I Learned From House Democrats That Accountability Needs To Come Before Healing: And Reported My Sexual Assault

January 27, 2022

There were three things I thought would never happen in sobriety: headaches, car accidents, and sexual assault.

All those things happened this past year.

Understanding my own patterns

I had a pattern when it came to getting raped or assaulted. First, I blamed myself. Then I drank. After several years of that, I would come to the conclusion that it wasn’t my fault, but felt silly reporting something that happened five years ago in a different state.

More than a massage

I called a masseuse who makes house calls the weekend after the Impeachment Hearing in the House. I’d seen him half a dozen times, and he was perfectly adequate.

I thought he was looking at my pussy when he stretched my leg but ignored it. I felt him rubbing my inner thighs for longer than I could remember but tried to normalize that. When his thumb brushed my clitoris I told myself it was an accident. He pushed his fingers inside of me.  I dissociated and froze.  Did I normally wear panties and today I didn’t? I must be at fault.  Ignoring the fact that it being my fault meant something bad was happening, I kept trying to convince myself that it was ok. It would be over soon.

When his mouth covered my breast I shuddered in revulsion. I had left my body – and was residing in my head. This was far too close to where “I” was. It was beyond what I could even pretend was normal. I still said nothing. I’m 5’3, naked, under a sheet. He’s 6’5, a bodybuilder, standing above me. I faked an orgasm, hoping that would make him stop.

Jumping off the table, I threw my robe on, and watched myself throw cash at him. I gotta walk my dog! I heard myself say in a voice I didn’t recognize. Hidden down the street with my dog, I waited until I could see that he was gone.

Everything is fine. Really.

I repeated the lie to myself – that it was fine. I got in bed and stayed for days. It wasn’t.

When I got up I started walking through my neighborhood. The sun set and it got dark and I just kept walking and breathing and looking for the moon. I called my 12 step sponsor and told her what happened. She  was so kind, and suggested I report it.

I recited all the usual things – the backlog of rape kits, the number of people that go free, the fear the cops would laugh at me or tell me I was lying.

Advice from my sponsor

“If you report it, it might help you stop blaming yourself.”

That had never occurred to me. Words from the impeachment floated in my head.

“We can’t have healing without accountability.”

The people calling for us to just move on from Jan 6 were people like Ted Cruz. I didn’t want to be like Ted Cruz to my pussy.

Reaching out to resources

I called RAINN, the national sexual assault hotline.  If I do report this, I asked, what will that look like? The kind, well-trained person on the other end walked me through, telling me that I could request to speak to a female officer.

I did that. She took me seriously. The self blame began to lift. My case was transferred to a Special Assault Division.

Special Assault Division

Each thing the officer asked me to do, I thought I couldn’t, so I took a day, and then I did it. I went to UCLA’s Rape Treatment Center to do a rape kit. I had no idea there would be DNA left behind from just a finger, but there is. A social worker and a nurse gently led me through the process, laughed at all the dumb jokes I made to cope, and followed up with me to make sure I was okay a few days later.

“Are you having any thoughts of injuring yourself?”

“Yes if you count ordering a dozen donuts.”

Feeling validated

As each person involved validated my experience, I was able to do the same for myself. I was watching myself take myself seriously. I began to think of how my experience could benefit others.

Maybe I could stop him from doing this to anyone else. Maybe I could write about it, and someone that read it would feel empowered to report their assault because I showed them that a positive reporting experience was possible. That whatever the outcome, releasing self blame was a promise.  Even if the cops had been shitty to me, I think that would have still strengthened my resolve. What really mattered was how I treated me.

I can do hard things

Today I went to the police station to attempt to get a recorded confession. This I really did not want to do. I was sure he would gaslight me, that the cop would change her mind and think I was lying when she heard him, that he wouldn’t pick up and I would have driven all that way for nothing.

The officer told me she had gotten several convictions that way. I knew that if I didn’t try, I definitely wouldn’t get a taped confession.

She helped me write a script. I called. He picked up. The line was recording. I got to say everything I was too afraid to even think in the moment. That I never invited that behavior. That he never asked for consent. That if that is a service he wants to provide, he needs to verbally offer it when people still have their clothes on. I told him how scared I was, that I froze, and that freezing is a common trauma response.

Making amends to my 13 year old self

He apologized. and then admitted he didn’t ask for consent. He swore it would never happen again. And we got the evidence needed to strengthen the case.

In this way I made an amends not only to my 39 year old self but to my 13 year old self whose virginity was stolen by an 18 year old man who drugged her and then claimed “that” was just his finger. To my 28 year old self who woke up out of a blackout in an hourly hotel with her cousin’s husband inside of her. To my 30 year old self who only knew it wasn’t her fault years later when the guy told mutual acquaintances that they didn’t have sex because she was too drunk.

Finally, someone took me seriously. Finally, someone believed me. It was me, waiting to be able to do so the whole time.

Accountability, then healing.

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