Even in my own mind I cannot say it. It remains the “R” word or, euphemistically, “the incident.” I know, intellectually, that the R stands for “rape,” but I can’t say it. But, I also have to wonder, in denying the use of the “R” word, am I separating myself? I am not one of “those” women.
In October 2018, I was drugged at a New York City bar while out with friends and family. The ultimate irony—it happened at a lesbian bar. It seems impossible to believe that a male predator would choose a lesbian bar as hunting ground for his targets. Perhaps it makes sense in a weird way for a guy to meet bi girls, straight girls who accompany their lesbian friends or, a straight girl like me, who simply viewed it as a safe neighborhood bar. The apparent absence of straight men made me feel safe and free enough to let loose a little, in very close proximity to my home.
I woke up eight hours later in my bed, naked, with no memory of the last 12 hours, but instinctively knowing deep down something bad had happened. Bruises and bite marks confirmed it.
My sister-in-law from out of state was staying with me. She had left me at the bar to move her car and grab some pizza to bring back to the apartment to eat while we watched a movie. When she returned, I wasn’t at the bar and the top lock to my apartment door had been inexplicably engaged effectively locking her out. Repeated calls that she could hear ringing from her position in the hall as well as pounding on the door failed to bring me to the door. At one point I answered the phone and was unintelligible. So she simply settled in and leaned against the door while she ate pizza until a man ran out of the apartment and down the stairs, knocking her to the floor.
Pissed, my sister-in-law observed me laying on my stomach asleep in bed completely covered in blankets. She tried to speak to me but my words were garbled. Even though I had never engaged in behavior where I brought someone home from a bar, and had always been considerate of her as a guest, she assumed I had picked someone up.
Upon waking, my first thought was of my sister-in-law, and I immediately checked to make sure she was in the apartment and OK. I lay in bed desperately trying to remember the last 12 hours, until I finally woke her, hysterical, asking what had happened. When the pieces started to come together I called my brother. He has remained a key support throughout this process, through all of the ups and downs, standing by me as I have navigated what steps to take and decisions to make.
I am an advocate. I work with victims every day. I even counsel people around issues of abuse and neglect including rape. Yet, I spent the entire day questioning myself and googling date-rape drugs. Did something really happen? Should I go to the hospital? How long does a date-rape drug remain in the system? Should I make a report? Will they believe me when I have no memory? The incident occurred not long after the Brett Kavanagh hearings which I paid particular attention to. I had identified with Professor Ford because, as a child, when I had been abused, I did not tell. Today, I am a strong, powerful professional—a leader in my field. But even with my expertise and viewpoint as an adult rather than as a child, I felt just as powerless and afraid of the prospect of making that declaration: something happened to me.
In the end, after taking a shower and pondering these questions for the entire day, I underwent a rape kit that evening. But I refused to make a report and to release the kit to the police—something I would have strongly discouraged my own clients from doing. In my mind, if I had no memory, how could I really believe something had happened? And how could I expect anyone else to believe me? I simply bagged up my clothes and sheets and stored them in my closet labeled “evidence.”
By denying the “R” word, I denied the experience and disassociated, something I am particularly good at after a childhood of abuse and neglect. I pretended that I was OK. I told myself that I was not one of “those” women. Because if I accepted that I was a victim I would have to acknowledge the accompanying feelings of fear, shame, and anger, which I believed would debilitate me. So I pretended.
New York City is a place where it is fairly easy to remain anonymous, isolate in your apartment and reinvent yourself. But it is an uncomfortable place to live and there is no real escape—walls of sound accosting you as soon as you leave your apartment, pressed up on people in the subway during rush hour, shoulder checked on busy streets, and jammed into coffee and lunch lines. I was able to grit my teeth and make it through my days. I did a fairly good job of presenting one face to the world, but inside I spiraled down, and there were many weekends I never left my apartment except to go to the gym.
I shared what happened with only a few close friends. But perhaps one of my best decisions was letting my personal trainer know. I knew that in order to stay strong and grounded I needed to stick with at least that routine. But I was afraid of my reactions of being in certain areas of the gym, being watched by men, particularly since I didn’t even know what my own attacker looked like or where he lived. At least at the gym, my trainer made me feel safe where I was at, checked in how I was doing, allowed me to do things at my pace, but pushed me when I needed it.
In the end, I am not OK, and with the help of friends have been able to acknowledge to myself I am one of “those” women. Six months after the rape I made a report to the police and faced the inevitable question of “Why did you wait so long?” However, I was pleasantly surprised when I made it through the ignorant and indifferent officers at the precinct to find an SVU detective who was professional yet compassionate in how she took my statement. I learned she had a wife and kids and she made me laugh when I explained that since I was straight I had no intentions of picking anyone up that night at a lesbian bar. “No judgments,” she responded, which made me laugh and gave me breathing space to tell the rest of my story. A weight was lifted.
My next step was to go to the hospital to sign for the rape kit to be released to the detective. I strode in pretty confidently believing I had already done the hardest part. However, no one knew what I was talking about and I was sent by security, who supposedly had taken the kit into physical custody for future police activity, to medical records. I was unprepared to hear a woman in medical records say that in 20 years she had never heard of kits being stored on site, just records. And she certainly knew nothing about a form.
If it wasn’t for a kind older doctor who found me wandering the halls in tears, I probably would never have pursued the matter further. He escorted me to someone who promised he would figure it all out. Being taken in hand by him and just getting to someone who cared to investigate until they found the solution in the midst of their own busy days made all the difference in the world. As it turns out, the rape kits at this hospital are stored in the morgue because of the blood samples, and security is responsible for the forms and hand off to police.
My truth, as I know it, has now been told. For nothing else, to ease the poisoning of my soul through fear and disassociation. It is not easy to accept the truth and let myself feel. But feeling is the only path to healing.
In this day and age of hashtags like #metoo and #inevertold where it seems like there is greater consciousness and accountability you would think it would be easier to tell our stories. Particularly for someone like myself who is educated about these issues, who works in the world of fighting for other people’s rights, where I am a strong powerful voice helping others speak their truth. But I was unable to speak my own.
Now I am. Perhaps just to let others out there know who may struggle with the same questions as I did. Speak your truth as you know it.
Photo by Michael Discenza
