Tag Archives: sexual assault

24 JUNE 2001

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When I started this blog on the one year anniversary of my attack, it was to help me deal with and understand what I had been through as a result of my encounter with DCD.  I also wanted to help other women who had gone through, or were still going through, a similar event.  I thought that others would eventually want to share their stories.  So far, though, I seem to be the only one telling my story, and that’s okay.   As I’ve shared my story and continue to have issues come up, as a direct or indirect result of being sexually assaulted, I can see that my entire story, not just the approximately 2-minute or 5-minute, or however long my assault actually took, is just as important.  Everything we go through in our lives gets us to where we are right now, in this very moment, and all of it matters.  Of course, some things or events matter more than others, but it all does impact us in some way.

When I was thinking about what to write in this week’s post, I went to my garage and got into my box of old journals.  After some skimming of about 10 or 12, I settled on the one that runs from 4 April 2001 -11 November 2001.  I brought it in the house and into my bed to read until the ‘right’ entry jumped out at me.  This period of my life was just ager my divorce from J and I had moved from Chicago to West Hollywood.  What follows is what I wrote on 24 June 2001…

 

“Once again, I am drinking wine and shortly, no doubt, I’ll start feeling melancholy, as I usually do when drinking, especially when I am alone.  And, of course, I am alone.  I am hardly anything else.  But since I like being alone, this should be a good thing.  I’m beginning to wonder though.  As I was sitting here reading (looking, though, is probably more accurate) Cooking Light, I suddenly had the inspiration that I should, once again, write down what it is I want in my life.  So here is my updated list:  I want someone to share with.  The day-to-day stuff that is usually such a pain is sorely lacking in my life.  I want and need someone here. (Elaina was right about this.)  I want someone to talk to, and I mean really talk, not just silly, it-doesn’t-really-matter stuff.  I want someone to go to the Hollywood Farmer’s Market (or whichever) with.  I want to cook dinner with someone.  I want someone in my bed every night, and I don’t mean Emily.  I want physical contact.  I need it.  I want to go to the Hollywood Bowl and listen to jazz (even though I don’t care for jazz.)  I want to be building a life with someone (besides myself.)  I still want to have a baby.  I want to get a dog.  I want to, once and for all time, STOP BEING AFRAID.  I want to have more patience.  I want to love unconditionally and be loved in return the  same way.  I want to live for today, and for myself, instead of waiting until that certain someone comes along and is here in my life.  I want to honestly enjoy everything.  I want to stop saying I don’t like things, and just do them anyway.  I want to teach.  I want to write my book about my life so that I can help thousands, maybe even millions, of people.  I want to write children’s books, so kids can understand that they are important, that what they think and feel is the most important thing in the world, no matter what anybody says.  I want to see DPS again.  I want to create beautiful things.  I want to live according to what I believe. I want to tell my truth, always.  I want to travel and see the world.  I want to learn to sail and buy that sail boat so that I can sail around the world.  I want to stop being stuck.  I want to do what I feel is right.  I want to see SG.  I want to stop being afraid of what he’s going to say or do or not do.  I want to stop putting my life on hold because of him.  I want to truly believe that all is happening for the best, that my life is exactly where it should be.  I want passion.  I WANT SEX.  I am so tired of being lonely.  I want to stop being afraid.  I want to know why I am so afraid.  I want to talk to M, I mean really talk to him, on Friday.  I want to spend time with him.  I want to kiss him.  Boy, do I want to kiss him.  I would love to be able to tell him that.  Better yet, I would like to just do it.  I want to understand why I’m here (in L.A. specifically, but in the world generally.)  I want to understand why I seem to attract and be attracted to those men who are ‘unavailable’ for one reason or another.  Why?  I want to understand why it is that every Tom, Dick and Harry that I pass by on the street tells me I am beautiful, but the very people I want to tell me never do, even though they may think it.  Why?  I want to know why it is I am so weepy lately (even without the wine.)  I want to know why I keep losing my faith in the very things I am so sure about.  I’m not going to say that I want to be happy, because, in reality, I am happier than I’ve ever been in my life even though I am the most confused.  I know in my heart that I am doing, and have been doing, the right things for the last 9 or so months.  Still, it feels so not right at times.  Perhaps one of the reasons it feels bad at times is that no one really wants to hear the truth.  Change is scary and no one knows that as well as I.  But I did it anyway.  In spite of what I was hearing from most people (my family,) I did it anyway, and I continue to do it.  Most don’t understand.  And as much as I don’t want that to matter, it somehow seems to anyway.  I’m working on it.  I guess for my whole life I have instinctively known what I had to do, and for the most part, have done it.  I just wish I had the outside support I seem to crave.  I’m on my own, though.  Except, I am never truly alone because I’ve always got God and the Universe and my guides and angels and spirits with me.  What more could I ever really ask for?

Alcohol is such a depressant, and yet, I’d love to drink even more.  Why?  I’d say I just want to be numb.  I know it won’t do me any good though, and I’ll just feel like dog doo tomorrow, so I’ll be a relatively good girl and not have any more to drink tonight.  Not to mention, it will only make me feel worse.”

 

Some things never change.  Although the above journal entry was written more than 13 years ago, a lot of what I was ‘wanting’ in my life is still what I want today.  I hope, though, that I have a better understanding of where I am and my place in the world.  What is most interesting to me is I forgot about a lot of things that I wanted back then.  Sail around the world?  Really?

FORGIVING DOES NOT MEAN FORGETTING

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Still working on forgiving – my attacker, of course, and even more importantly, myself. I know it seems strange that I would in any way need to forgive myself for something I did not do, for something I never would have wished upon my worst enemy; not that I really have any enemies, but if I did, I wouldn’t wish a sexual assault on them.

In April, right before I left for a trip to Atlanta, to visit my parents, to go to the Masters and  to Saint Simons Island to visit my friend Kim, I was on my way to the outlet mall down by the border and passed a sign for the exit for Donovan. I have never noticed this exit before on any previous trip. When I saw it, the thought that popped into my head was, “I should go and visit DCD.” (A friend wrote me to tell me that I need to stop calling my attacker ‘cockroach boy’ and start using his name. While I agree that CRB isn’t very nice, what he did to me wasn’t very nice and the best I can do right now is call him by his initials.) And then I thought, ‘Whoa, where did that come from?’ I completely forgot about it until my last Hoffman gathering. Well, after doing some research, I found out that DCD is not, in fact, housed at Donovan, but at Kern Valley, which is about a 4 hour drive from here. And in order to visit a prisoner, you have to be on the approved visitor list and the person to approve me is DCD. You actually have to apply to be visitor, and even if DCD said it was okay, the prison system has to okay it, as well. I think my real reason for wanting to go visit him is to ask him WHY? I’m not sure I’d even get an answer and even if I did, it may not be one I want. I’ve thought about it a lot and come to the conclusion that going up to Kern Valley State Prison is not something I am prepared to do. A compromise may be to write him a letter. Again, I am not sure what I hope to really accomplish with this. I may end up writing him and not sending it.

At acupuncture last week, I was lamenting about how long the healing process is taking. Matt said to me, ‘You ARE through it. Right now. You are done.’ Okay, cool! Maybe it really is as easy as that. Yes, I am still dealing with some physical issues that have occurred as a result of the attack. Each day, though, I feel like I am one step closer to being completely healed. Will I ever forget about it? Doubtful, especially since I write about it. Will there always be certain things that are either very difficult or impossible for me to do? I have no idea. Only time will tell.

Whatever the case is for me, however it plays out for me in the future, forgiveness has been on my mind a lot in the last 2 1/2+ years. So as for forgiving myself, just as with DCD, I am much closer than ever to being able to say honestly that I have done it. I am not sure why I blame myself on some level, and I may never understand that. Don’t get me wrong here, I am very clear that I did nothing wrong, that the way I was dressed had nothing to do with it, that I was in the wrong place at the right time, because, to my way of thinking, if it had been the wrong time, it never would have happened. As I have said before, too, I do believe that it happened for a reason and though I did not specifically ask to be sexually assaulted, I had been asking for changes in my life. I am really okay with all of that, which is why it baffles me that I would in any way blame myself. Yet, it is still there to a degree. Clearly, I will be done when I am done. There doesn’t seem to be a way to make it go faster. It will take as long as it takes.

Because forgiveness has been so much on my mind, when the topic for the 7 March 2014 daily reading in my Science of Mind magazine, written by Joanne McFadden, was FORGIVE, this was just another validation that I am on the right path. I loved the essay so I am going to copy it in its entirety:

“After Olympic runner Louis Zamperini’s plane went down in the Pacific in World War II, he and the pilot floated for forty-seven days on a life raft. They survived a strafing attack by a Japanese pilot, numerous shark attacks and a lack of food, only to be captured by the enemy. They were brutally beaten, subjected to medical experiments, starved and worked to near death as prisoners of war. One guard, nicknamed “The Bird” by prisoners was determined to break Zamperini. Maintaining humanity and dignity was a daily struggle.

Zamperini survived. However, nightmares of his ordeal kept him emotionally imprisoned for years after the war, plunging him into alcoholism and despair. At first, Zamperini was convinced that vengeance was the only way to reclaim his life, and he became obsessed with it, making plans to hunt down The Bird. Grace intervened. Under protest Zamperini attended a Billy Graham meeting. He was about to get up and leave when he remembered a bargain he made when his raft floated in a dead calm. If God would save his life, Zamperini would serve.

That recollection changed his life dramatically. Zamperini forgave The Bird and went on to create camps for troubled boys, sharing his experiences and showing them a different way of life.

When I have allowed myself to have something to forgive, I like to remember extreme examples like Zamperini’s. If he could do it, so can I.”

Exactly. If Louis Zamperini can do it after the unimaginable things he endured, then so can I.

“It’s a healing, actually, it’s a real healing…forgiveness.” ~Louis Zamperini

A LINGERING SADNESS

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In the fall of 1973, my mother gathered my (then) 3 brothers together and said, “Since we cannot decide on what kind of car to get, do you think we could decide on what kind of baby?”  (Note – In August of 1972, my mother had married Mark Shriver, who then adopted  me and my 3 brothers.  We had had a VW bus since 1965 (actually, we were on our second one by then) and since we were now 6 people, the bus just wasn’t big enough anymore, and so the need for a new car.  I do not remember what my brothers wanted, but I thought we should get the metallic blue beetle.  Yeah, like that was big enough!  In the end, we got a Dodge Sportsman Van (long before minivans were around) and a Mercedes 450SL.  Clearly, the van was for the kids and the 450SL was for the adults.) I, of course, wanted a girl and my brothers wanted a boy.  As I would be almost 14 years old when the baby was born, I’m not really sure what good a sister would have done me.  Really, I wanted a girl so I could make her little dresses.  I got another brother.  Andrew Mark Shriver was born on 29 April 1974.

When he came home from the hospital, I couldn’t believe my eyes.  My mother had brought home a red baby!  I did not even like him until he was about 3 months old.  Then I fell in love.  He became ‘my baby.’  Although I was not his mother, I did have a huge influence on him, the main thing being I did not ‘allow’ him to have a southern accent.  Oh, no!  Since none of us had been born in Atlanta (me and my brothers in WV, my new father was born in NJ, and my mother in Missouri,) and none of us had southern accents, I decided he would not, could not, have one either.   When he started pre-school and came home saying things like, ‘ya’ll’ and ‘fixin” and ‘cut on the light,’ I knew I had to step in.  I am proud to say that I was quite successful.  So much so, that when he went away to college in Maine, when I went to his graduation, he introduced me to his friends as ‘she’s the reason I don’t have a southern accent.’  No one could believe that he had been born and spent his entire life in Georgia and did not speak like his mouth was full of cotton balls.

We went to the same private school: me, only for my senior year in 1977/78 and Andy, from 4th grade on.  Because there were so many years between us, and even Brian, who was closest in age to him was still 9 years older, most of his friends did not realize Andy had older siblings.  When people saw us together, they just assumed I was his mother, and were always surprised to find out I was his older sister.

In my mind, Andy had it all–he grew up in a family with 2 parents who were not divorced, he was, in essence, an only child, he had every advantage and he was a good kid.  He never did drugs or smoked (I do take credit for this since I told him if he ever smoked cigarettes, I would make him eat them, lit!) and he did well in school.  He went to college and actually graduated in 4 years, like you are supposed to.  After graduation, he went back to Atlanta and got a job.  He had lots of friends and seemed happy, seemed being the operative word.

Pretty much everyone in my immediate family suffers from either depression or has bipolar disorder.  I now know that I spent a good part of my life clinically depressed.  I am the only one who has every gotten help with it.  I have been in therapy various times through my life.  I took antidepressants, which were hateful, but they did what they were meant to do and got my chemicals back in balance.  I asked at the time whether I would ever have to take them again.  My doctor said maybe, but that there was no way to know for sure.  I have read and participated in all kinds of self-help seminars.  I have worked really hard to stick around, which is my way of saying I’ve worked really hard not to kill myself.  The same cannot be said for anyone else in my family.  Is it fun to deal with all the crap?  Ah, no, it’s not.  But there is something in me that makes me have to do it.  Just as after my attack.  Even my therapist said I had a choice to do it or not, but I never felt that I did.  I absolutely had to do it.

Andy was suffering from depression, but he never let anyone know.  He was also suffering from a completely ‘fixable’ heart condition.  Again, he never told anyone.  No one knew that he was, essentially, a ticking time bomb.  And that bomb went off on 14 June 2011.  He died from an aortic aneurism.  I will never forget the call I got telling me that he was dead.  How could this be?  He was 37 years old.  He was my ‘baby.’  And as it turned out, the only ‘baby’ I ever had.

Yesterday was, what should have been, his 40th birthday.  I spent the day feeling pretty crappy.  I was able to work, and while I was working, I could keep my mind off of him.  I worked until about 8:30p, and that’s when I realized that working had kept me from dwelling too much on his not being here.  I miss him more than I can say or even understand.

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WHY DOES IT TAKE SO LONG?

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Okay, it is just over 2 1/2 years since my encounter with cockroach boy, so why am I still struggling?  Don’t get me wrong, I am SO much better than I was and I know that I am a little better each day, but why does it take so, so, so long to feel ‘normal’ again?  Will I ever actually feel the way I used to?  Do I even want to?  All I know is I sometimes feel like I am just one unkind comment or one stupid injury away from the dark side.  The good thing is I do have the tools to get myself out of those places, and I am able to do it fairly quickly.  Still…

A few weeks ago, my car, Grazelda, bit me.  You may wonder how a car is able to bite someone.  Well, she is old (almost 18 years) and moves more slowly than she used to,  and one of those places that doesn’t move so well any more is the trunk.  I was going to yoga on the beach and was driving since I had to leave the island right after.  Because I did not need my purse on the beach and I didn’t want to leave it sitting on the seat of the car, I thought I’d put it in the trunk before I left so that no one would see me doing it and decide to break in and steal it.  So I walk around the back of the car, insert the key into the trunk and assume (and everyone knows that one should never assume anything) without really looking that the trunk is open.  In fact, it was not and I bashed my head on the trunk lock.  I thought, oh great.  I did not have time to go back in the house to deal with it or I would have been late to yoga.  When I got in the car and looked in the mirror there was no blood.  Five minutes later it was a different story.  It never gushed blood, but I still managed to get blood all over my new white jacket.

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I looked like I had squooshed a spider on my forehead and just left it there.  Luckily, it healed quickly and because I put vitamin E oil on it every day, there is not even a scar when the scab fell off a week later.  That day, though, I felt ‘off’ for the entire day.  I did not hit my head hard enough to give myself a concussion, but I definitely felt dizzy and light-headed.  I probably should not have done yoga, but I did.  I also felt like crying, not so much because it hurt, but for some other unknown reason.  My body was reacting in a way I did not quite understand.  It seemed to me to be overreacting.

I had acupuncture after yoga that morning, and Matt (Truhan,) my acupuncturist, explained it as, basically, muscle memory from my attack.  Because I hit my face/head on the pavement during my attack, there was something in my body that was remembering that incident and, I think now, because I was in shock that September day, I did not necessarily feel what was happening.  So when I hit my head on the trunk my body brought up those feelings.  What seemed at the time to me like an overreaction was just a memory from 2 1/2 years ago.  I took it easy and rested and by the next day, I felt much better.

And so I one back to my original question – WHY DOES IT TAKE SO LONG?  What I am slowly, but very slowly, figuring out is it takes as long as it takes.  There is really nothing I can do to hurry it along.  Now, though, when I open the trunk, I lean back as far as possible so that Grazelda cannot bite me again.

WAITING FOR THE SUNRISE

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This morning, after an abbreviated workout at the gym, in an attempt to beat the predicted rain, I was walking home along the bay.  The sky was stormy-looking, but no rain was falling.  The sun was still behind the clouds, and it looked to me like it would be a spectacular sunrise.  So I sat on the rocks and waited.

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This was the first shot I took with my phone.

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And the second.

The sky was continually changing, the clouds moving slowly, as I waited for how I thought the sunrise would unfold.

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The third shot.  You can see that there is more light on the water and the sky is a bit brighter where the sun is coming up.

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The fourth one.  As you can also see, the clouds are getting thicker instead of dispersing, and all the hoped for color isn’t showing up.  Really?  Why isn’t the sunrise coming out like I expected it to?  Where are the reds and oranges I felt certain would appear?

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And finally, after 30 minutes of waiting, the last shot.  It never did rain, nor did I get the sunrise I thought I would.  Funny thing, though, in spite of it not coming out like I wanted, it still came out, and was still beautiful, if in a more subdued palette.   The sun still got higher in the sky, the clouds came and went, and I continued on my way home.  It reminded me of life and how we expect one thing and another shows up–neither necessarily better than the other.  Just perfect in its own way.  It was a good lesson for me.  And tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, if I am up and outside, I will have another opportunity to experience another sunrise.  It will never be exactly the same, just as every day is a little different, even if we are doing the same thing day-to-day.  Each day is perfect in its own way.  I have only to keep my mind and heart open.

MY ACHILLES HEEL

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Everyone has one.  Mine just happens to be sugar.  In the grand scheme of things this, at first glance, may not seem such a bad one to have.  It’s not like I do drugs.  But the hold that sugar has on me is as strong as any drug would be.  I know that sugar is bad for me.  I do my best not to eat it.  I’ve even gone years without eating candy.  But I NEVER stop craving it.  Even as I am writing this I am popping jelly beans, one at a time, into my mouth.  They aren’t just any old jelly beans, either.  They are sweet tart jelly beans, only around for Easter.  (Thank goodness!)  As one friend said, it combines my favorite things: jelly beans and sweet tarts.  And to top it all off, they are pretty.

Last November I participated in a whole foods cleanse.  I successfully cut out sugar for an entire month.  The biggest ‘side effect’ was no more hot flashes.  You’d think that alone would be enough to stop me from eating, or drinking, sugar.  But no, it’s not.

This has been a lifelong addiction for me.  I remember as a little girl walking to the candy store to buy penny bubblegum, sweet tarts and  Sugar Daddys, those caramel suckers.  I used to see how many pieces of gum I could fit in my mouth at once.  I think my record was 10.  It’s not like you can really chew 10 pieces of bubblegum at one time, especially when you have a small mouth, as most children do.    It was such a waste of perfectly good gum.  My m.o., when I wasn’t stuffing my mouth full, was to put one piece at a time in my mouth, chew it until the flavor was gone, spit it out and continue until all my gum was gone. Then I’d go back to the store for more.

I am pretty sure it was 1968 when I had my first giant sweet tart.  Before that, sweet tarts only came in a package with little pieces in pink, yellow, purple and green.  My favorites were pink and yellow.  I didn’t really like the purple ones, but that never seemed to stop me from eating them.  Anyway, my first giant sweet tart was yellow, and my tongue bled from licking it.  It actually bled!  But did that stop me from eating it?  Hardly!  Eventually, I think my tongue developed calluses and I could eat as many as I wanted without a problem.

When I was on the swim team, most kids ate raw jello; that is, jello out of the box that was still in powder form.  I never cared for this.  It was not nearly sour enough for me.  That’s when I started eating powdered lemonade.  Of course, that was sour enough, but it caused my mouth to bleed if I ate too much.  Then I discovered Hawaiian Punch powder.  I did not just eat it from the packages that made, if you actually were to add water to it, 2 quarts of juice.  Oh, no, I would get the cans of it, and because putting in my hand to lick it up made my palms red, I started using a small plate.  That way I had clean hands.  Of course, my tongue was always red.  I seriously must have eaten well over 100 pounds of the stuff over the course of time.  I ate it well into my 20s and really only stopped because they stopped making it, and I could never find another brand that tasted as good to me.  At some point, too, I must have decided to stop eating so much sugar.

I do remember in my late 20s when I lived in Germany finding a really good candy that was similar to sweet tarts, but somehow better.  I thought I was gaining weight while there because of this candy.  Turned out it was the Bailey’s milkshakes I was having several times (or more) a week, but that’s another story.  Since I thought it was the candy, I decided to quit, to go cold turkey.  And I did it.  I didn’t eat candy for 3 or 4 years, and then one day I gave into my craving, and that was it.  By that time, sweet tarts had started putting blue candies in the rolls.  Those are definitely my favorite.  The bad thing about the rolls of sweet tarts was not being able to see exactly what number of which colors were in a particular roll, and there were never enough of the blue ones.  I would buy rolls, take all of them out, eat the blue ones first, then the pink, yellow, and maybe the green, and throw away the purple.  I was always bummed when there was only a couple of blues ones.  Then, for some weeks or even months, I’d cut back on my consumption.  It never lasted for long, though.

I really would like to be free of this addiction to sugar, in particular sweet tart jelly beans.  Luckily, as soon as Easter is gone, so will these tempting little pieces of sour joy.  It is so bad that just walking by the store that has them makes my mouth start to water.  I keep telling myself NO MORE.  And I’ll follow that directive for a day or two, and then I have to go to the store, and somehow those suckers jump into my grocery basket, and I continue to eat them.  If I was able to eat only a small handful each day, then maybe that would be okay.  But that’s not what happens.  I end up eating half the bag, which gives me a stomach ache, which makes me say that I’ll stop eating them.  Until the next day, when I wake up and my stomach doesn’t hurt anymore.  Grr….

I stopped eating sugar almost 4 years ago. I did really well for a long time.  It’s not like I never had processed sugar, but I was pretty good.  Even during Halloween and Easter I was okay as long as I stayed away from the aisles that carried my beloved sweet tarts.  I just didn’t go near them.  I was also in a relationship and I’ve come to realize lately that that made a huge difference for me.  I did not feel compelled to eat so much sugar because the pleasure centers that eating sugar stimulates were being filled through my relationship.  So I know exactly WHY I am eating it now and why I can’t seem to stop.  My intention, once I became aware of this, is to be gentle with myself.  I will continue to do my best to NOT eat it; and if, when, I do, I will not beat myself up.  I have every confidence in myself that one of these days I will just stop.  I’ve done it before and I will do it again.

SEX IS A FUNNY THING – PART 2

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As I said last time, sex after sexual assault is especially challenging.

I think I was very lucky to have been in a loving relationship when my assault happened.  I cannot imagine how much more difficult it would have been, on so many levels, had I been single.  Right after my attack, and for longer than I would have thought, I was afraid of everyone.  And I do mean every single person I encountered.  Men, women, boys, girls – anyone and everyone scared me.  My rational mind knew this was silly, but the irrational part was in control.  As I also said last week, I know, and knew at the time, that sexual assault of any kind, whether it be rape, attempted rape or any other variation, it not about sex.  It is about power or lack thereof.  Another aspect that a lot of women have to deal with is feeling dirty or ashamed of what happened to them.  I never felt either of those emotions.  I was very clear from the beginning that I had done nothing wrong, that I had nothing to be ashamed of.  That being said, I was still unable to have sex with my boyfriend for some time.

For at least the first few weeks, I am certain I wasn’t even willing to try.  Oh, I was fine with just being held and kissed, but beyond that, I was unable to even contemplate it.   I was never repulsed by him in any way.  And although, I was afraid of men in general, I was not afraid of my boyfriend.  My body and mind instinctively knew he was safe, that I was safe with him.  Still, ‘convincing’ my body that more than just cuddling was okay definitely took time.  Because I was in shock, and stayed there for 15 weeks, I could not cry.  Nor, it turned out, could I have an orgasm.   And when we did attempt to have sex, though my body responded to him, I was still ‘blocked.’  For a long time, every time we did make love, I would ‘leak’ 3 or 4 tears.  I called it leaking because it wasn’t real crying, and all that would ever come out were 2 or 3 or 4 tears.  I may not have been actually crying, but, clearly, it’s what I wanted to do.  It still was upsetting to my boyfriend.  I was not rejecting him, but I think he still felt that way.  I was doing my best to not let it happen, but it always did.  Looking back now, I am not even sure how long this went on.  At some point it stopped, but I do not remember when.  And as for the lack of orgasm, I am happy to say that that eventually came back as well.

What I can say now, too, is that after my attack, our sex life was never the same.  It seemed to never completely recover.  Oh, things worked like they were supposed to, but something fundamental was lost that September morning, and, unfortunately, we were never able to get it back.  It is only with hindsight that I am able to see this now.  I can’t really think too much about how much almost every aspect of my life has changed since my encounter with cockroach boy.  It pisses me off and I don’t want to live my life in a pissed off frame of mind.

So I choose love and joy and happiness.  Is it always easy?  Of course not.  There are times I’d like to go to the prison he is housed in and, well, you can just imagine what I might do.  Thankfully, those days are few and far between now.  I have many more good days than bad.  Though I am still dealing with a lot of physical issues that I attribute to my attack, those, too, are improving.  I have great faith that though my life may never be exactly as it was before, it is better.  I am better.

SEX IS A FUNNY THING – PART 1

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Especially after a sexual assault.

Not that there would ever be a good time for an attempted rape to occur, but the timing of mine seemed especially cruel because later that morning of my attack, my boyfriend and I were supposed to be going to Santa Barbara.  We had been together for 6 months at this point and this was our first trip together.  We were going to see Don Henley and Emmylou Harris in concert.  It was for 2 days and 2 nights.  And because we would not be getting to our accommodations until late, my boyfriend made a reservation for that first night at Motel 6.  (The next day we moved to a lovely Bed & Breakfast in Summerland.)  Let’s just say of all the Motel 6’s around, this one had to be the worst ever.  I never knew they actually made sheets with a thread count of about 10.

When my boyfriend came to the crime lab, which, by the way, is in a secret location, to pick me up, I had not yet been ‘processed.’  That meant that we could only speak at a distance.  He was not allowed to hug and comfort me because any DNA evidence that might have been on my clothing or skin had to be preserved for the rape kit.  I remember telling him that I had not yet cried and thought that it would probably hit me a bit later that day or night.  Kind of funny thinking about it now since it took me 15 weeks to come out of shock.  That day, I truly  had no clue how bad it really was and how hard I would have to work to get through it.

When we left the crime lab, we went back to Coronado to the Police Station so I could look at a lineup of photographs.  It’s not like it is on TV, where they show a 6 pack of men who fit the similar description of your attacker.  In ‘real life’ I was shown one picture at a time.  I was not allowed to compare and contrast them.  I eliminated those that I was positive were not him, and was then left with two.  The one I ended up choosing was him.  What I told the police officer was, although the picture didn’t look exactly like him, it looked as close to what I remembered him looking like.  I also worked with a sketch artist when I at the crime lab.  I would love to see that picture to see if it looked like him at all.  When we finished at the station, Bill took me home so that I could shower and pack for our trip.  All I really wanted to do was lie down, but as it was already 2:30p, Santa Barbara is a good 3 1/2 to 4 hours drive, it was Saturday afternoon and we had to get through Los Angeles, and we had to go to Bill’s house for him to pack, I got in the shower.

Driving to La Jolla, Bill asked me if I wanted to call my mother.  I said no.  What I meant was that I didn’t want to call her then, I wanted to wait until, oh, some other time, or maybe never.  He said that I had to call her and thought that I should do it while he packed.  So I did.  First thing I asked was whether or not my step-father was in or out-of-town.  He was out.  Then I really did not want to tell her without him there for moral support.  I really do not remember what I said to her except I tried to tell her in a way that wouldn’t be upsetting.  I doubt I succeeded, because, really how can you tell your mother that someone tried to rape you and her not be upset by that?

I slept most of the way to Santa Barbara.  It seemed easier than having to think about what I had been through.  We left La Jolla a little after 3p, hit traffic in L.A. and finally got to the concert around 7p.  We missed Emmylou Harris, but Don Henley had not yet gone on, so we at least got to see/hear half the concert.  When I think about it now, I was pretty freaked out being around that many people.  Really, I don’t know how I did it.  I think I was just on autopilot and doing my best not to fall apart.

I remember the room being cold when we finally got to it at 11:30.  And the blankets were just as bad as the sheets, so I slept in my clothes.  The bad thing was that my hip bones both had big abrasions on them and hurt to have fabric touching them.  Really, all my abrasions hurt.   It was a terrible night.  I had taken a pill (can’t remember now what it was, but my physician mother assured me it would be okay for me to take) that, instead of having the desired effect of helping me sleep, did the exact opposite and I was wide awake and having weird hallucinations.  At some point I did fall into an uneasy sleep, and then woke up really early, as usual.  I couldn’t wait to get out of that hotel.

We could not check into our B&B until late afternoon, so we drove to Santa Ynez to go wine tasting.  While there I got a phone call from the Coronado police informing me that they had apprehended my attacker the day before.  That was good news.  They also told me I needed to come back in to have my injuries photographed again once I got back to town.  It was all so surreal.  Even now.

When we finally got checked in, I remember lying on the bed, telling Bill that I knew rape was not about sex, that it’s about power or lack thereof, but that for a while I was afraid that it was going to be messed up in my mind.  He said he knew.  So he just held me.  And since I was in a lot of physical pain from the attack, we went in the jacuzzi, which both hurt my injuries, and felt good for my sore arms and neck.  I think I slept a little better that night.  When I woke up on Monday morning, I was so hoping it had all been a nightmare.  No such luck.  I told Bill he could just leave me there, that I did not want to go home.  I think we stayed in bed until we had to check out.  The drive back to Coronado seemed especially long.  I cannot remember now if Bill stayed with me at my house or if we stopped in La Jolla and I stayed there.  All I do know is that for the first two weeks I was unable to sleep alone.  Either Bill stayed at my house or I stayed at his or my friend Laura stayed at my house.  I wasn’t scared in my house, but I could not be alone.

 

WHAT WERE YOU WEARING?

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Believe it or not, this was a question I was asked by more people than you might think.  Even more surprising to me was the fact that most of those asking that question were women.  In this day and age!  By women who knew better;  intelligent women; women who work out and know exactly what one would wear to walk; women who, as soon as they asked realized how inappropriate and blame-the-victim type of question it was apologized.   As if what I was wearing had anything to do with being attacked.  As far as I am concerned, if I want to walk down the street stark naked (not that I do), even that is NOT a reason for some cockroach-type person to attack me.  There simply is no excuse.

I have to admit that even today I do wonder if I had worn yoga pants, if that would have made a difference.  I am pretty certain it would have, at least to a degree,  in that my new yoga pants were a size small and fit kind of like a tight glove.  As easily, and quickly, as he removed my skort, because it was loose on me and offered no resistance, my yoga pants would have probably stayed in place when he tried to pull them down.  Would this have deterred his attack?  Would he have given up and run away?  My guess on this would be no.  I mean, he didn’t run away when I screamed or when I continued to fight him, so why would my clothes not coming off easily have stopped him in any way?

What I did not know at the time, but now do, is when he saw me the first time on Ocean Blvd, my goose was cooked, so to speak.  He zeroed in on me because I was his ‘type.’  The girl he assaulted (if this is the correct word to use) in the month before my attack was tall, thin and blonde.  The fact that she was more than 30 years younger than I didn’t seem to matter to him.  He went up behind her and pulled her bathing suit bottoms down, fondled her butt and ran away.  Luckily, she reported it to the police, though not right away, and somehow they were able to pick him up and charge him, in her case, with a misdemeanor.  This put him in the system, and so the police in Coronado were familiar with him.  After my attack, when I started saying what he looked like, the police knew exactly who it was.  This contributed to his being apprehended that same day.  As soon as they put the word out, they picked him up soon after.

So back to what I was wearing…I was wearing what is appropriate to do a 7-mile walk, in the early morning, 24 September on Coronado Island, California.  It was probably in the low to mid-60s that particular morning.  It was cool enough to need a jacket, but not too cold  that I needed to wear long pants.  Plus, walking as fast as I did always warmed me up rather quickly.  And so what?  Who cares what I was wearing?  This should never be the question out of anyone’s mouth.  Ever.  There is never, ever a reason or excuse for someone attacking someone else, with the intent to rape or do any other kind of bodily harm.  The fact that it still happens as often as it does, and usually goes unpunished and even unreported is extremely distressing to me.  Part of the reason I decided to do this blog was to help in my recovery and healing, and also to get people to talk about a very unpleasant subject.  Am I making a difference?  I do not know.  I hope so.  What I do know is writing about my experience at the time and what I continue to deal with today, 2 years and 5 months after the actual attack, is necessary.

For the record, I was wearing a black tennis skort (my favorite, ever,) a tight-fitting white top with a built-in shelf bra, an aqua zip-up jacket (also a favorite) and New Balance walking shoes.  Everything I was wearing that day was ‘donated’ to the crime lab, and I never saw any of it again.  As someone pointed out, I really wouldn’t have wanted any of it back, given what had happened while I was wearing it.  True.  And I still miss that black skort.

OLD FRIENDS

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Yesterday, I visited some old friends.

After my acupuncture appointment, I drove to Ocean Beach.  A couple of weeks ago, when I was sick, and mentioned to Matt (my acupuncturist) that I would love a milk shake, because when I was little and would get sick, a milk shake always made me feel better.  I used to go to Fat Burger in Pacific Beach, but it has closed, and I had no idea where I could get a really good milk shake anymore.  Matt recommended Hodad’s in Ocean Beach.  Somehow, that day, I went instead to Pho for chicken soup, and never got my milk shake.  Yesterday, though, I decided it was time, even though I am no longer sick, to get that elusive milk shake.  Having never been to Hodad’s before, I had no idea there would be a long line to get in.  At first, I thought, ‘no way am I standing in line.’  And then I thought, ‘why not?’  Let’s just say it was SO worth it.  I got a veggie burger, which was really good.  I also got fries, and though they were good, I didn’t eat many of them because the milk shake was GIANT, and I had to do my best to drink all of it.  Of course, the shake alone could have fed a family of four!  No lie.  It probably had 9000 calories, but it was worth every single one of them.  The good news is I now know where I can get a fabulous milk shake and the better news is, Ocean Beach is a pain to get to and not on my way to anything, so I won’t be going there often.  The fact that is also a Hodad’s located in downtown San Diego doesn’t seem to matter.

So, after my yummy lunch, I went in the shops along Newport Avenue, and  I saved the best one for last – Vignettes.  The owner, Lori Chandler, was there.  She said to me, “I thought you fell off the face of the earth.  It has been so long since I’ve seen you.”  I said, “I guess you didn’t hear that I had been sexually assaulted 2 1/2 years ago.”  She had not and was shocked and dismayed.  I gave her an abridged version of what happened and what I had been doing, or not doing, for the last, probably 3 years since I was last in her shop.  Among all the things she said to me, the comment that stands out most was, “I am so glad to see that you made it through and out the other side.  You are a survivor.”

She also said that when something traumatic like this happens, your creativity gets stuck, too.  I never thought about it like that before, but she’s right.  Part of the challenge I had when I was right in the middle of the healing was my brain not functioning properly, which made working or reading a book, really most everything, so difficult.  I never even considered that my creativity was somehow ‘stuck.’  The rest of me sure was, so why wouldn’t that aspect also be affected?  Looking back now, I can so clearly see that this was the case.  It’s why blogging was impossible to do.   Even now, though I am working and able to (mostly) think again, I am not engaging in, really, any of the other creative pursuits I used to involve myself in.  Well, except I am doing a post every week on A Little of This That and the Other.  Pre-attack, I used to do a lot of photography and a lot of altering of that photography in Photoshop.  I can’t even remember the last time I did that.  I used to come up with ideas of things to make and then make them, like my tulle dolls or lamp shades or collages.  Wow!  Just thinking about it now is making me remember all of things I no longer do.  Is this just a ‘side effect’ of my attack?  Will the love of creating things, not related to my sewing, eventually come back?  Very interesting…

Since I am thinking about it in ways that I haven’t, perhaps this will jump-start my creative mind again.  I used to get so many ideas of things to do and things to make that all I could do was write them in my idea notebook, because I didn’t have enough time to try them all.  Either I haven’t been open to receiving new ideas or that pipeline has been shut off since September 2011.  I’m going to go with the pipeline being shut off.  And unless my brain damage was more extensive than I realized, I have every confidence that the flow will come back one of these days.  Soon, I hope.  I miss all the ideas, and being in Vignettes yesterday reminded me of that.

 

So, thank you, Lori, for your insights.  It was wonderful seeing you, and I promise it will not be another 3 years before I come see you again.