Sacrifice: On Being the Throw-Away Girl

by Charlottein personal essays, sexual assaulton Posted on

“Wow,” my psychiatrist looked up from her notes where she’d just written in my case history that I’d been sexually assaulted, pressed charges and sent him to prison, “you must feel so proud! And vindicated! And powerful!”

I’d gone to see her to talk about medicine for my post-partum depression, not a court case six years cold and yet in the process of taking my case history of psychiatric medication she stepped on that land mine. Immediately I felt that familiar cold, dead feeling well up inside me, squeezing my heart. No, no and double heck to the no. She looked as if I’d slapped her when I answered, “Actually that may be the thing in my life I am the least proud of.”

I’ve run into this before. It’s a singular experience, this courtroom drama that happens nightly on TV and so rarely in real life that I am often the first person they have met who has experienced it, and so I understand their curiosity. People assume many things about this process: that it provides victims with a feeling of power, of a wrong righted, of safety, of peace, of closure. I can tell you that, at least for me, it was none of these things. Which is why my psychiatrist probably looked so shocked when I added, “I don’t know that I could ever recommend to anyone else to do it.”

Having spent a whole year of my pre-assault life volunteering as a crisis counselor in the student center at my university where my most traumatic and memorable cases were rape victims, the irony is not lost on me that while I counseled them to press charges, to not let their attacker “get away with it”, to save future victims, when it happened to me I stayed silent for five years. Even then I only came forward because he’d done it again and the police were actively asking for other victims. That first phone call with the detective was where I got my rude awakening: just like the assault was all about my attacker at the expense of my body and soul, so was the court case. But this time the assault lasted nine months.

The first thing you should know is that in a criminal trial, it isn’t Charlotte vs. Very Bad Boyfriend but rather The State of X vs. Very Bad Boyfriend. You, the victim, are merely a tool of the state and the state can choose to press charges without your consent. In the end I chose to press charges myself rather than risk a subpoena but one of the other identified victims in the case – there were three of us – had charges filed by the state on her behalf. The State wants to win and you are just a means to that end.

I don’t mean to sound completely cynical. There are safeties built into the system for victims and from what I understand it’s 100 times better now than it was even just a few decades ago. I was fortunate to have a judge and a prosecutor who took the case very seriously. I am fortunate to live in a country where there are laws on the books that make this a punishable crime whereas in many countries it’s just business as usual. We also had a Victim’s Advocate assigned to us and while she was a very kind woman, her advocacy only extended as far as her offer to “throw a coat” over our heads so the media wouldn’t take our pictures and we could preserve our anonymity. It was a small town. They all knew who we were.

This point was driven home for me by the half-dozen e-mails from strangers calling me every iteration of whore they could come up with and wishing me death, unhappiness or just bad karma. Friends of friends wrote to ask me to forgive him (“Sorry, can’t! I haven’t even acknowledged what he did to me yet!) and to be merciful, as if I had any control over this. The most jarring of these e-mails was from a girl whom I’d never met but had heard about through mutual friends who wrote to tell me that she knew – because he had told her! – that he was repentant, that he didn’t mean to hurt me, that he would never ever do it again. She was so sincere in her devotion to him that I cried, she reminded me of myself so much. I wrote her back: “You’re next.”

To this day, I have friends who don’t quite believe me. It’s not that they think that I’m lying outright but rather that I “misinterpreted what he meant” or I blew it out of proportion or they don’t want to choose sides or get in the middle of a private matter or even that they just simply can’t believe that about him. That was not the person they knew.

I can respect that but I’m not going to lie, it still stings. I wanted my friends and family to rally around me, to believe me (even when I didn’t believe myself, which was more often than not as courtesy of the PTSD my memories came out in a strange potpourri of smells, sensations, thoughts and visuals that didn’t necessarily make sense despite my attempts to string them into a logical story and feign a confidence I did not feel), to love me, to protect me and yet never in my life have I ever been more alone. If I thought people looked the other way when he abused me, they ran the other way when it came to legal action. Of course my memories are not going to match up with his. And if I did misunderstand him? If I did overreact? Aren’t I allowed my own feelings, my own interpretation of the events? He should have listened to me even if I was hysterical. Even if I was riddled with shame. It mattered, even if it could have been worse.

I wish I’d never met him. Barring that, I wish it – the abuse, our relationship, whatever – had never happened. I wish I’d been stronger then. Less stupid. More observant. Less passive. More sure. Barring even that, I still wish I’d never pursued the court case.

There comes a time for everyone, I suppose, that they are called to do something very painful for the greater good. There is this element of self-sacrifice in almost every honorable calling whether it be as a mother, father, civil servant, aid worker, doctor, teacher, peace keeper, blood donor or even sometimes just as a friend. I tell myself that, as his friend (it seems so strange to remember it that way but we were friends, very good friends, first), I was duty bound to get him help and if that help took the form of mandatory sex-offender treatment through the court system then so be it. If that meant that he hates me for the rest of his life, so be it. If that meant total strangers hating me, so be it. But I hadn’t counted on hating myself so much for it. The only winners in this case are the never-were’s, the girls who got away. The ones who, ironically and blessedly, will never know the high price at which their safety was purchased.
This should make me feel better. It didn’t. It still doesn’t. Because the unspoken question is why wasn’t I good enough to be saved? Why was I the throw-away girl to save the others? But I’ve finally come to accept that while I’ll likely never feel good about what I did, it still had to be done.
It isn’t my purpose in writing this to discourage some other frightened, battered girl from seeking justice in the court system. I think I’m writing this to let you know what to expect, so that you won’t be as pole-axed by the process as I was. I know I’m writing this to reach out to any others who have been in this situation to let them know that what they feel is normal and that they’re going to be okay. And that they are not alone.
I’ve had this post written for months and never published it (you’d be amazed at how many posts I write and never end up publishing) because I don’t really feel any need to talk about this subject anymore. But every time I scan past it, I keep getting the feeling like I should publish this. That someone needs to read this. I remember during the court case searching everywhere for someone who had been through this experience and found nobody. Even books covering this are rare. And while I’m not in the habit of publishing posts for just one reader, if this is for you, know that you are loved. (And for the rest of you who’ve kept reading this far, I love you too! Back to fitness – and my much-better, not-at-all paralyzed neck tomorrow!)
Have you ever had to do something you hated because it was for the greater good? Do you have something in your past that, given a magic wand, you’d erase in a heart beat? Or do you live with no regrets?

10 Comments

  2. Anonymous
    January 9, 2013 @ 11:36 pm

    I’ve read this post several times and it has helped me immensely. I still haven’t made up my mind (the question for me is not pressing charges, because I know I don’t have a strong enough case for that, but just telling me at all) but knowing that someone other than me has doubted themselves on this subject makes me feel a little better. Thank you, Charlotte.

  3. Anonymous
    January 9, 2013 @ 11:37 pm

    I’ve read this post several times and it has helped me immensely. I still haven’t made up my mind (the question for me is not pressing charges, because I know I don’t have a strong enough case for that, but just telling anyone at all) but knowing that someone other than me has doubted themselves on this subject makes me feel a little better. Thank you, Charlotte.

  4. Pingback:How to Teach Girls How Not to Get Raped

  5. Pingback:How to Teach Girls How Not to Get Raped | Elite Daily Diet and Fitness

  6. E R
    April 23, 2013 @ 10:39 am

    For my going to court over this issue would never happen it would be my word against his and we were married at the time. but even so this post touched my heart. thank you

  7. Anne Seebaldt
    July 3, 2013 @ 1:52 pm

    That was brave of you to share. I have friends who have been victims of sexual assault and none of them pursued the aggressor.

  8. Pingback:Why Revenge Doesn’t Work [Because No One Makes Anvils Anymore] Help a reader out?

  9. sharon astle
    April 24, 2014 @ 5:53 pm

    My dad molested his five granddaughters (my daughters and my sister’s) The girls had to testify in court. The girls were ages 11-15 when the whole thing broke wide open. They went through hell and were planning on keeping it a secret. And when he died, Their secret would die with him. Well, one of the girls told us what had been going on, and that was the beginning of a horrible, stressful nightmare! My dad was convicted and is serving a life sentence. It sucks!