I set out this summer determined to settle an old score with someone who had caused me great harm in the past. After thirty years, I was ready to tell my story to authorities and seek justice for the crimes perpetrated against me. I was sick of the survivor’s guilt, shame of not reporting at the time to protect other girls and women, and tired of the worry and regret over things he may have done (or could still be doing) because I never told. I was done with carrying the weight of hate and living in fear. After all this time, I needed to find a way to set that burden down once and for all. For decades, I’d believed that the universal law of cause and effect, otherwise known as karma, would eventually balance things out and make it right. But I guess I’d grown impatient.
Not only was I ready to make a statement to police, but I was also prepared to go public with his name, the entire story, because I was—and remain—convinced there were other victims. The day before my forty-seventh birthday, I filed a report. A month later, at the police station downtown, I gave a formal statement and participated in a two-hour recorded interview. I’ve shared a lot about my trauma over the years, including a sexual assault at age seventeen perpetrated by this individual, but there are details I’ve kept to myself as well, secrets deemed too shameful to ever be shared (like the time, nearly fifteen years later, when I decided to confront him… and he did it again).
Even now, I cringe at those words, but it is what it is.
I recounted every detail for the investigator during my interview in August. As I’ve said, I was finally prepared to face him, ready to see him held accountable for his actions. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever experienced, but with the help of a few truly incredible human beings, I made it through. The rest of summer passed in a fog. I caught COVID for the third time. My PTSD and Borderline symptoms were so exacerbated, so intense, I couldn’t think straight. Most of autumn, a.k.a. trigger season, was spent on my couch, in front of the TV, watching reruns of Friends or Dateline, dissociating. For the first time in my adult life, since I’d become a mother more than twenty years ago, I contemplated suicide (or applying for M.A.I.D). I told my doctor at the start of November, who upped my meds and sent out another referral for psychotherapy.
I suppose I hadn’t anticipated any negative consequences from the investigation, only positive results, so I was thrown by the severe somatic reaction I was experiencing. I had expected my mind to do what it always does in crisis, I was ready for that to some degree, but this time, my body was attempting to process the experience, too, and it was struggling. Determined to transmute darkness to light, to feel some joy in my soul, I put up Christmas decorations on the last night of November. My nana used to decorate their house every December first, on her birthday, so it makes me feel connected to her when I can light my tree that same evening, and this year, I desperately needed connection. On Sunday morning, my daughter and I snuggled on the couch to watch the entire Back to the Future series and had a total blast. My spirits were unexpectedly, almost absurdly, high. Every one-liner had me floored. We ate Doritos and drank Coke and laughed our asses off. It was amazing.
Moments after the credits rolled on the last movie, I received a brief text from a family friend sharing the news, followed soon after by a phone call from the investigator in charge of my case, to confirm/inform me that the man who’d raped me had just passed away. He’s dead. And, just like that, it was over. How do I feel? That’s an impossible-to-answer question at the moment. I don’t know yet. Honestly, I do not know. Some people have expressed frustration or sympathy because I didn’t get justice in the end, but didn’t I get that, in a way? Some sort of universal justice or divine providence. Maybe karma. All I ever wanted was to know that he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again and now he can’t. Not even me.
To the best of my knowledge, at the time of his death, he was unaware of the ongoing investigation against him for three separate incidences concerning me between 1993-2007. I cannot say for certain, but personally, I believe his death was likely due to an accidental overdose, and unofficially, due to a guilty conscience. Nobody falls that far into addiction without some significant trauma or other psychological issues. Maybe some do, but not typically. Despite everything, I cannot in good conscience celebrate the death of an addict, knowing what I do about addiction. It goes against everything I am and stand for. So, instead, I will celebrate my own rebirth.
Suddenly, for the first time in my entire adult life, all of my demons are all dead. Everyone who has ever hurt me that way is gone. There’s nothing to hold me back except my own self. The future is wide open and, let me tell you, I am ready to jump back on this horse called Life and ride my ass off! Spirit has my back. Whether I’d forgotten for awhile or just grown impatient, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter anymore, because I remember now:
I am a beloved child of the universe.
I don’t think a lengthy investigation and criminal trial, even with a guilty verdict (followed by whatever mediocre sentence he may have gotten), could have given me the same kind of peace and freedom. In the end, the man who stole my youth has left me free to live the second half of my life unencumbered. He also spared his family great humiliation and shame. For this reason, I’ve decided not to give his name publicly and let him rest in peace, while I go out and live the rest of my life with peace in my heart. I am done with this story. I hope I never tell it again. Now it’s time to open a new book and start fresh. I can’t wait to see how the next story unfolds…
lilacs in october 