| THE NERVE |
| By EMILY PARKHURST | |
| Wednesday, 24 January 2007 | |
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Most women never talk about being raped. This is one woman’s story.
When I came to in a dark, unfamiliar room, I first noticed my hand was covered in blood and loose bandages. Later I would discover bruises on my back and a huge lump on my head. I had no memory of sustaining any injuries. It was then that I realized I was being sodomized. My motor skills had not returned, and I could not turn my body around to see who was hurting me. My arms would not work properly. But I was starting to feel pain. When he realized I was awake, he turned me onto my back, laid his weight on top of me and continued to rape me. I didn't fight back, I didn't speak; I still had no idea who this man was or where I was. After he finished, he hurried into the bathroom to shower. Stumbling around in the dark, I managed to find my blood-soaked clothes and dress myself. He then drove me back to my car. We could not speak in the eternity between his apartment and my car because he is deaf. I'm not certain I would have spoken to him, but I might have asked what happened in those five hours that I was unconscious, as he is the only one who knows. When I got back to my car, I drove myself to my apartment, my head still cloudy with whatever he had put in my drink. Then, in my disorientation and confusion, I showered, washed my clothes, re-bandaged my throbbing hand and fell into a deep sleep. I woke and called a friend at noon the next day. It was she, not me, who first knew I had been raped. I could not understand it; I was unable to accept it for nearly three days after. These facts that I tell you now, I have put together from the fragments of my own memory and from what the police and my friend who saw me the next day tell me. When questioned by the police, the rapist denied ever bringing me back to his apartment. Because there is no physical evidence, my case will never see trial. I have run into this man three times since he brutalized me in his apartment last January. The most recent time I saw him, in late September in a parking lot near the mall, he met my eyes with the cold glare of a man who knows what he got away with. But rather than fall apart, rather than confront him in anger, rather than act on any of the emotions surging through me right then, I walked away. In order to keep on living my life, doing the things I love and moving forward, I must accept that he is out there and he will never be punished for the violence he forced into my life. That does not mean I have moved on. That does not mean I am not angry. It just means I've survived. But as a survivor, I live with more than that knowledge. In the early stages of my recovery, I suffered from a rape victim's version of post-traumatic stress disorder, also called Rape Trauma Syndrome; I lived with anxiety attacks, constant vigilance, insomnia and nightmares. A general jumpiness kept me in a state of suspended emotions. I would hide in the ladies' room at my office, sitting out half-hour panic attacks, shivering uncontrollably on the cold, tile floor. I would sit in my car and talk myself into getting out and making the necessary walk through a dark parking lot alone. I often still sleep with my lights on, bedroom doors locked and cellphone ready by my bed. Although it has been a year since he raped me and nine years since I was attacked the first time, the knowledge of my own vulnerability is forever a part of me. But I am a survivor and part of my survival is telling my story. If I keep silent, I have let the men who raped me retain some of their power over me. In speaking out, I regain some of the control over myself and my world that was so violently torn from me. In speaking out, I begin to heal. But I don't just speak out for myself. According to the FBI's Uniform Crime Reports, there were 93,934 forcible rapes reported in the United States in 2005. (Stats from 2005 are the most recent available.) According to the Rape Abuse and Incest National Network, 58 percent of rapes are not reported to the police. A few simple calculations lead to the almost unimaginable numbers that in 2005, there were 223,652 rapes in the United States. But those are just numbers on a page. And as long as sexual assault is followed by silence, one of the rape victims could be your sister, your wife, your daughter - or even your son - and you may never know. It took me six years to tell anyone about my first rape. Some people never tell. There is something inherent in our society that keeps people from asking a rape victim who does choose to speak out about the details of her (or his) attack. Although the police do want details, it is clear when speaking to them that they want and need this information for the collection of evidence. It is not their job to help the victim deal with the effects of such a violation. Although a few people at my office were privy to the knowledge that I was attacked, none of them asked for, nor received, details about what happened to me. My family accepted the facts I volunteered and never got beyond their first question: "Can I kill him?" So why are rape victims expected to keep quiet? Is it the incredibly personal nature of the attack? Is it because the belief still exists that a victim is asking for it with his or her dress, actions or lifestyle? Or is it that we are still confused as a society about how to treat a rape victim? Perhaps the explanation lies in the fact that we have not asked ourselves enough questions. Society has only just begun to address the issue of rape. Susan Brownmiller's groundbreaking book, the first to examine the effects of rape on women and society, Against Our Will: Men, Women, and Rape, was published only 30 years ago. Many of the studies conducted by non-governmental organizations that have included rape victims who did not report to the police were first published in the early 1990s. It was only 10 years ago that Congress passed the Drug Induced Rape Prevention and Punishment Act as an amendment to the Controlled Substances Act, allowing prosecutors to ask for up to 20 years in prison for anyone convicted of committing a crime of violence by administering a controlled substance without the victim's knowledge. And it was 1993 before all 50 states accepted that marital rape was a crime. Rape is an act of violence unlike any other, but the effects of this crime on our society as well as the individual are only now beginning to be taken seriously. Even now, according to the Rape Abuse and Incest National Network, 94 percent of rapists never serve jail time. The two men who raped me are with that majority. My nightmares are filled with images of them succumbing to their desperate and pathetic need for power and control over women. It is for those other women and for myself that I tell you my story. I am a survivor, I am speaking out, and I am not alone. A version of this essay first appeared in Portland Phoenix, the alternative newspaper in Portland, Me. |
I am a 25-year-old freelance classical musician from Maine currently pursuing my MFA in Writing and trying to get the most from my twenties. That is what I tell people when they ask who I am.| Next > |
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