Attacked at My Doorstep

Attacked at My Doorstep
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"Lighthouses don't go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining. Although I can't save every boat, I hope that by speaking today, you absorbed a small amount of light."

It was a warm night on August 30th, 2013. I'll never forget that day, because it was my 28th birthday. I only wrote one sentance in my journal that night, "Went for oysters & champagne w/ Kelsey, Erica, & Laura, danced at Middlesex..then the attack on Meridian happened."

The attack on Meridian Street. I've tried not to think about it for so long that when I read the letter by the woman from the Stanford Rape Case, I couldn't immediately understand why I broke down sobbing as I read, and reread it. In full disclosure, I'm still crying right now.

The attack on Meridian wasn't the first time I'd been assaulted. In college I was date raped, although this is the only time I've ever admitted it to anyone I don't know closely. But this isn't about the first time, this is about the last time. Because it is, and will be, the last time. Not because I know what the future will bring, because it has to be. Because the pain and suffering that come along with having your safety and dignity taken from you is not one that anybody should have to live through, once, or twice, or ever.

That day began as a wonderful celebration of my birth, my life. It ended as the death of something inside me. For anyone who doesn't know, and all the people who do, losing the ability to do something as simple as walk down the street at night without being fearful, without running, without leaving your headphones at home, without out feeling safe enough on the sidewalk to feel the need to walk in the middle of the street, carrying mace open in your hand, pointed, ready to spray, like I did, it's important that we recognize- this is a big deal, and not enough people talk about it. I don't blame them. I didn't talk about it either, until now. Until the bravery, eloquence, and strength exhibited by the women who was able to turn her words into a movement, encouraged me to do so as well.

I told the cab driver he could drop me off a few blocks from my apartment, it was a warm summer night and I didn't want to hold him up anyways. As I made my way home I was mentally making a check list of all of things I needed to pack for the camping trip I would be embarking on the next day- my birthday camping trip. When I got to my block I did the same assessment I'd been doing for the past month since I moved there. How many men were hanging out on the street where the front door to my apartment was, versus the back? I lived on a street people hung out on, this is a normal thing. However, I always liked to ere on the side of safety and the lights to both my entryway and hallway to the third floor apartment where I lived were out. I couldn't help but envision a situation where I could be pushed into the entryway and forced upstairs, in the dark, by a stranger, which is why I chose to go around the back.

I looked both ways as if I was crossing the street. I checked in front of me and behind me, and put my phone in my purse as I made my way down the dirt path behind my building. I could see the stairs to my back door. The next thing I knew I was face down in the dirt with someone on top of me. I had been tackled, snuck up on, immediately put at a great disadvantage by someone I'd never met, and presumably will never meet.

He flipped me onto my back. I could smell the alcohol on his lips as he ripped at my dress- I froze. I tried to scream but nothing came out. I tried again. My body flailed under this stranger as broken gasps and screams burst from my mouth. I swung my limbs, the only weapon I had, besides the mace that was in my purse which was of no use to me now, since it had been flung from my body. It was fight or flight, and flight wasn't an option.

I'm not sure if he thought he saw someone coming, or heard something, but before he could get my dress over my head he got up and ran. And so did I. I sprinted in the opposite direction, my clothes covered in dirt, my body, in bruises. I ran so fast my shoes made my feet bleed. I didn't stop until I got to the police station.

I sat in an interrogation room until close to three in the morning. The attack had happened around midnight. I'd never been interrogated before and the fact that I was experiencing this for the first time, after extreme trauma, is indicative of a flaw in the justice system. What had I been doing? Where was I going? What was I wearing? Why did I go that way? Where was my boyfriend? Why wasn't he with me? The questions were personal, and it was hard to answer them through the tears streaming down my face.

They had me get into the back of a cop car as they drove up and down the streets around my apartment. "Does he look familiar?" "What about him?" The amount of guilt I felt for not being able to recognize this man was paralyzing. How could I not recognize a man who had only a few hours before been directly on top of me.

We went back to the scene. I could only do it with a policeman on either side of me, and I've only been back once since, when I moved out a couple of days later. My landlord was beyond understanding. At first I didn't make out why, until I learned that the previous year the same thing had happened to another woman on the same path behind my building, although she wasn't as lucky, she had been murdered.

The morning after my birthday, I got a voicemail. It was my friend Kelsey checking in and making sure that I got home okay. Returning that phone call was one of the most difficult things I've had to do in my life. Not because Kelsey wouldn't be able to handle it, but because when I told her, "No, I didn't make it home okay," that this nightmare would become real life.

The days following the attack were excruciating. I went on the camping trip thinking getting out of town might be the best thing for me- I spent the entire time crying in the car. I told people what happened but did so in a way that protected the attacker and killed me a little more each time inside. I would say things like, "Yes, it was scary but I'm okay- I didn't even get raped." I try not to beat myself up for ever uttering that.

Rape, assault, endangerment, any disregard of a person's life, soul, choice, say- is a violation. People are violated all the time. Me- when I was date raped, when I was attacked. The brave woman from the Stanford Rape Case who not only inspired me to write this but did so publicly. That bravery is worthy of a medal.

Humanity, life, civilization, relationships, ego, the earth- it's all complicated. I long for a day when personal pain and suffering aren't used to hurt other people, but to help them, until we can all recognize that we are one. This will take time, and bravery, and resilience, and speaking out. I am not suggesting everyone put their pain in full display like I am, and the woman who inspired me did. Doing that is a choice. It is not a badge of honor- we are not proud of what happened to us, yet, we are not paralyzed by it. We are not ashamed. This does not define us. Most importantly, anyone going through this shouldn't be suffering alone- because you are not alone.

This year was my 30th birthday. I was surrounded by family, friends, and enveloped in a community of love. For those of us who have love- share it. For those of us who are suffering- embrace that love if you can. And for everyone else- know that you are not alone.

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