This is a dual (two-part) poem. This first part outlines my feelings and reactions to the Brock Turner case.
Part I
Too naive to think the worst
She struggles with self-blaming
Fears no one will understand
The guilt and the slut-shaming
But the problem lies with him
And his complete denial
That anything that he did
Will ever go to trial
To rape is a conscious choice
You cant blame it on the booze
Or try to play the victim
When your story hits the news
Actions have consequences
Rape isn't victimless crime
No one cares that your life changed
They just care that you do time
There's no free pass for assault
No exemption or clean slate
No wealth, privilege, or power
Can make up for all that hate
How do you face yourself
Or justify your sins?
Even if you go to jail
Nobody really wins
Her life has changed forever
Her confidence is shattered
Meanwhile you are adamant
That she should just feel flattered
This continuation is a reflection on my own assault in the wake of the Brock Turner ruling. The light sentencing the defendant received, despite the guilty verdict, caused feelings I had long-buried, to reemerge.
Part II
There was no justice for me
No apology, no guilt
I'll never have peace of mind
With this resentment that I've built
But why does he get to walk
When I feel so paralyzed
He kept his wife and children
But if only they realized
The monster that they live with
And all the hurt he caused
A man who keeps advancing
While my future still feels paused
But that's merely a pipe dream
They will never know the truth
Much like I will never have
A chance to live my youth
Today is a milestone for me. It is an achievement I never thought I’d reach, a headline I didn’t expect to read. Today marks ten years since the last time I self-harmed (September 24, 2010). Ten years! That may seem trivial to some, but for me, it is such a feat. I am incredibly proud of myself for staying clean this long and not relapsing. What follows is a graphic, intimate description of some of the darkness I waded through and overcame more than a decade ago.
Trigger Warning!
November 2006
In late 2006, I self-harmed for the first time. I’m not even sure what started it. I think a combination of undiagnosed depression and self-confidence issues left me feeling a bit hopeless and scattered. I constantly felt that my friends didn’t really like me or that I’d never get a boyfriend because I wasn’t skinny enough or pretty enough. I wanted a life of adventure and spontaneity, but was terrified of stepping out of my comfort zone. Part of me wonders if self-harm was my way of punishing myself for not being “good enough”. The more likely scenario is that I needed something I could control, something to distract me from the unfamiliar emotions I was feeling. Cutting was a release – a break from the constant “what ifs” bouncing around in my head. For that brief moment, there was just the physical pain and nothing more. It was liberating (in the worst way).
Late 2006-June 2007
The cutting was fairly infrequent at the beginning. I only turned to self-harm if no conventional coping mechanisms were working. It was always a conscious, deliberate decision – a last resort. Since I was in control of the situation, I wasn’t concerned that my actions warranted intervention of any kind. Did I need a less destructive coping mechanism? Yes, of course. My previous coping mechanism, though, had been eating (‘comfort food’) and the weight gain associated with it had shattered my already fragile self-image, so this felt like a better overall solution. After all, I could stop anytime I wanted.
July 2007
Then, on Fourth of July weekend, my first trauma occurred. I’m not going to delve into it, since there is already a separate posting about it (‘The First Trauma’), but in short, I was assaulted on a flight overseas. The FBI technically defines what happened to me as ‘digital rape’. That flight changed everything. At the time, I didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. I thought somehow I had indicated that I was interested. I internalized that confusion, guilt, and misplaced blame for over a year.
July 2007-August 2008
In that year, things took a turn. I was a completely different person. I felt broken and damaged. Since I didn’t realize I had been assaulted, I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t actively think about it, but it was affecting every aspect of my being. My self-confidence took a nosedive and I started hating my body. It seemed disgusting and unrecognizable, but I couldn’t understand why or what had changed.
The cutting escalated rapidly. It went from being a last-resort coping mechanism to my go-to. Soon it was the only thing that worked at all to (temporarily) relieve the complicated emotions I was feeling. My cuts were fairly superficial, but the sting was enough to distract me from having to confront my feelings. If I was having a hard day at school, I would go to my car at lunch and self-harm with whatever I could find. I wasn’t picky – paperclips, pushpins, scissors, etc. Nothing was off limits. Other times, I sat in the backseat and carved inspirational words into my thigh in hopes that when I saw them, I’d be reminded that I was “strong” or “beautiful” and I wouldn’t feel as vulnerable. It didn’t make a difference. Inside I was broken.
I never usually talk about this part of my past because of how it sounds to other people. It comes off as dark and twisted or disgusting and disturbing. The stigmas surrounding self-harm and “cutting” are damaging. A lot of people strongly believe that it is a “cry for attention” or a juvenile “act of rebellion”. I can’t speak for others, but I can confidently say that that is not the case for everyone.
I didn’t want an intervention. I didn’t want attention. I didn’t want questions or judgement or dirty looks or help. Part of me didn’t think there was a problem that warranted help. I was just marking up MY body. It was mine – no one else’s.
I went out of my way to cover my scars and fresh cuts. I was constantly paranoid that someone would see them and would ask me how I got them or, worse, would know exactly how I got them and would judge me for it. I started wearing sweatshirts in the summer and wearing chunky bracelets when long sleeves weren’t an option. I didn’t want to risk anyone noticing and taking away my one “successful” coping mechanism.
February 2008
Eventually, my mom discovered cuts on my forearm. She had noticed a few the year before, but she thought I had stopped. Neither one of us could understand why I was so depressed all the time, especially when things were, on the surface, going so well — I was president of a couple clubs at school and treasurer of my senior class, I was accepted into my top choice college, and I had a tight-knit group of friends, a loving family, and a boyfriend.
She scheduled an appointment with a psychotherapist and I saw him that same month. He talked me through some anxieties about graduating and going off to college, leaving my friends, my breakup with my boyfriend, etc., but the cutting continued.
August 2008
A couple of weeks before I left for college, my therapist asked if I’d ever been abused or assaulted because I was exhibiting a lot of the warning signs and symptoms of PTSD. After I told him about the July 2007 plane ride, he helped me see the incident for what it was.
Identifying the root cause of my worsening depression and self-loathing was a relief at first, because I assumed if I knew what the underlying cause was, I’d be able to address it and move on. That could not have been further from the truth. I started to see myself as a victim and I was now walking around with this huge shameful secret that I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about. I internalized my feelings again and retreated inward.
September 2008
Moving into my dorm in college was the perfect storm – I was living on my own for the first time, I had a roommate who I had to censor myself around, I hadn’t yet found my niche, I wasn’t sure if I liked my major, my classes were intense, I was away from my family and friends and support system, and I was responsible for my own schedule, food, laundry, etc. for the first time. It was a lot to process at once and would be for anyone, but when you layer on a newly-discovered, unaddressed trauma, disaster strikes. I began cutting more than ever before.
January 2009
On the advice of my therapist, my mother took me to a psychiatrist, who diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder and started me on an antidepressant. I also started sessions with a new (female) therapist. I wanted to discuss my trauma and try to work through it, but didn’t feel comfortable doing so with my previous (male) therapist. Despite the medication and weekly therapy sessions, the self-harm continued.
March 2009
On a Tuesday night in late March, while away at school, I deactivated my social media accounts and texted messages to a couple friends before turning off my phone and downing a handful of my prescription anxiety pills. I’m still unsure if I was suicidal or if I was having a severe panic attack and thought, ‘taking more pills means they will work faster’. It wasn’t the first time (or the last) that I deactivated my social media accounts and turned off my phone, in an attempt to block out the world.
My roommate realized what had happened and alerted the R.A. He was then required to call Campus Safety. Within minutes, a few campus EMTs were putting me on a stretcher and wheeling me to the elevator and down to the ambulance, as many of my floor mates watched from their doorways.
At the hospital, the ER doctors cleared me within a few hours – my blood work was okay and I hadn’t taken enough pills to cause any lasting damage. They then passed me off to the psych department for evaluation. I met with a couple therapists and psychiatrists, who asked me numerous questions about how many pills I took, if I’d done anything similar before, what I washed them down with, etc. before determining I was not a risk to myself or others. They labeled the incident an ‘accidental overdose’ and not a suicide attempt, so I was free to leave.
April 2009
Shortly after, while visiting my parents, I woke up with fresh cuts on my arm and dried blood on my pillow. Somehow, I had cut in my sleep. I don’t know if I was half-awake or sleepwalking, but it was terrifying to wake up to. As a result, my psychiatrist added an anti-psychotic medication to my ever-growing list of pills.
The following weekend, I came home drunk from a party and fell on my thumb/wrist in the dorm hallway. It started swelling and bruising almost immediately. I could still move it, but it hurt a lot. I didn’t want that pain to fade, so a couple of days later, I used the hammer from my tool kit and hammered the area. I didn’t hit it very hard, but it was enough to prolong the hurt and delay the healing. I had rationalized this action in my head. I felt that this was a safer, more effective version of self-harm than cutting. Unfortunately, the swelling was so bad that I had to go to the doctor, who immediately recommended I get a cast.
I was frustrated and had no interest in dealing with a cast. I knew it would complicate everything – showering, getting dressed, taking notes, etc. Looking back, I’m extremely relieved that the doctor opted for the cast. The cast drew unwanted attention, which deterred me from ever using that method of self-harm again. Anytime people saw the cast, they asked what happened and everything inside of me froze. I didn’t want to be judged, or pitied, or yelled at, so I stuck to the original story – I fell on it while drunk. It wasn’t technically a lie, since that did cause the underlying injury.
May-August 2009
Thankfully, I managed to make it through the rest of the school year without drawing too much attention to myself. Once I moved back home for summer, my mother tried everything she could think of to get me to stop cutting. When I mentioned that I didn’t want to be alone in my room at night because I was afraid of waking up with fresh cuts again, she convinced my sister to let me sleep on the futon in her room.
She also instituted a ‘gold star’ system. She would check my forearms for fresh cuts each day and if I didn’t self-harm, I would get a sticker (a gold star) on the calendar. At the end of the summer, if I had enough gold stars, I would get a new camera for our cruise to the Western Caribbean. This incentive/reward system would work for a few days and then I’d start cutting again. Every time I tried to stop, I relapsed. It was extremely frustrating.
Mid-August 2009
By the time the cruise rolled around, though, I was a week or two clean, which was a personal best. The vacation started out great with a couple of days in Florida before we set sail. The first night onboard, though, I was drugged and raped by a stranger I met in the ship’s nightclub (‘The Second Trauma’).
When we got home from the cruise, I was a wreck. I immediately returned to cutting. Why did I get assaulted AGAIN? Why me? I couldn’t get out of my own head. It felt like I was doing something to attract these predators. I needed to take back control of my body and self-harm gave me that opportunity. It went from a coping mechanism to a way of life – a full-blown addiction.
September 2009
Despite my mother’s concerns and hesitations, I returned to school for the fall semester. There was a distinct change in my personality, yet again. I started skipping classes and social functions and spending every day in bed. My friends were worried, my parents were scared, and I felt nothing. I cared more about how much my actions were hurting them than about how they were hurting me. Knowing how upset my mother probably was back home is what kept me up at night. But things didn’t change.
October 2009
Halfway through the semester, I started EMDR sessions at the on-campus counseling center, while simultaneously coming off of my antipsychotic medication. EMDR should never have been suggested to me a mere two months after my trauma. And I shouldn’t have been taken off of any medications without a tapering plan in place.
November 2009
After a few EMDR sessions, something inside of me broke. The result was complete apathy. I didn’t care if I lived or died. I had no set plans to kill myself, but the suicidal thoughts and ideations were becoming more frequent and were clouding my judgement. As someone with little to no impulse control, I was nervous I would do something I couldn’t heal from. I mentioned this to my on-campus therapist and she called my mother to ask what she should do about the situation, as if my mother, who was at work when she took the call, was equipped to deal with this issue. Ultimately, the therapist consulted with the center director and they decided I was a suicide risk.
Once again I found myself in a campus ambulance to the hospital. This time, though, I wasn’t allowed to leave. They admitted me to the Emergency Psych Ward on a three-day hold and suicide watch. They took my phone and my belongings. All I was able to keep were my clothes. My “room” consisted of a shelf, a barred window, and a bolted down bed and desk. There was a nurse assigned to look into my room every fifteen minutes, the bathroom doors didn’t lock, and all meals were served with plastic spoons (even when those meals were chicken). I spent those few days in group and individual therapy sessions and intermittently writing poems or napping.
After the three-day required hold, I was released and I returned to school to finish out the last couple weeks of the semester.
December 2009
At the start of winter semester, I had to meet with the dean of my college and an advocate from the counseling center to justify why I should be allowed to stay in school. They asked how I could be sure that the winter semester would be any different than spring or fall, how I could be sure I wouldn’t have to be taken to the hospital again, how I was going to be able to manage my mental health and classes, etc. Ultimately, whatever answers I gave were enough to convince them that I was healthy enough to stay. They cautiously agreed I could remain enrolled.
January 2010
By the time the new year rolled around, I was barely functioning. I started partying hard on the weekends – drinking excessively, smoking at house parties, etc. Anytime I drank, I cut. One time, one of my sorority sisters followed me back to my apartment after a night of drinking and stood in my doorway begging me not to hurt myself. She then came inside and collected all of my scissors and razors. At the time, it felt like I was being babysat. Or that I couldn’t be trusted. But the truth is, I couldn’t. When I was alone, my thoughts were dark.
January 24, 2010
Later that month, I made a particularly deep cut, far worse than any cut I had done before. It likely required stitches, but I didn’t go to the hospital. I just waited for the bleeding to stop and then went to bed. The wound eventually closed up, but it left a raised scar that is still visible now, almost eleven years later. A dermatologist once recommended a cream I could use to lessen the appearance of the scar, but I had (and still have) zero interest in that. The scar is a symbol of my past and the battle I overcame to get to this point.
The next morning, I called my mother and told her I needed help. I’d been back at school for three weeks and hadn’t gone to a single class. She was extremely supportive. I went to my advisor’s office and filled out the paperwork for a “leave of absence” for the rest of the semester.
March 2010
When I returned to school six weeks later for spring semester, I opted to sleep on my friend’s couch, instead of in my apartment. I felt safer at her place. I felt like there was nowhere to hide or to get enough privacy to cut, which deterred me from hurting myself. Even though I didn’t make the dean’s list that semester, I was proud I managed to make it through the whole ten weeks of classes.
Summer 2010
I remained on campus that summer so I could take a few classes and still graduate on time, despite dropping all of my winter courses and taking ‘incompletes’. I got involved with the campus radio station and tried to keep myself busy.
July 2010
In July, I made the decision to get a tattoo. I had the word ‘love’ tattooed on my foot, as a nod to the organization To Write Love on her Arms, which had provided me with a community and a safe space to talk through my problems with like-minded individuals. That simple act of getting a tattoo helped me heal more than I could have ever anticipated. I felt empowered and in control of my body for the first time in three years. I had “reclaimed” it. It started to feel like mine again.
September 2010
In the fall, I moved into my sorority’s mansion. Living in a house with 15 other girls meant there was constantly someone to talk to or study with or grab food with. The support this provided was crucial to my recovery. The frequency of my self-harm decreased each week I lived there.
Then, on September 24, 2010, I cut for the last time.
September 24, 2020 (Present Day)
Today is my ten-year anniversary of being clean and I couldn’t be prouder. There are still days where I have to actively fight the urge for a “quick release”. Like any other addiction, the risk of relapse is never completely gone, but I have worked really hard to instill other coping mechanisms in myself. Some people think it is a “strange” or “pathetic” thing to say I’m “proud” of, but those people have obviously never had an addiction.
Regardless of how an addiction starts and what your first motivations were, it consumes you. It becomes a habit – a part of you. It weaves itself into your life in ways you don’t even realize and eliminating them all is overwhelming and extremely difficult. It needs to be a conscious decision and, in my experience, only works if you’re surrounded by a strong support system and if you’ve found a new, healthy way of “coping” when things get tough. Trying to stop “cold turkey” or end an addiction by force, before you’re ready, usually only leads to relapses and then shame and frustration surrounding those relapses.
If you are battling through an addiction to self-harm, please know that it gets better. It is a process and recovery takes time. Be patient with yourself and don’t be afraid to reach out to someone you trust for help. I also recommend celebrating your milestones (i.e one day clean, one week, one month, one year, etc.), no matter how small or insignificant they may seem.
This one is perhaps the most important and controversial “Not an Invitation” that I will ever post. There is so much blame, guilt, and judgement that surround drinking and sexual assault. There is a common misconception that if a girl is drinking and “agrees” to sex, that’s on her. She “decided” to go through with it and can’t label it rape when she “regrets it” later on.
Being drunk, inebriated, intoxicated, hammered, wasted, etc. makes you incapacitated and legally incapable of consenting to sex.
So often people feel at fault for what happens to them when they are drunk. I understand. I struggle with the self-blame sometimes, too. I think, “well, I willingly consumed the alcohol and the alcohol led to my assault, so I must be at fault”.
Thinking that way is unfair to yourself. Yes, you drank. That’s not illegal. You are entitled to drink as much as you’d like. But you know what is illegal? Sexual assault. Being intoxicated may make you an easier target, but it doesn’t give anyone the right to take advantage of your weakened state.
I’ve briefly written or spoken about this incident so many times that it feels rehearsed and yet, it is extremely emotional every time. I’ve talked about this assault with security guards, police officers, FBI agents, my parents, a few close friends, therapists, psychiatrists, support groups, and my husband. Unfortunately, it never gets easier. This was my first time writing it out start to finish in such a detailed manner. It has been challenging, draining, raw, and deeply personal, but overall, cathartic. I think it was long overdue.
Trigger Warning!
The Incident
All names have been changed.
On Sunday, August 16, 2009, I boarded a cruise ship with my best friend, my parents, my sister, and another friend of ours. The four of us girls were excited to have our own cabin next door to my parents’, which gave us a little bit of independence and freedom. My sister and her friend were 15-16 years old and were able to meet other teens in the teen group on board. They made friends quickly and were off roaming the ship. My best friend and I, both 18, were too young to get into the bar and too old to qualify for the teen groups, so we didn’t know how to spend our first night on board. We flipped through the daily activity pamphlet that was in our room when we arrived and noticed that the nightclub was having an 18+ singles night around 11PM. We decided to venture out of our comfort zones and head to the club that night.
We were shy so we sat in a corner of the upstairs section of the club before working up the courage to head downstairs where the dance floor and all of the people were. We sat back away from the action, on a cushioned bench, enjoying one of our favorite hobbies – people watching. Suddenly, there was a bright camera flash directed at us. Then another. Then a small group of Marines approached us and asked us to join them. We cautiously agreed and relocated to their table near the dance floor. One of the Sergeants, Ethan, offered to buy us drinks. We knew we wouldn’t be able to buy our own and happily accepted. Because we were underage, we couldn’t go to the bar with him, which was on the upper level, to order the drinks. He was gone for a little while and returned with two Long Island Iced Teas. We had a few sips and then he asked us to join him on the dance floor. Drinks weren’t allowed, so we left them at the table with his cabin mate, Joel.
I have a few short clips in my head of dancing that night. I can see Ethan doing the cha cha during the song “Cha Cha Slide” and I can see him recreating the dance from Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” music video. We would occasionally return to the table for a sip of our drinks.
It is unclear when our drinks were drugged. It could have been when Ethan was returning downstairs with them or it could have been when Joel was “watching” them while we danced. I’ll never know which of them slipped the drugs in or how they were able to do so without anyone noticing.
Everything after that fourth or fifth sip is a bit of a blur. I remember my best friend and I both making out with Ethan and dancing with him. I vaguely remember the men trying to convince us to go back to their cabin. I remember drying my hands with paper towels in the bathroom, which was outside of the club, and I remember my friend and I agreeing that we would exit the bathroom and head straight to the elevators, since the men were making us uncomfortable.
The next image in my head is of us sitting in chairs in their cabin (I later found out that they had followed us out of the club and were waiting for us on a couch outside of the bathroom). In their room, they offered us more alcohol, but we declined and stood up to leave.
The next thing I can remember is being on the bed and hearing him unzip his pants. I was barely conscious. When I came to, the weight of his body was on top of me. My underwear was pushed to the side and he was inside of me. Now that I was conscious enough to know where I was and what was happening, I said “no, wait, stop” and he continued while whispering close to my face a phrase that I will never forget. A phrase that haunts me and has ruined more nights of sleep than I care to recount. The six words that send me catapulting back to that disorienting, terrifying, blurry moment…
“Oh, come on, just a quickie”
It’s unclear how much longer the assault continued after that. I finally mustered enough strength and focus to yell out my friend’s name. She sprung up and managed to find the light switch. Once the lights were on, we grabbed our stuff and left. As I was leaving, he had the nerve to ask if I was okay… IF I WAS OKAY?!No, no I’m not okay.
I tried walking in the hall, but stumbled and slumped down against the wall. It still felt like he was inside of me. I was a virgin before that night, so I wasn’t sure if the feeling was normal or if it was a result of the force that was used, but it hurt to close my legs. My friend asked me what exactly had happened and once I said, “I think I was just raped”, she helped me up and told me we needed to wake up my parents and tell them. I’m extremely grateful that, even in her weakened state, she was coherent enough to suggest telling them.
I don’t remember if I was nervous telling my parents or what their reactions were. I just remember my mom hugging me tight and my dad calling the security office. Two security officers came to my parents’ cabin to get me and escort me to their office. On the way to the elevators, I caught a glimpse of the time. It was past 4 in the morning. How had it been five hours, when all I could remember was a combined five minutes?
Reporting the Incident
I sat with a security officer and my mother in a small office on a lower deck and tried my best to recount what I could from that night. I was still out of it, though, and my statement is extremely vague and wishy-washy. I couldn’t provide details, I had no idea how long it went on for or how we got from one location to another. After the first few sips of my drink, I couldn’t remember anything except for the handful of clips and snapshots that I mentioned previously.
The officer had me write down as much as I could and sign the statement. It was dated August 17th, 4:40AM. I still have a scanned copy of the statement and it is extremely difficult to read. When I reread it, I find myself feeling angry. Angry that the statement was taken from me while I was still under the influence, angry that the officer had no idea how to handle a sexual assault claim, and angry that my statement is short, lacking details, and downplays the situation. I know it is because of the drugs that were in my system, but I have to imagine that my vague, apathetic statement didn’t help my case. And it certainly doesn’t help quell any self-doubt or guilt that lingers from that night.
My statement essentially reads “he pushed me onto the bed… suddenly he was inside of me… it lasted forty seconds… I said “stop” and then yelled out to my friend and we left”. This makes it sound like a misunderstanding or miscommunication between me and Ethan. It completely leaves out the fact that the “forty seconds” I recalled were likely only the last forty seconds of what happened to me – the forty seconds I was conscious for. Like I said, rereading it makes me angry and, sometimes, ashamed and embarrassed, like I blew this whole thing out of proportion.
After I finished my statement, I was brought into a private exam room so that a rape kit could be done. Calling it an exam room, however, is overselling it. There was a bright movable light (like at the dentist’s office) hanging above a metal table. The room felt like (and vaguely resembled) a morgue. They didn’t have hospital gowns or sheets for me to cover up with, so I had to strip completely naked and lie face up on that cold metal table like a corpse. The only doctor available was a man, which made me incredibly uncomfortable, but I didn’t have a choice. Luckily, there was a female nurse assisting him with the evidence collection.
I don’t know how long I was lying on that table for. Time seemed to stand still. Blood was drawn from my arm (twice because the nurse messed up the first time), hairs were pulled from my head, my body was combed for stray hairs and swabbed for fluids, and the area under my nails was scraped for DNA and skin cells. Then, because they were acrylics (that my friend and I had gotten to pamper ourselves before the trip) and were hard to scrape under, a few of my nails were cut completely.
No urine sample was collected to check for drugs. I wasn’t given antivirals to fend off possible STDs. And I wasn’t given the morning after pill to prevent a pregnancy. The limitations of an “at-sea” rape kit do a huge disservice to victims. Less evidence is collected – evidence that could prove crucial in convicting the perpetrator – and there are no preventative measures taken to reduce the possibility of there being lasting physical effects from the rape.
The rape kit was arguably the worst part of the incident, likely because it is the part I was the most coherent for and have the most memories of. I can still remember being on that table and being stared at as the doctor and nurse searched for bruises or scrapes of any kind. Sometimes when I close my eyes I still picture that “dentist” light shining down on me.
After the rape kit was complete, they left the room so I could put my clothes back on. A female officer then escorted me to my cabin so I could change and bag the sundress, underwear, and bra I had been wearing that night. I changed, gave her the clothes, and never saw them again.
The only things I still had from that night were my sandals, the remainder of my French manicure, and my favorite necklace. It had green and brown beads, a long silver chain, and a sterling silver outline of a dove on it. I tried to enjoy the necklace, but, within a few months, I had yanked it apart and watched the beads roll everywhere. I couldn’t stand looking at it. It was tainted.
Once the security officer had my clothes, she left and I attempted to go to sleep. My friend finished giving her statement at 5AM and the two men finished theirs at 6AM & 6:40AM. I have a scanned copy of all three of their statements (my friend, Ethan, and Joel). Reading the men’s statements is how I learned their full names and ages (Ethan, 28 & Joel, 24) and where they were from. I didn’t need to look at the paper to know their room number. Cabin 6104. I can still see the door, the chairs, and the bed. Cabin 6104 is burned into my memory. It is a common backdrop in my nightmares.
Joel’s statement mentions me as being inappropriate and handsy and initiating things with Ethan. It’s hard to read it and not blindly assume his version is the truth. His statement goes on to say that Ethan and I were on Ethan’s bed, so he turned off the cabin lights to “give Ethan more privacy” and listened to music on his iPod with my friend to try to “drown out any noises” we were making. Joel notes that the lights were off for “at least six minutes because we had time to listen to a full track on my iPod and we were most of the way through another”. He said he heard me say “no, wait, stop!” so he got up, walked to the bathroom, and turned on the light.
There is a snapshot in my head of him standing in the bathroom with the light on and looking at me in the mirror. It’s almost like he heard me resisting, and went to the bathroom so he could watch. I’d like to think that isn’t true, but why wouldn’t he turn on the cabin lights? He had to pass by them to get to the bathroom lights…
The bathroom lights weren’t enough to illuminate anything or to get Ethan to stop. Thankfully, my friend then heard me call her name a moment later and she shot up and turned on the bedroom lights. Joel’s statement tries to paint me as a girl who simply regretted a one-night stand, but having him admit that I said “no”, “wait”, and “stop” is validating, regardless of what he claims happened next.
Ethan’s statement is shorter and is riddled with misspellings. I doubt he had completely sobered up yet when he wrote it. One thing is consistent, however. He said that he unzipped his shorts and we started having sex, but then I said “stop”. He then claims that he rolled over next to me and asked me if I wanted to go further and I said no so he stopped and I left.
It has been more than a decade since my rape and there are still days where I make excuses for Ethan or manage to convince myself that this whole thing was my fault. Sometimes I even find myself feeling bad for him. FOR HIM?!Why do I do this?! Why do I always assume that everyone has good intentions and that if something goes wrong it’s because I screwed up or misinterpreted the situation? These are some of the thoughts that run through my head:
I will never have definitive proof that there was a drug involved. If there wasn’t a drug, it means I just couldn’t handle my liquor and it’s my fault for getting drunk. Or for accepting the drink. Or for not insisting on watching the drink get made. Or for setting down my glass.
There is a chance I may have initiated things, so this whole thing could be my fault for giving him the wrong impression.
If he wasdrunk, can he even be at fault? Is this whole incident, this nightmare of an experience, considered rape if we were both intoxicated?
Was he shocked and confused when security woke him up? Did I ruin his trip? ME… ruin HIS trip?!
Does he remember the incident the same way I do or was he too drunk to remember? Does he think I’m lying?
Did he drug me? Why me? Was my friend drugged, too, or did he randomly pick a glass? Was this planned in advance? Do Ethan and Joel just hop from cruise to cruise carrying out this scheme?
Has he even thought about any of this since returning back home to his wife and kids? Do they know? What did he tell them when they asked how the cruise went?
Am I the only one haunted by this?
At least once a month these thoughts run through my head and consume my entire focus. It knocks me on my ass every single time. I fall into a rut of self-blame and self-hatred — the shame cycle.
A “Day at Sea”
After all the trauma of the morning — the statements, the rape kit, etc., I was glad that Monday was a “day at sea” where I could try to catch up on sleep. I don’t remember doing much of anything that day, except for after dinner. My sister and our friends let me have the room to myself for a little while, so I could make a phone call.
The officers on the ship had said I could make a complimentary ship-to-shore call to talk to someone back home. They were trying to do what they could to make me more comfortable. I appreciated the gesture and took them up on their offer.
Some people probably would have called their therapist, but there was only one person I wanted to talk to — Teddy, my closest guy friend. I called him from a cruise ship somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean Sea and, even though he was on vacation with his family, he stepped outside and took the call. I don’t know what possessed him to answer a call from an unknown number, but I am so glad he did. He let me cry into the phone for as long as I needed. It meant more than he’ll ever know, and talking to him helped me get through what came next…
Arriving at our First Port of Call
On Tuesday, August 18th, we tried to exit the ship in Grand Cayman for our planned excursion – swimming with stingrays, a walk around “hell”, and a visit to a turtle farm. When the crew member swiped our cards to indicate we were leaving the ship, they were rejected. We were confused and embarrassed as a crew member escorted us off to the side.
I was told that I needed to meet with the local authorities, since the first port of call was responsible for evidence collection and investigating my case. For more than four hours, Grand Cayman detectives questioned me, my friend, and Joel. Apparently Ethan was off the ship in a local lock up the whole time, which I didn’t know until later. The detectives asked an infinite number of questions, took fingerprints, swabbed the inside of my cheeks for DNA, and blocked off cabin 6104 with crime scene tape until they could make it upstairs to collect evidence from the room. More than 24 hours had passed since the assault. What evidence did they really expect to find at that point?
It was such an emotionally draining process. I had to relive the assault numerous times that morning. And yet… the thing that had me most upset was knowing that I “ruined” the rest of our group’s plans and, possibly, their entire vacation. Instead of swimming with stingrays, my sister, our friends, and my parents had to sit there for more than four hours, while everyone else left the ship and enjoyed all the island had to offer. I felt horrible.
After the detectives finished questioning me and my friend and collecting evidence, they offered to have a local drive us to “hell”, which was all we had time for before the ship was scheduled to leave port. All of us except my mom took the ride to “hell”. What a fitting place to visit – the irony was not lost on me.
When we were re-boarding the ship, we ran into Joel, who shot us a nasty look. He was waiting for Ethan to be released from lock up and allowed back on the ship. Apparently Grand Cayman detectives didn’t find enough evidence to hold him.
Knowing the two men would still be on the ship had me panicked. I was afraid that after everything that had happened that day, the men were going to seek revenge or retaliate against me. My mom spoke with the officers on the ship, but was told they didn’t have any legal standing to kick the two men off the cruise, so I had to deal with that reality.
The Harassment
That night, my friend and I were sitting in the lobby talking with a couple people we had met at a meet & greet event for young adults 18-20. While we were conversing, Joel and Ethan walked by with a couple other men (they were on their way to the club again). Ethan looked down and didn’t make eye contact, but Joel started coughing and looked directly at me and said “dirty whore”, immediately followed by “sluts”. Then he got louder and said to the guy next to him “Hey, do you know how I got Ethan off the hook? I fucked with the evidence”.
That broke me.
Here I am after a morning of exhausting questions and endless tears just trying to salvage what little is left of my vacation and you’re making jokes? Harassing me? Openly admitting to tampering with evidence? Calling me dirty names in the main lobby in front of a bunch of strangers? NO. Not okay. LINE. CROSSED.
I calmly stood up and walked to the elevators, determined not to break down in front of the men. Once I got to our deck, I went straight to my parents’ room and told my mom. It was late at night so there wasn’t much she could do. I don’t know who she spoke to, but the next morning we met with a few high-ranking officers and explained the ongoing harassment. They said they would handle it.
My mom followed up with them later that day and they said they spoke to the men and flat out told them that if they spoke to me or even looked at me, they were off the ship. If they entered an area and I was already there, they needed to leave. This threat was enough for them to remain unseen for the rest of the week, aside from a brief sighting on the top deck the night of the white party. Luckily, as soon as they saw me, they turned around and left the party.
I tried my best to bury the trauma for the remainder of the week and enjoy my time onboard. Despite the way the trip began, I have some really great memories from it. I try really hard to consciously separate those from the bad ones.
Arriving Back in the U.S.
On Saturday, when we went to leave the ship, our cards were rejected again. This time, the FBI had boarded the ship. A couple of agents from the local field office met with me and explained that, because the crime occurred in international waters, it was an FBI case. They had me retell the story of what happened, yet again, and then spoke with just my mother, before calling me back over.
The Special Agent started by telling me that, unfortunately, she had seen this exact situation many times — the camera flashes, the roofied drinks, the coercion, the memory loss, and the man assigned to distract the girl’s friend while waiting his turn. Waiting his turn?!My stomach was in knots when she finished. It was validating to hear I didn’t imagine any of the terrible things that happened that night, but also nauseating to know that if my friend hadn’t been there to turn the lights on, it may have been twice as bad. The snapshot in my head of Joel in the bathroom mirror had a whole new meaning after hearing that. Turning on the bathroom lights wasn’t some failed, half-hearted attempt to “rescue me” or diffuse the situation… he was prepping for his turn.
The special agent told me that she planned to request the evidence from Grand Cayman authorities and then present it to the DA, but warned me that it would likely never go to court. She said that the Grand Cayman detectives indicated there was little to no physical evidence and the case would come down to my word versus his – “he said, she said”. Without physical proof, I didn’t stand a chance at winning.
For a while, I held out hope that the rape kit would reveal something incriminating, but as far as I know, it’s still sitting on a shelf somewhere. It probably never left the Cayman Islands.
I could have pushed harder and followed up with the special agents, but I had already told the story so many times. And each time I retold it, it weighed on me more and more. So why put myself through that? Why even give it the chance to go to court? Why allow a defense attorney to rip apart every sexual encounter I’d ever had? Or to criticize my underage drinking?
So often in cases like this, the victim is treated like the criminal. The rapist doesn’t need to be proven innocent. As long as you can’t prove he’s guilty, he walks. I understand that this is the guiding principle of our judicial system and it protects many innocent people from being wrongly accused and imprisoned. But what about all the guilty ones who walk free? What about all the victims who cautiously and courageously come forward only to be told they will never get justice? No wonder so many sexual assaults go unreported each year.
A Few Weeks Later
A few weeks after the rape, I was late for my period. I was usually always on time, so I brought it up to my mom. The sheer panicked look in my mother’s eyes when she realized what that could mean still cuts me to my core.
She had my dad go buy a pregnancy test. I took it in the downstairs bathroom of my childhood home and then stood holding the test in the kitchen while my dad and I both watched the timer on the microwave count down second by second.
When I think about the terror that was painted across his face and the horrible “what ifs” that were likely running through his mind, I get emotional. No father should have to go through that… waiting to find out if his 18-year-old daughter is pregnant with her rapist’s baby.
The timer went off and I looked at the test. NEGATIVE. Thank god. I can’t even imagine what my life would have become if it had been positive.
The Short-Term Effects of the Trauma
After I returned to school in September, there was a noticeable change in my attitude, personality, self-confidence, and motivation. I went from an outgoing, straight-A student to someone I didn’t even recognize. I started skipping classes and events, oversleeping, and partying more. I didn’t think I deserved meaningful relationships or friendships. If I wasn’t out partying, I was hiding in my apartment. That lifestyle wasn’t sustainable, though, and by late-January I withdrew from all of my classes and took a leave of absence from school. I needed to take time to focus on my mental health and to begin processing my trauma.
Final Thoughts
You can’t run away from your trauma. It follows you everywhere. The only way to work through it is to face it head on. And, in my case, writing about it here is my first attempt at that — even if it is nearly 11 years after the assault.
People often try to comfort me by saying “think of it this way – your trauma made you stronger” or “look at how strong you are now”. I understand the sentiment of trying to help me “see the good” in a terrible situation, but it is extremely invalidating. It also takes the power away from the victim/survivor.
I refuse to credit the men who tried to break me with making me “stronger”. Those contradict each other. I pulled myself out of that hole and was forced to be strong, in order to survive.
This is one I think a lot of victims need to hear… Just because you kissed him first or approached him on the dance floor or asked him to come home with you, does NOT mean you wanted to be assaulted. Contact does not imply consent.
When first wading through the aftermath of trauma it can be hard to remember that something traumatic and life-altering happened to you. Again it happened TO you. You did not cause your assault. This is not because of something you said or did. Sometimes that thought can send me spiraling a little – if it wasn’t anything I said or did, how will I be able to stop it in the future?
All too often when a survivor discusses their assault they are asked, “what were you wearing?”. This question is extremely invalidating and is completely irrelevant. We need to stop tying assault to appearance and placing the blame on the victim for not covering up. Even if a woman is running past you wearing nothing, it is not an invitation for assault. Revealing clothing is not consent.
Talking Through Trauma 