Hope and survival after rape and sexual assault
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My story
(This story does include some details that you may find triggering or distressing)
It’s September 2020. The past 14 months have seen hours of police contact, a day in court and endless time lost to thought. But I’ve never written anything before now. I don’t know why. Part of me felt like I’d already gone over it enough and maybe it wasn’t worth wasting more time. Part of me felt like I wouldn’t have the words even if I tried. Most of me felt still like it happened to someone else, another me. What if I didn’t say enough, or said too much? I remember everything like it happened a moment ago. I relive versions of it in my nightmares. Never the real version. Like my mind is somehow censoring the reality. A common one is me watching it back on CCTV but I can’t see his face. Is that what the police saw?
I thought about not writing about the night. That I’d write about everything before and after but not the night itself. I thought that I can’t. But I have to. I was walking home from dinner with friends. I took a shortcut through a square. I was listening to music. 30 years old and still not following advice my parents gave me as a teen. I got grabbed out of nowhere. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only thought that saves me from the darkest places is that if it wasn’t me it would have been someone else. I know that what happened to me saved another woman that night.
One of the worst things (if you can even rank them) was the threat of a knife and me thinking that I was going to die. So close to home. Where is he going to stab me? My stomach, my neck? I think it’s going to be my neck. Who would find me? Would it hurt? How long would it take to die? What if he stabs me more than once? Will the rain wash away the blood? Will it wash away the evidence? Did I tell my family I loved them today? Why is no one else here? Where are all the people? It’s Friday night in central London. I’ve never seen it so quiet. Where are all the people?
Somehow sensing that he would get grossed out (he was big but he seemed young. Maybe 25? I later learned he was 17) I pleaded (lied) I was on my period. It worked. He switched his plans and went for the oral route. Rape is rape. Wherever he decided to put it is his choice. The act is the same and deserves the same punishment. But for me I’m thankful each day for that lie.
I think most women, and some men, have thought about what they would do in that situation. I think a lot of people, including me, would like to think that they’d fight. That the rush of adrenaline would mutate into a physical power I didn’t know I had and I’d punch and scratch and kick and run. But when a man who was over a foot taller than me and twice as heavy did what he did and said what he said, I didn’t even scream. I wanted to get out of there alive. It worked, when he was done he let me go. I collapsed sobbing when I got back to the road then ran the short distance home, scared he was going to follow me and know where I lived. The police were called and two officers arrived at my flat almost instantly.
The first trauma was the attack. The second trauma was life after the attack.
Within the next 24 hours evidence was gathered from me and my body, my medical examination was carried out at a specialist facility, and I recorded my statement at the police station. I was exhausted. My mind and body went into autopilot mode and I was back at work on Monday. A DNA match led to his identification that week and he was arrested and charged with rape. I thought that was a done deal, it was over. No. Then came his story, which I still don’t know fully. By the way I got questioned from his defence I think it was something to do with him joking that he was going to steal my phone then us forging some sort of relationship and ending in a consensual sexual encounter (all in under ten minutes?).
Months followed. So did denial, grief, fear and anger. I went through stages of feeling invincible followed by episodes of feeling like my insides were being ripped out. The symptoms of PTSD reared their ugly heads and some are still with me.
Being in court was hard. I’m still relieved that I didn’t have to see his face but two hours of questioning is enough to break anyone. All throughout the interviews, the talks, the handing over of phones, everything, I’d tried so hard to keep it together. Even to the point where I was worried that maybe I wasn’t showing enough emotion, that I wouldn’t be believed. It all came crashing down in that courtroom. At one point I hid under the stand and just sobbed, my legs wouldn’t work, they couldn’t hold me up anymore. I had no words left and I just wanted the floor to swallow me up and let me die. But I had to do it.
Next was the waiting for the verdict. Those few days were unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I drank a lot. What if he got found not guilty? How long before he does it again? And covers his tracks this time? Even if he gets found guilty, what sentence will he get? Then what? He’ll have his whole life to offend again. Has he done this before?
Why would I lie. Why would anyone lie. This is all I kept thinking. Why the fuck would I lie.
I got the call. Guilty verdict. And just like that it was all over. In the eyes of the law I was officially a victim rather than a witness. Because of the decision of twelve strangers. A few weeks later the judge sentenced him to the highest she could within her sentencing guidelines: a six-year custodial sentence (reduced from nine years because of his age at the time of the attack, although by then he was 18 and would be going straight to adult prison) and four years extended licence – a total of 10 years. There are so many stories of how few of these cases get to court and how few of these get a conviction, but justice does happen and I need to hold onto that. He’ll still be in his twenties when he gets out of jail, so young. I think a lot about whether he’ll do this again.
There were a lot of professionals involved in my journey and I’m thankful for all of them. From the officers who came to my flat and took bags and bags and bags of carefully collected evidence, to the team who fast-tracked the DNA search, to my liaison who was there for me night and day, who gave me the strength to keep going when times got so dark I thought the lights would go out.
By making this public I hope it gives hope to anyone who might relate to some or all of it. Everyone’s story is different but this is mine. It’s a chapter of my life but it wasn’t the end. Healing, and a lot of therapy, is happening and I’m doing ok.