It Is In The Police Report

There was a little girl at the skate park. She was 15 and opening up about her story of sexual assault in relations to a step-father. I was inspired by her will. That she wanted to talk about her story. That she shared with me. Her experiences with Borderline Personality disorder. Her attraction to danger and often men that were older than her and potential dangers in which it entitled and exposed her too and understanding various episodes and stages of mania. Men that are seeking and willing to target and take advantage of such victims. Men that are willing to pay to rape. Girls who brag about daddy issues but still native about what rape is or understand the point in boundaries of consent. My heart went out to her both in understanding her story and relating to the struggles and repercussions of sexual assault. Especially as a child and that being the first experience of sex. When rape is your first experience with sexual assault you really do not know better let alone understand the repercussions in the after math and the mental damage and struggles that results from the trauma. While each experience is different, each person, in how they deal and how their brain continues to develop is different in terms of their ages and the extent of the abuse and the “niceness” of it. I was relieved to hear that she was supported and that her mother believed her and left. She was inspiring. That she wanted to talk about it and in realization all I ever felt was victimized in trying to talk about it. If she is brave enough to want to share, how can I stand in silence with my own story. And statistics and flash backs that repeat through my own mind. 

As a victim as a child within the ages of four to eight. Experiencing grooming and conditioning. Being told it was my fault. That I was “saving others” by accepting the abuse. That being silent without repercussions was my only option. Things I could not control. Things I had no say. Things that emotional memories triggered in consensual relations and having to explain. I go over a list of what would be fair. What would be justice. The price of my childhood. The price of my self-esteem and self-worth. That I was dealing with a monster. HE called me a “dumb bleeding bitch” and I was six years old crying in my hands because I didn’t know what the word “bitch” meant. Sprained my wrist in the second grade when I tried to resist which was only later discovered on the monkey bars. (There is not reasonable explanation I could have sprained my wrist on the monkey bars). “A lesson I might as well learn early” he said. Verbatim. He never even asked “why I was accusing him.” Rather he said, “I would rather not say” when I asked him about other victims in front of a police officer. I can’t make the up.

I can go over points of recollection from my childhood and trying to manage and deal with what I was experiencing and no adult support to expose what he was. It was a constant storm. Trying to figure out if I was safe. If I was better off in a Foster home and trying to analysis the risks of further abuse. What I could compartmentalize as normal. That my own mother would not protect me, let alone be there to help and sort through the crumbles of the foundation. Instead, it seemed like further punishment. I was the escape goat and they would not listen, just further victimize me. That it would become so toxic I had to remove them completely. As hard as it was to admit. It made no difference in my life. They were not for me. Not with me. Not on my side or there to see me do well. Just instead seeking to see me in pain. No empathy. This wasn’t normal. I have repeated a 100 times.

But my mother can’t tell you how it happened. How he could act so caring and human but continue to abuse me in silence like I was destined to be his victim. The irony of my name and translations in Middle Eastern countries. God telling me as a child I was a voice for rape. Delusions in trying to deal, maybe. I never denied this in counseling. But going over what had happened in the memories. That he tried to deny his own right to face his accused in court. Why else would you plead guilty? I told the detective two years before another victim came forward. That if “there was no other victims, let it die with me.” I had no connection. Two years. I had kept myself distant. Trying to test to waters only to understand the repercussions of speaking. Their over-voice and silence. I did not gain from this. But what does a man being accused of rape with DNA evidence have to lose? His freedom? 75K? What cost to say his innocence only to plead guilty? You tell me, does that sound like the actions of an innocent man?

How much time I spent with counselors discussing the after math and repeating “this isn’t normal.” Not that rape is ever really normal but the way in which they responded. She showed no emotion. No interest in asking what happened. What age? Never once suggested we go to the police. 

I go through a sequence connecting what has become of my life. What I have become? A woman only too familiar with men who prey on women and children. What is rape? A question I find myself often fixated on in trying to understand the point of boundary. Analyzing the relationships I experienced in unequal segments of power and rules and conditions I made for myself from my own struggle in surviving and attempts to protect myself from finding myself reliving the same patterns. How could I help others when I was struggling with telling my own story. The truth and trying to prove I was not crazy or some slut. Going back to the first time I was assault as a teenager. The reasons I left the religion. The reasons I started ever questioning if there really was a God and whatever other point of existence. Finding myself abusing substances and understanding the vulnerability that would become something these types of men seek. What was a rapist? What was the statistics? What rape victims had to gain from speaking and this misconception that we make any money offer such claims? At least I had gained nothing. I specifically asked for no restitution because he said “it was a lesson you might as well learn early.” An eight year old? I was confused at eight years old thinking, “I am not a prostitute.” Someone they could rape. He was trying to pay me to rape me as a kid.

I could not even find support in healing. I remember telling my Aunt Mary that “I would not speak to her about it without a counselor in the room.” This is what I will never trust of her. Because I remember trying to tell her as a child and she slapped me and called me liar. Every moment I was shut down and shut off as a child. That she did not believe me at that moment. It took a court to put him away and she claims “not to hate him.” May be not hate him, but why do you still have contact with him?  

The incidences of abuse would happen in patterns. As a child your brain blocks lot of it out. I would forget, until I saw him. I would not want to hug him but they in would insist. “Hug him, show some respect?” I was a child no more of the ages of six or seven and I would completely tense up and freeze. 

But they discredit my accounts. They discredit my memories only to placate and dismiss my recollection. I knew it was not because I needed validation from them, but because they did not like their own reflection. They did not want to face the truth and I was a complete reminder of that. That they lied. They failed to protect me. They could stick their heads in the sand and act like there was nothing they could do. How did it effect their life to call me a liar? To have to face that reality was not something I could ignore. I could not live in denial. The reality was something I had to face in every step of my life. This coming from a woman claiming to be Christian and the toxicity of sex and lack of sexual education. What this would do to the children being abused and further silenced in fear of being excommunicated. Casted aside like damaged goods. 

When I was labeled a slut. 14 and committed to keeping my virginity as the plan was to always go to the police but I knew my mother would not support me. I had to wait until I was 18. This was my plan. To go when I was 18. Because I was up rooted and moved to the middle of nowhere in Northern Minnesota the summer after fifth grade graduation and right before the fall of my 12 birthday. It was a blessing because I knew, had stayed, it would have only gotten worse. He penetrated me with his fingers as a child. Why do pedophiles do this you ask? Well you can only guess what you can’t do when there is a hymen. Why he would called me a “dumb bleeding bitch.” This was the monster I was dealing with. He could walk out of the room when no one other adult was there go to the bathroom and wash his bloodily hands and change the sheets with no remorse. So committed to his lie and so confident that he would not be caught. It really didn’t matter as his Wife was so devoted to him.  This wasn’t normal.

But I had a boyfriend assault me while I tried to resist and it was too late by the time his brother walked in. I often wonder how many girls he raped too? That was a game to him. He could ruin them and call them a slut… make bomb threats to get out of school, he held no sense of accountability. He told everyone, right in front of everyone “that he was just finishing the job.” I cried, and screamed, “I was raped.” They call heard. All of us within the circle of the religion and teenagers and how trapped I was. Where were we to go? “Do not tell anyone?” I was told. “We are all getting raped,” she said. My 14 year-old heart just sank. “They already hate us Russians and it will make us all look bad” she said. This is how conditioned we were and how little concerned she had for me, that I had for myself, or any opportunity to get out and fear of losing everything and everyone that mattered and our creditability. For stopping the boys in the community that were just like him and exposing the truth of what I would spend the next ten years trying to break out of.  With a sense of guilt in remembering how that Persist touched her leg and I had no one I felt I could tell about my discomforts. What I sensed was wrong. It is in the police report. No collaboration was ever made. I never thought to go to the police until I was 22 or 24. To go to a hospital. Those stages of life are burry for me. There is so much trauma. It unfolds in forms of Complex-PTSD, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dissociative Disorder, Bulimia, and Depression. Most days I manage well.

What they did not understand was that I was no longer afraid to speak. It was in the police report and along with a judgment in his own admission of guilt while attempting to back track in claiming their allegations. He wasn’t even Russian, just someone who could prey on in their claiming forgiveness. He had 18 years from when I was first ever assault to the point of me going to the police to stop. To change and instead there was another victim. I do not know how many more or if they would ever come forward. All I know, was that when the day came to face me in court, he refused to give me that opportunity. He refused to tell the truth. He wrote letters to family members. To my sister. Never once did he acknowledge how he abused me to them but only continued to try to hide what he really is. There was no boundary as he knew no bounds. It meant nothing to him. To rape a child. To play the game. But I had nothing to hide and that wasn’t even scratching the surface.

I will never forget the reaction. I cannot live with that reality. My sister told me to “kill myself.” That is the definition of toxic. My terms of accepting my Dad’s suicide and her persistence to make me look bad and push my buttons. “Stop being a victim” she screamed with her hands around my throat but she is victimized? No. I am tried of the bully.

But what took years and how long I have felt estranged and the expectation that I would just stick around and accept it. That I was just dumb. As a kid, they tried to gaslight me which continued into my adulthood and what they would tell in terms of what I was or I wasn’t or was remembering. I literally saw joy in his eyes, never did he ask me what happened, just asked me to lunch and for what? I cried in realization of what he was. What I was dealing with and that he held no sense of empathy. He enjoyed seeing me hurting. He brought me to lunch to basically say they didn’t believe me. My godfather and the priest.

There was literally no one I could trust. At fourteen, had just gone to the police alone who would have taken me seriously? I remember threatening to call DHS and my mother telling me “who would want you.” And it was true. The truth was, was that the options of the abuse did not weight well in my favors. I was further abused in my perceptions of some form of abuse either way. There was no one looking out for my emotional, mental, and physical well being. A complete disregard to my safety and well being that started in childhood. I was dismissed and shut off. I often wonder over the thousands of years of our existence, how many women started off with stories just like mine. With no support and those so will to replace and dismiss her. A target. An easy target for men who study victims in seeking out those they can prey on. It is sick.

Published by Ms. Selective

Writer, traveler, and photographer from the Northwest.

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