.
Don’t they have a program in the States where they have to inform you of his whereabouts? That, to me, would be more important than the money.
I also like your sister’s idea of donating the money to some sort of women’s shelter or aid society. It would be a way of making sure something good came from such a horrible experience.
That’s my two cents worth.
{{hugs}}
I’m sure there are no words that can ease the pain of any reminder of this horrible episode, but taking a look at this from the opposite end; just sending money must infuriate him. I’ll bet that’s what the judge had in mind when he set reparations.
Wow. That was really painful to read. Thank you for sharing that. It must take so much strength to write about this subject. And I am so sorry that it happened to you. I say burn the checks.
this needs to be published in Newsweek for all to see. I’m so sorry for the intrusive mail and pathetic numbers and everything. I feel for you and I do understand. I often think “what if I had made him pay?” how much would all the trauma be worth? But there’s no way. No way…
‘m thinking of you.
Wow what a post. It feels like it is good therapy for you though. Clarifying it in your head, getting it out of you. Feel free to level it up to ranting if you need to!
*HUGS TO YOU!*
You are an amazing woman, and your strength, your struggle, your survival… all inspire me. Thank you for sharing your difficulties and being so damn brave.
More hugs. And I agree with Bag Lady and Never Say Diet. Your story needs to be heard, and having a shred or burn party may be very cathartic.
I know this doesn’t really help, but he’ll get his. Beyond prison, beyond crappy jobs, he will get what he deserves, and it is NO ONE’S fault but HIS OWN.
Whatever problems he may have now are definitely not your fault, and the problems he had are not your fault… I agree about considering a burn-ceremony.
Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can fully share its joy Prov 14:10
I’m sure this is a source of a great sadness for you – I can be sympathetic, but I struggle to be empathetic — some of us who haven’t had such an experience don’t even know where to start…
I’ve alway wondered what makes people the way they are.
He’s a manipulative disgusting bit of human.
Donate the checks or burn them, it’s crazy to me that the department of corrections would let him decide who to send checks to, call them up and give them your new (fake) mailing address.
The penny pincher part of me wants to say – “but, but, but…”, but I totally understand and would probably feel the same way. *hugs*, and again, thanks for your openness and honesty. It’s inspiring, to say the least.
Just another idea – take it or leave it… Can you sign them over to someone else to cash them for you? Then – use that money explicitly to fund something that makes you stronger, like your martial arts, or save up for a really expensive piece of equipment like a set of kettle bells or reformer. From what you’ve shared on your blog, my impression is one of the positive things that came out of this is the desire to be strong enough to never have this happen again. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger – why not take it literally?
Charlotte, I’m sorry about this situation. What a horrible reminder. I’m with the others, though; maybe shredding or burning them as they come in would be good. Alternately, what would happen if you resealed the envelope and marked it “Refused: Return to Sender?” You might have to put another stamp on it – I’m not sure how that would work.
(Actually, if they’re that upsetting, would your husband be willing to pick up the mail and sort of run interference for you? That might be a possibility, and at this point I wouldn’t see it as hiding from the problem as much as it would be preventing more pain.)
horrifying!
Quix – nice idea
(((HUGS)))
This made me feel sick and angry for you, too. I wish I could give the right answer for your situation. I wish I could undo this experience, for you and everyone who’s gone through something like this.
Charlotte, like others said, I am so at loss for words. The way you write makes it like we are living this with you but of course we are not & never could understand it unless we had gone thru a similar "thing", god forbid! I admire your ability to write about this & I guess it may be therapeutic for you.
Sending you huge hugs!
Today has been the day for some very brave posts.
(((((hugs)))))
I feel I must come out of lurking at your blog, which I love to read, to add a comment that it totally stinks to have to receive money for like a prostitute for being violated and to be reminded over and over again of what happened that terrible night. I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this–ever.
Wow……That was amazingly intense.
Sorry to hear about your pain and grief but I thought this was some kind of fitness blog…
Were his problems, after all, my fault – just like he’d always claimed?…NO, Don’t ever think that!
I second Bag Lady and Neversaydiet’s thoughts. So many women could benefit from reading this. And more hugs to you, Charlotte.
As for the checks…I had a former coworker who was supposed to be given checks from the drunk driver who caused her car accident. It killed my coworker’s 3 year old daughter, her unborn fetus and left her infertile. She missed her own daughter’s funeral because she was in ICU. She asked that the checks be donated directly to Mother’s Against Drunk Drivers so she didn’t have to see them or think about them. I don’t know if the corrections department could send the money directly to a battered women’s shelter or something similar, but it may be worth finding out.
Crying for you right now. That was written so
Beautifully although it gave us glimpes of your
private hell. I’m so sorry for you.
That article should be in Oprah’s magazine
where it will reach others that may be going
through the same.
direct deposit?? :o)
Your courage is inspiring. What a brave post – I’m more and more grateful that I found your blog. Thank you.
I wish we were friends. I'm sorry for what happened to you. That's terrible. I know how the reminders feel, though. I wasn't raped, but I was sexually assaulted and harassed, and harassed for my religion.
It happened at school when I was a freshmen, and they were sophomore. They graduated a few weeks ago.
I was constantly reminded because I had to see them all the time. To sum it up, one of the boys works at the library, one has a parent who works on campus, and another was nominated for homecoming king …
I understand the reminders. I'm so sorry for what happened to you.
My God, my heart goes out to you. Reading these journals… I can feel the tears well up in my eyes. I wish I could give you a hug.
Your really strong. I had a hard time coping with something that happened to me.. I'm not even at the age I can have a permit yet.. But your an inspiration. Really.
I am also speechless. It takes a lot of guts to say something like this and I'm proud of you for not taking his money.
Reading this was amazing for me, as I just recently experienced a quite similar event. I felt especially connected to the part where he said "It was nothing," and "it's not what you think," as the guy that assaulted me had the nerve to tell me he's "not that kind of guy" and asked me to go out to coffee with him so we could "start over." and then, as if that wasn't enough, he said, "wow…after all that, you're really not going to respond?"
guys just dont get it, do they?
anyway, you are so strong for writing this, and i am so glad i have had the privlidge to read it.
Oh, what an awful thing to get in the mail. As soon as you think you've gotten better, you get that reminder. It's too bad all these criminals couldn't put their money into a big pool that would just get anonymously distributed… because I do actually like the idea that they have to pay. But you really should do what is right for you, and if accepting the money is too hard, then don't. I received some money after being involved in a violent robbery, and I just couldn't deal with it. I started crying and my mother took it away, and I dont' know what happened. The court's heart is in the right place. They are just trying to help. But then again, it should be your choice too, and if you say you don't want help in that way, then they should respect your desires.
I have a lot of respect for you..
Stay strong. And remember, you are not the victim anymore. You are the survivor.
How sad. How horrible to think of what so many of my fellow men are capable of doing. If it is of any consolation, your writing this terrible tale is gripping and brilliant, as are other parts of your work.
No one can comment on this, even if they have survived their own episode of or woman). Hugs don't help. "mothering" this woman doesn't work. Judging what happened doesn't help. The real support for this horrible behavior is to work at being sure it doesn't happen. Ever. Be vigilant. Educate. Avoid circumstances where this most often occurs, such as college drinking parties. And report rapes whenever you know of them. There is no shame in avenging such crimes. Respect yourself, and work to prevent harm done to others.
you have my understanding, in ways I will never be able to explain.
what I write next, may not make a lot of sense to you, but here goes …….
They say blood is thicker than water… but sometimes water is muddy, and mud can be very very thick…. and some mud really stinks in such a foul way… you may be able to wash the mud away, so that it looks clean where it was….. but often … the stench hangs around for a long time after.
I have found, that when I stand amid flowers in bloom, the sweetness often hides the stench, and for just a few moments….if I stand very still, butterflies land gently on my outstretched hands and body……. in that place, healing softly comes….
Chris
My amazingly beautiful daughter. If anyone could have ever told me just how incredible you are they still would be very short of the mark. You are a creation of love and hopes and dreams. You have always given me and filled me with joy. I wish I could take your burdens upon myself. You were/are never meant to have suffered so deeply. It was not part of my plan for you ever to have had these trials. I would rewind the clock if I could to shield you from these things. There is no other mother as lucky as I have been to have had you. Love you always and forever.