Criminal Suits vs. Civil Suits

Posting this link is mostly for my own posterity, but the people over at Yes Means Yes have nicely broken it down exactly why a victim would choose to file a civil suit versus a criminal suit when it comes to sexual assault. So for anyone who thinks that victims who settle out of court, specifically when it comes to celebrity cases, are just golddiggers and extortionists, please do read.

Small victories

I was drawn. Desperately searching for the aisle in the store that would house those plates of steel that would make me feel alright. Debating with myself as I frantically searched and navigated my way through the food aisles that were giving me enough trouble of their own.

"If they cost less than $5, I can get them."

I found them. They cost significantly less than $5.00. In fact, they were only 89 cents. I picked them up, feeling the searing pain in my hand just from holding the package in my fingers. That pain hurt, and it throbbed.

I want the blood, but just not the pain.

I put the package back. In the end, it was as much out of convenience as anything. If I got the blades, I would end up telling my therapist about it on Thursday. He would then be obligated to ensure that they are no longer in my possession. Last time that happened, my then-therapist called Scott, and that was a big fucking mess that brought on a huge fight between me and my best friend. Making me feel like ensuring my safety was a burden. That I, myself, was a burden.

Besides, then my therapist would end up asking me all these questions that I hate, questions like: "What are you going to do to prevent yourself from buying more blades?" "How do I know that I do not need to be worried about your safety?" As much as I love therapy, sometimes it drives me crazy being asked the same questions over and over again, and giving the answers that I 'know' I'm supposed to give.

That right there, is the hardest part. Making yourself give the answers that are true instead of the answers you know they want to hear. Which is exactly why I would tell Casey about the blades in the first place. Otherwise...what's the point? Why waste his time and mine, not to mention my money?

Honesty is painful.

And as I drove home from the grocery store, knowing that I should feel proud of myself for not having purchased those blades, it just felt hollow. Not only did I not feel proud, but I felt the weight of the world pressed down on my shoulders, as I slumped in my seat.

Why does doing the right thing have to be so goddamn hard? Because...in the end...I know that I have to deal with this shit, for real, and not bleed or purge or drink it away.

Every once in a while I'm able to stop. and breathe. and feel peace. Going outside after the last strands of sunlight have faded, turning the sky dusky. A grey cloud arching across the sky, with lighter grey rings around it. Even if it's not a silver lining, it'll do for now.

And if I stop--for a moment--and truly live in that moment...I am okay. Not thinking about what happened, not worried about how broke I am, not thinking about how I need want to lose weight. Just being.

It doesn't happen as often as I would like.

I've been connecting with people a bit more lately, which is relieving. I am revitalized by the love of those who care for me, and those that I care for deeply. It makes me feel like everything's okay, that I am okay, that I can get through this and be a regular human being again, instead of a Human Being That This Happened To.

On the 4th, my neighbors had this huge party. They are a couple around my parents' age. As I was talking to the man, I kept feeling this sick feeling. His face looked exactly like Rich's face, if Rich was 15-20 years older than he is, and his face wasn't so round. Same small, fucked up teeth, squat nose, beedy eyes and weak chin. I had to keep reminding myself this is not him, this is not him, this is your neighbor, he is a nice guy, this is not him. It was disconcerting, but so...irrelevant? I mean...silly. Stupid. It's one of those things where I have to force myself to stop and ask myself how much am I making this event and this person who did this to me the center of my life? At one point in time, it deserved to be the center. It was the epicenter. But it's not anymore, and I keep telling my brain that. But just because it's not the epicenter anymore doesn't mean that I'm not still feeling the aftershocks. Sometimes they're smaller and smaller...and then sometimes there's another miniature earthquake, like when I saw him 2 weeks ago. It wasn't The Big Earthquake, but a quake, nonetheless.

Quake. Quack. Quack, quack. Lame Duck. Onward, ho!

I remember you proudly proclaiming that you were a narcissist.

"Men afflicted with Narcissistic Personality Disorders expect to be admired by women and coveted by other men. Expectations of admiration may include physical affection and sexual activity. Rejections of amorous advances are viewed as unacceptable and incongruent with the individual's ego. Rejection may result in anger, degrading insults, and nonconsensual sexual contact. In serious situations, the victim may be raped. The disordered person believes that he is entitled to the sexual contact and, when not consensually provided, may force it." -Duane L. Dobbert, "Halting the Sexual Predator Among Us: Preventing Attack, Rape, and Lust Homicide"

36% of sexual offenders meet the criteria of having NPD. I remember you always joking about how you wanted to make a t-shirt that said "I'm an arrogant, self-loathing narcissist." Too funny, eh? I knew it to be true, even then. I just didn't know that it would manifest in this ultimate crime against me. I knew you couldn't accept the fact that I had no romantic inclinations toward you, but once I made it evident that you hadn't a snowball's chance in hell of being with me, you became so vindictive. Passive-aggressive, cold, resentful.

"Their grandiose sense of self-importance, their conviction that they are in the right, and their unwillingness to respect the needs of others may explain why they have an increased risk of committing sexual offences which might be understood as vindictive rage in response to personal insults and as an almost obsessive desire to make sexual conquests without recognizing and respecting the feelings and needs of potential partners." - Dudeck, M., Spitzer, C., Stopsack, M., Freyberger, H., & Barnow, S. (2007, December). Forensic inpatient male sexual offenders: The impact of personality disorder and childhood sexual abuse. Journal of Forensic Psychiatry & Psychology, 18(4), 494-506.

Personal insult. It is truly fucked up that someone, your best friend, diplomatically indicating that she had no feelings for you would be taken as such a great offense that you felt that you had to get back at her--at me--by overpowering me.

I did nothing to you. Nothing deserving this. You truly are a fucked up man, and I hope you get the help you need. It's just too bad that this help will come too late to have saved me from the trauma you inflicted upon me.

I understand this all...abstractly. Logically, from a psychological perspective. Yet somehow, this understanding doesn't take any of the pain away. And sadly, I doubt that the despicable act that you committed did much to relieve your feelings of worthlessness, did it?

"A person who commits rape has performed inappropriate sexual conduct in less serious behaviors before the rape." -Dobbert

Less serious behaviours. Like unexpectedly groping me on a dancefloor as your girlfriend was passed out drunk on a couch in the club. Like barging in on me changing in my bedroom, with the feeble excuse that you were wanting to show me your new jeans. I should've known this would happen, why did I not see the signs?

The Broken Girl

My therapist tells me that I need to lean on others for support right now, after dealing with the retraumatization of seeing my rapist. It's so hard though. It's hard for me to put myself out there, to reach out, because no one says anything anymore. No one knows what TO say. Everyone is sick of talking about it. I'M sick of talking about it. So I sit, alone with these thoughts and this pain. Which in turn further isolates me.

I just want these thoughts to go away. They're constantly churning through my brain. Y'know that statistic that says that humans think about sex every 6 minutes or something like that? Well, sex has been replaced by my assault, and the ante has been upped to every 3 minutes. It. Never. Goes. Away.

I just want some tool that will make it stop. Some magical psychological tool that will work to free my brain of this. Because this is no way to live.

I had such high hopes in the beginning of my recovery. Now? Now I don't see anything ever changing. I feel like I'm unraveling.

I worry that this is how people will always see me. The Girl That Was Raped. I worry that I'm pushing myself into that role. I worry that talking about it more furthers that concept of me. So I don't talk about it. But it's always in my head.

So what do I do? Oh, I'm supposed to talk about it. To people who either a) don't care, b) don't know what to say. I understand, you want it to go away. You don't want to think that this really happens, certainly not to people you care about. You don't want to think that this is such a traumatizing event that your friend will be forever tortured by.

I'm sorry to shatter your wishes. Mine were shattered, too.