ONE BAD NIGHT AMONGST MANY GREAT ONES... 

Saturday, October 28th, 2017 was a night that I should have created fun memories with my friends. I should have been celebrating one of my favorite holidays. Instead, Halloween is a night that continues to haunt me. 

I went out in costume, something I enjoy doing once a year. And when I do, I go all out for it. That year, my costume was simple. Understated for me. Halloween 2017 was unlike any other Halloween night out because the laughter and fun was short lived. It has forever changed my life. That night, I was raped by a complete stranger in costume. The last thing I remember from what should have been a fun-filled night, his mask. 

To this day I have no memory of it. I felt nothing and had no hangover. To blackout at such a level would take more than the few drinks I consumed over the course of the evening. I felt a cloudiness, like when you do drugs and get depleted the next day - only I hadn’t taken any drugs. All I knew was that Sunday I woke up in a place I didn’t know and my underwear was not on me. It was pitch black, very messy, and I was alone. When you have sex, you know it, yet, I felt nothing. My gut instinct knew something was wrong. I wanted to believe otherwise. I spent the entire day trying to figure out what had happened, hoping it would turn out to be some great drunken story. As I walked my dog, going over the night again and again, I decided to call my doctor - who’s cell number I had. I’d gone to her for years. She was someone I trusted. Calmly she told me, “Christine, something has happened. Go to the police.” Sensing that I was shaken, she offered to check me first thing Monday morning if I wasn’t going to go straight to the police. Since I didn’t feel like anything had happened to me, why would I go to the police? The idea of going to her made me more comfortable, so I waited. Monday morning she checked me and confirmed my fear. With tears streaming down my face I sat in my car in the parking lot. I called my best friend to figure out what to do and who to call to go with me to the police station. I'd always had the mindset that if anything ever happened to me that I would take action. I would report it. In that moment sitting there, I was terrified by the thought. Going to the police - knowing that this had happened to me - sent my mind into a tailspin. I was completely numb.

I was in complete dis-belief as I sat in the police station interview room with my friend. Every time the officers asked me a question I felt I had to give them an answer. In a matter of one weekend I’d gone from being a confident, direct, well spoken woman to barely being able to formulate a complete sentence that made sense. Yet, I remained calm. Not crying. Not hysterical. Like you’d expect someone to be. That wasn’t on purpose, it was the only way I knew how to get through the process. The officers followed me to my apartment to collect my clothes, the evidence, before taking me to the rape center. During the elevator ride up to my apartment one of the officers very confidently said to me, “I think what happened is the guy started having sex with you and realized you were wasted, stopped, and left.” I laughed it off, disturbed to hear that, that was his opinion. 

The shock lasted for days. Signs of PTSD started to show up almost right away. I began racing home from work to be indoors before it got dark. I struggled to sleep, and only with the lights on. I experienced extreme sound sensitivity. There was a consistent nothing, numb feeling. I was living in a state of complete confusion. It took five days for the physical shock to wear off. When it did, I knew what had happened to me. This was not just some guy starting to have sex and stopping. I felt sheer pain all over my body. Swollen. Unlike anything I’d ever felt before. Unable to sit or lay down, I spent most of the night crouched down on my knees next to my bed, using my night stand to hold me up. I cried in pain while on the phone with a counselor from the rape center I visited on Monday. 

The legal process for sexual assault is something I knew nothing about. The process I went through was, and still is, unfathomable and infuriating. Two weeks passed before I got a call from the detective for my case. Two weeks. From the waiting period one can gauge the sense of urgency put on sexual assault cases. It took almost two months for the detectives to finally track the man – the predator - down. They even had the address to his building from the Uber I frantically called that Sunday morning as I ran out of the building. 

I liked the detective on my case. I believe he did his best to help me. It's the legal process and system that is flawed and buried in cases. Making it almost impossible for them to successfully prosecute rapists. Meanwhile, I was trying to keep my life moving. I was living in denial, shopping and spending money to make myself feel better and continuing to work on my business. Suffering in silence to almost everyone in my life - except my closest friends. I decided to keep it a secret from my family which allowed everything to feel less real. Managing my own stress, emotions, and trauma was all I could handle. 

Two months into the investigation, it was time to get answers - and a confession. Here’s the big difference with sexual violence versus any other type of case. I had to get a confession out of him. Me. Not the detectives. They call it the "pretext call." I had to sit in the police station, with the detective listening, and call the man who raped me. I had to act like “everything is cool,” and “I’m his friend,” and “I'm just curious to know what happened that night, it was so wild.” All lies to get him cornered. This is standard procedure in the majority of sexual violence cases. I consider myself a strong, confident person. Most of my peers, friends, and family would agree. That phone call took every ounce of courage and strength I had in me. I remained calm on the outside. Internally I was shaking, my mind and heart racing. I had a few conversations with the detective to prepare for it, which definitely helped. However, I wasn't prepared or aware of the fact that my entire case hinged on this call - on ME successfully getting a confession. An expectation placed on sexual violence survivors, who are, like me, just trying to survive daily life. The call went like this: He denied anything happened. Over and over again for two-thirds of an almost thirty minute long conversation. I was relentless, determined, and at times forceful. I knew if I kept pushing for answers he would break. And he did, finally admitting what took place. However, he said it was consensual. Throughout the call he changed his story many times. Lying. Trying to cover his tracks as I slowly revealed details of the night, that I remembered, into Sunday morning. I gave the exact time I "woke up” in his filthy apartment. That I was covered in something red, maybe lipstick, that wasn’t mine. It caught him off guard every time. Yet, he continued to say it was consensual. It was clear from the detectives’ reaction that the chance of him being charged was a long shot. But I live in a world of optimism. For me to give up hope would be hard especially with the mental and physical toll it was taking on me. I cut my hair short, continued to shop, burning through my checking account. I was making bad business decisions under the guidance of bad business advisors who I trusted and were aware that I had been raped. I was in full fight or flight mode. Flight, literally. I took trips out of the US. I felt safer being in other cities and countries. I had to wait weeks before the detective could approach him for questioning. It’s no surprise that when approached he declined to answer questions. His legal right. Something I had to accept. Four plus months into the process I was starting to mentally break down. I was unable to contain it. Everyone close to me was watching it happen. Then, the final kicker that broke me. The DNA results. Because I waited over 24 hours to go to the police, no drugs showed up in my system. This is a mistake I’ve learned to accept. Had I known it could clear my system as fast as five hours I would have gone to the police right away. On the call, the predator said he used a condom. Why I believed this I'm not sure, as again, I live in a world of optimism. I wanted to believe it. Unfortunately, the results showed the opposite. No condom was used. Despite this new information, it was still not enough. My truth was not enough. Throughout the entire process, it felt as though more empathy and protection was being given to the man who had raped me. I was 100% mentally broken. I was living in a hotel. Lost. Confused. Scared. Angry. Numb. Crying on the bathroom floor. Alone. 

I packed up all my possessions and left the city with a prescription for antidepressants. I needed to find myself again. Figure out how to trust again. Try to understand what had happened to me. Make sense of why our legal system is so flawed in its handling of sexual violence cases.

I knew there was only one chance left for my case before it was officially dead. I would have to convince the prosecutor to press charges. A meeting that happened nine months after my assault. My anxiety was peaking as I sat in the cold, dimly lit courthouse building. I got minutes into the meeting before I started crying. Not small tears - painful tears. Tears that weep from your soul. The meeting lasted for hours, and I cried every second of it. Through every word I relived the trauma ALL over again. I did my best. I left the meeting knowing all hope was gone. Why? Because of the prosecutor’s final words to me. She said, “I'm so sorry. You've gotta just chalk it up to one bad night amongst many great ones.” Words that still make my blood boil. No compassion. No caring. No empathy. 

I’ve spent a lot of time working on accepting what happened to me. I’ve learnt how to regulate my emotions post trauma - it’s not perfect everyday, but I’m getting there. I told my family. It was undoubtedly hard for them to process and accept it. I was striving to regain my self-worth and life. By April 2019, one year and five months later, I felt like I was there. Then, I got a call. He had done it again. Another woman raped by the man I’d tried to stop. The emotional process started all over again. I mentally went back into shock, followed by denial. I didn’t know the details of her case. I was not allowed to know anything about her. We could not have contact. The only thing I wanted to do was support her and I was, and still am, unable to do so. 

As Halloween 2019 passed by all I wanted to do was go out, dress up, have fun, and not care. Except, my life has changed because of one mans’ decision to take what wasn’t his to take. A year ago, everything related to Halloween was an emotional trigger. This year was better. I avoided All-Things-Halloween. I only watched uplifting shows, read inspiring books, I focused on keeping my PTSD and triggers at bay. I literally focused on surviving October. Maybe next year I’ll feel safe enough to celebrate Halloween again. I’ve lost a lot of friends and relationships because of that “one bad night.” In part to my own isolation as I learn to live this new life. I’ve gone out, mainly in other cities. I’ve tried to be the old me with friends. It’s just not possible. I barely drink anymore as I’m hyper aware of my surroundings. For me, living with this secret is tough. People want to know why I left the city for a year. Why I rarely go out. Why I’m not the same social, fun loving person. Yet, it’s not an easy topic to bring up. 

I wanted to go to trial. I deserved that opportunity. I wanted to fight for myself in a courtroom no matter how mentally debilitating it may be. I wanted a jury to decide whose word was enough instead of one uncompassionate prosecutor - a prosecutor whose dismissal would ultimately lead to another woman being raped. In reality, my months of fighting and emotionally breaking down were trumped by the lies he told on a phone call. Even with DNA results that confirmed his lies. It was inevitably his word against mine. And hers. And his words were enough. Mine were not. Nor were hers. 

It’s time to change the narrative on sexual violence and assault cases. Relying on a victim to get a confession is unfair. These cases aren't straight forward. They are not the “slam dunks” that prosecutors want to take on. The United States is in the top 25% worldwide for most physical and sexual violence crimes. As a nation which prides itself on success - we are failing. It's time we start educating ALL people. We must stop focusing solely on programs for women to learn how to avoid sexual violence. Men too, need to learn how to prevent sexual violence. The only way to stop this epidemic is to prevent it. We need to educate the younger generation in school as part of their sex education curriculum, NOW. 

While my case sits dormant, I’m continuing to rebuild my life, my business, and preparing for the next call. My dog has been my daily savior throughout the last few years. There have been many days where without his unconditional love and puppy spirit I wouldn’t have a reason to simply get up and get out of the house. It’s taken thousands of dollars, countless hours of therapy, and what feels like a vast support system to get me back on my feet. All of whom I’m extremely thankful for and forever indebted. I have been able to create a life filled with hope, confidence, and a new sense of empowerment. 

It’s almost inevitable that this man - predator - will rape another woman. That this isn’t over for me. For there to be true justice, she will have to report him, and I’d urge her to go to the police immediately and not to wait a day like I did. More importantly, the prosecutor will need to make the right decision and take action. This hasn’t been “just one bad night amongst many great ones.” It has taken an enormous toll on me physically and mentally, and has forever changed my ability to trust people.