Why I didn't report

From September 2012:

June, aka "EMDR Therapist", has asked me very little about the rape. One of the few things she did ask was whether I'd reported it. Then she launched into a little speech. It might have been less troubling to me if she had said, "I wish things were different so that more women would feel safe enough to report..." but her speech was more along the lines of, "You should have reported and here's why..."

It really bugged me. She knows nothing of the circumstances of my rape. Yeah, the cop (long story: cops were called after a gun was pulled on one of the rapists) wasn't a lawyer, but he'd already talked to the two guys, knew it was too much of a they said / she said situation, and he was way too familiar with the failings of the legal system in that time and place.

What evidence was there? The bruises and whatever else there might have been could have been easily explained away by "She's kinda kinky and likes rough sex" or "She was abused by one of her boyfriends". Neither of which was true, but how could I prove it?

I wouldn't have received the support I needed during the nightmarish legal ordeal. (I know of no rape survivor who does not describe their experience with the legal system as traumatic, even in the cases where their attacker ended up behind bars.) My family would have been adamantly opposed to my pressing charges. The only friend who might have stood by me - if I had let him - would have been Mark.

At that point in my life, whatever inner strength I may once have had was seriously depleted. I could barely make it through the day. I had nothing left over for pressing charges.

If - big if - it had been taken seriously to the point of going to trial, the older guy would have gained everyone's sympathies as a grieving widower and devoted father. All he needed to do was choke up and brush a tear or two away, and he would have instantly won over every woman there. No one would believe such a sweet, older man was capable of rape. He would have convinced them that all he wanted was to cook me a special dinner, his only motive being kindness and neighborly concern that I wasn't getting enough to eat.

On the other hand, I would have been presented as a wild child, a severely messed up drunken pot-head, eagerly experimenting with drugs and sex, a crazy and out of control little slut who had a constant stream of men in and out of her apartment, who probably had fucked half the men in the apartment building. Naturally, I'd flung myself at the poor lonely man and his nephew and, if they had made any mistake at all, it was giving in to me in a fleeting, regretted moment of alcohol-induced weakness and lapse in judgment. That's if they even admitted that there had been sex; they might just as well have insisted that they rebuffed my drunken advances (I mean, really, look at her...) and that's why I was falsely accusing them...after all, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...

They could have woven this ridiculously false story convincingly by spinning the truthful testimony of any number of people. Who knows, maybe even my flaky boyfriend at the time would have testified against me: "Well, I have wondered if she ever cheated on me...I didn't know about the night she did cocaine but I saw her when she was still all messed up from the psychedelic mushrooms...yes, I've always thought she liked sex way too much...as far as I know, everything they said about her is true..."

If it had gone to trial, which I doubt it would have, the whole thing would have destroyed me. I'm not being overly dramatic in thinking that I would not have survived. Nothing good would have come of pressing charges. I knew that then and I am even more convinced of it now. It's probably one of the few sensible decisions I made during that time.

People who try to blame me for not stopping a serial rapist and his apprentice nephew are hopelessly naive and misinformed. The only way I could have stopped them from raping other women is if I or someone else would have killed them both. Over the years since then, there have been some dark moments when I've regretted not seeing them dead, but I've never regretted that I didn't press charges. Never.

Way back when, Randy and I talked about why I didn't report, but he certainly didn't second guess me or give me a "why women should report" speech. He completely understood.

Another time, we were talking about a situation where I was tempted to "force" another survivor to do something "for his own good". Randy said gently, "He already had his choices taken away from him. Why would anyone want to do that again? You need to empower him to decide for himself." That was huge to me, and it was something I hadn't thought of.

But I've realized that's one of Randy's guiding principles in therapy, and it's a big reason why he's not the sort who has one method, one approach, one modality of treatment. As he has said to me, "I'm not your typical therapist."

Yeah, I've been angry at him more than once. Furious even. I've been ticked that he wasn't one of these take charge, let's get with the program type of therapists. Now that I'm experiencing the other end of the spectrum, I'm realizing how right his over all approach has been for me. June -- if I'd seen her at the beginning instead of Randy -- would have driven me crazy. I had this intense need to get my story out after bottling it up for so many years. I was desperate and it seemed that the only thing that helped was exposing my secrets one at a time. If Randy had been all "Wait...you don't need to tell it all...why re-traumatize yourself?" I would have been out the door. I couldn't wait. It was like a dam was about to bust. Sticking a finger or cork in its weakest point wasn't going to work.

I think he sized me up from the beginning, perhaps by my huffy, snotty, little brat response when he suggested journaling. (Then I went home and filled page after page like a madwoman.) If he had suggested "finding a safe places" or "the container exercise" to me, I would have bolted. Poor guy, I was so cynical. Every time he acted remotely caring, I would accuse him of just using some fake therapeutic technique...and then there was my tizzy fit over his mere mention of "the empty chair exercise".

He just about fell over in shock when I did the non-dominant handwriting thing. He'd been afraid to suggest it. He wondered why I jumped all over someone else's mention of it while sneering at anything "therapish" he came up with. "That's because that other dude is not my therapist," I said. "So I listen to him."

My husband said to approach EMDR as more of a medical procedure instead of therapy. I just wish the prep work didn't take so much time.