The creation of human life is one of the most complex and shockingly beautiful things that our bodies are designed to do. The microanatomy that goes into this task is so astonishingly complicated that it’s a miracle any of us walk around at all. And yet, most of us do. Most…but not all.
When a baby dies, we are fragmented. Shattered, we must pick up the pieces and put them back together as we pay tribute to our children, our tables forever missing one, our families incomplete, our treasures in heaven, our babies alive only in our hearts.
It is through our stories that they live forever. These children were here and they mattered. They were loved. They are loved.
There are many, many difficult things about a stillbirth. First and foremost, a child is lost. Every pregnancy revolves around planning. You plan your due date, your delivery method, your parenting style, and your hopes for your baby’s future. The second that heart stops beating, you lose it all. What makes a stillbirth loss distinctive is that your baby never takes a breath. There’s no birth certificate and no death certificate. There’s no legal proof your baby ever existed. You pay for the delivery but you get no tax deduction. The world moves on as if your baby never was. For the person who carried the child, it was very real. Your dreams and hopes were real, the baby’s movement was real, your baby was real. The majority of the rest of the world, however, would just as soon forget it ever happened.
The simplest question becomes complicated. How many children do you have? I feel guilty if I don’t mention my son, but I know the other person really doesn’t want to hear about my deceased child. They were just asking what they thought was a innocent question.
I will never forget my son. This blog is my attempt to remind a tiny portion of the rest of the world that he existed. It is also intended to help anyone who might be going through a similar experience. Stillbirth is something that is not talked about. No one even tells you it is a possibility. It is not listed on the doctor’s agenda of things to warn you of when you become pregnant. And yet it happens to many, many people. In most situations, it cannot be prevented. There are no warning signs and no group of people to whom it is more likely to happen. The only thing we can do is increase awareness so the world will be more empathetic and will acknowledge the existence of all our children.
Declan’s Story
When I woke up that morning, I didn’t know that I had already heard my son’s heartbeat for the last time. It was just a typical day. We got everyone up and dressed for work and daycare. I was working for half a day since my maternity leave began at 12. I gave myself a day and a half before our scheduled C-Section to get just a little rest before all the fun began. I was nervous, excited, and scared for the child within me to be introduced to the world.
We had found out at the 20 week anatomy scan that our son had a heart defect and a 50/50 probability of Down Syndrome. James and I had celebrated the discovery that we were finally having a boy and then suddenly we were mourning his health and prognosis. We cried, sought spiritual guidance, commiserated over the unfairness of the world, hoped for the best, and planned for the worst. Many, many ultrasounds and visits to a pediatric heart specialist were endured to try to figure out when we were going to have to tackle the heart surgery. We were hopefully expecting for him to be stable upon delivery and make it to 6 months before surgery was needed.
In due time, we came to accept our son, however he would be presented to us. We loved him, and while we were very excited to meet him, we were extraordinarily apprehensive, as well. We named him Declan Raiden and anxiously awaited his arrival.
I finished up loose ends at work and went to a last lunch with all my co-workers. After ordering our food, I realized I hadn’t felt the baby move in a while. I had been at the doctor the day before for my last non-stress test to monitor the heart rate. It wasn’t reacting enough and the nurse brought me a Mt. Dew and monitored me for another 20 minutes. After that, the doctor read the scan and stated that the heart was reacting appropriately and we confirmed my C-Section date for two days later. I wasn’t too concerned the next day at lunch. I poked him a few times and joked about him being lazy and running out of room. I ordered a Mt. Dew, poked him a few more times and waited for him to kick me. I mentioned to the others that I couldn’t remember feeling him move all morning. My co-worker, Lisa, called her mother who is an OB nurse and they suggested I go to the doctor’s office and have them check the baby, just for peace of mind.
I texted James and told him I was going by the doctor to see if they would do a quick doppler so I could check the heartbeat since I hadn’t felt him move. When I walked up to the counter at the OB’s office, I actually felt a little silly. After a quick explanation of why I was there, the receptionist spoke with the doctor who agreed to the doppler. The hallway seemed very long as we approached the room. I sat down and lifted my shirt. The baby had still not moved and my heart was in my throat, beating so hard I thought it was going to be hard to hear the baby’s heart beating over my own. The cold ultrasound juice was squeezed onto my enormously pregnant belly and the tech pulled out the wand.
I knew. After about 3 seconds, I knew. Anyone who has had a doppler that late into a pregnancy knows you hear the heartbeat almost instantly. I heard silence. The tech started moving the wand around in a futile search. “Oh God,” I moaned, “No, no, no, God please no.” She searched for a while longer as I put my fists over my eyes and groaned. The tech said, “Maybe he’s lying on his side and I just can’t find it.” But even she knew she was lying. You could see the shock in her face as she stood quietly and told me she was going to get the doctor.
The mind is a terrible thing and hope dies slowly and painfully. I waited. No one had officially told me anything and even though I knew, hope was lingering. Someone came into the room and told me to go next door to the ultrasound room. I moved like a zombie and clambered my way to the next chair I could collapse into. I raised my shirt once again and looked at the TV screen as the doctor prepared the machine. I was terrified.
The image of my son showed up immediately. He was so still. And, again, I knew. The tears began to fall even before the doctor could finish saying, “I’m so sorry, Paula, there’s no heartbeat.” I buried my face in my hands and felt the full crushing blow of what she had said. She asked if I wanted them to call my husband and I nodded. One of the nurses left to find his number in my file. The doctor put her hand on my shoulder in an ineffectual attempt to comfort me. Then, at a loss for anything to say, she left me to my mourning.
I turned over onto my side, wrapped my arms around my heavy, lifeless belly, and sobbed. There’s no use in trying to explain what I was thinking or feeling. It’s a jumble of useless emotion. My son is dead. My body somehow failed him. What did I do wrong? Was there a multi-vitamin I missed? Did I overdo it at the pumpkin patch with the girls? Why? When? How? I was lost in a fog of confusion and grief.
After an indefinable amount of time, James was escorted in the room and the door shut behind him. I sat up and looked at him. Thinking that the doctor had already told him, I expected to see a mirror image of my own despair, but I saw only confusion. “What is it? What’s wrong?” I realized that they hadn’t told him and, for a moment, I didn’t know how to say it. How do you tell your husband his little boy is gone?
“There’s no heartbeat.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“There’s no heartbeat. He’s gone.”
He glanced up at the screen where the last image of our son remained, and I could see the realization flow over his face. He turned to me and put his arms around me. We stayed like that for a long time, grieving together.
The doctor returned to the room to make a plan. I’ve always been a meticulous planner. This very baby was planned because I wanted him to be born on 11/11/11. I planned my schooling, my volleyball career, my marriage, my home, my job. I just never thought I’d ever have to make a plan on how to deliver my deceased baby. We were told to go to the hospital and meet with the doctor on call. As I was gathering my things, James stepped out and called my parents. He explained what happened and told them to come. They live 3 hours away. James went to work to close up his office and I drove myself home.
After James picked up our 3 and 5 year olds, his parents met us at home to watch them and we went to the hospital. We had to go to registration and start the process of explaining our situation over and over. Signing my admission paperwork, I saw the words ‘fetal demise’ for the first time.So there’s a term for this, I thought. Great.
We waited for over an hour in a delivery room. We waited in a room in which hundreds of babies had been born to parents crying tears of joy. We cried as well. We sat together on the couch and said very little. When the doctor finally arrived, he explained that it was too late to do the C-Section that day. He wanted to do it the following day when a team would be prepared. I was shocked. I didn’t realize it would be an option to wait. We were sent home.
My parents were at the house when we got there. We hugged and cried and told them what the plan was. We didn’t talk much. No one wanted to alarm the girls. So, my mom made dinner and we ate in silence. James and I went to bed early. We laid in bed facing each other, with our dead son between us. Only 24 hours earlier, we had been watching him move and James had put his hands on my stomach and talked to Declan. He had been a very active baby and I loved feeling him move. All his energy made me feel like things were going to be ok. Now, my huge belly, the symbol of a glowing pregnancy, was a harsh reminder of what had happened. I couldn’t escape it: the stillness and heavy weight of our crushed dreams. I finally fell asleep out of pure emotional exhaustion.
The next morning, we rose early and drove to the hospital. Arriving at the delivery ward, the mood was somber. I felt that everyone looking at me knew why I was there and didn’t quite know what to say. The dismal situation seemed so incongruous in a place that was meant for excitement and joy. I tried not to cry much. Our nurses were incredibly sensitive and caring but I could sense the awkwardness of the situation. I felt bad for them. This shouldn’t be part of their job.
James was in the operating room with me. He stood and watched our son being delivered, just as he had for our two daughters before him. This time, however, the distinct cry of a newborn was not heard. There were no exuberant cries of “It’s a boy!” James didn’t get to place his finger into a tiny palm and feel the strength of that first grasp. The nurses quietly took Declan from the doctor and began the process of cleaning him. My surgery was finished and we were moved into the recovery room.
They brought us our son. He was wrapped up just like any newborn in a unisex blanket and cap. The nurse placed him in my arms. He was beautiful. He looked perfect in every way. His almond shaped eyes revealed his extra chromosome but that didn’t matter anymore. I stared at him as I held him and cried. James stood next to me and after a while, took him from me to hold him. It was the first time I’d seen James break down. It was painful to see him like that. He held Declan very close to his chest and buried his face in the blanket as his body was racked with grief.
After some time, I told him to call my mom. We hadn’t been sure how Declan was going to look when he was born and we had told my parents to stay with the girls. I found that I still had that urge of a proud parent to show off my precious child and I just knew my mom had to see him. James made the call and Mom arrived just a few minutes later. I handed her my son and I could see the mixed emotion of amazement and sorrow. Our priest came to bless the baby. After he left, we all held Declan one more time. We kept him with us as long as we could, but the time was approaching when we had to say our final goodbyes.
I was the last to take him. I held his tiny hand in mine and kissed his cold forehead. I told him how sorry I was that I had failed him; that for some unknown reason, my body had been unable to deliver him kicking and screaming into this beautiful world. I love you, I whispered against his smooth cheek, and I handed him to the nurse to take away. I had never felt so empty.
The doctor came in and talked with us. He explained that he saw no definite outward sign of what had gone wrong and asked if we wanted an autopsy. We agreed to an in-house examination. We didn’t want him sent away for a full autopsy because, at that point, it just didn’t matter. No test results were going to bring him back. They moved me to a different outpatient recovery wing so I did not have to hear the crying infants on the maternity floor. James and I recovered together. I took full advantage of the morphine pump throughout the night as it dulled both my physical and emotional pain.
The following day, my parents brought the girls to see us. It was time to tell them. James and I gently explained that their brother had gone to heaven. Annika, our 3 year old, was too young to really understand. At 5, Layna grasped the gravity of the situation. She began to cry and asked why. “Why couldn’t he stay here with us, Mommy? Why did he have to die?” I had no answers for her. Her questions mirrored my own.
At the end of their visit, Layna kissed me goodbye. Then she patted my hand and said, “It’s ok, Mommy, we’ll have another baby.” She was so young and hope was so quick to return to her. For me, it took a little longer. The unimaginable had happened and it had torn a dark hole right through my perfect little world.
We were sent home after a few days. I recovered from the surgery and James began the painful journey of making the final arrangements for Declan. My milk came in a day or two later. It was excruciating, physically and emotionally. I broke down one evening and groaned through sobs that my body was making milk for a baby I couldn’t hold. It was just so heartbreaking.
We tried to keep it together for the girls. Each day was waded through in a fog of disbelief and overwhelming sadness. We talked about a gravesite and coffin, but I didn’t want to live in this town forever, and I couldn’t stand the thought of one day leaving him behind. Cremation seemed like a ‘better’ option. The day James brought our son home in a small wooden box, we held it between us, held each other, and cried.
Declan’s memorial service was held at our church. I medicated myself as much as possible and greeted each “I’m sorry” and “Let me know if you need anything” with a polite smile and “Thank you.” Once again, we said goodbye to our son.
A small piece of advice for people addressing anyone grieving the loss of a loved one: just say I’m sorry. Every time I heard “He’s in a better place” or “God had a different plan,” I was screaming to myself: his place is with ME and any other plan is WRONG. I was confused and angry. It was grossly unfair that so many people abused themselves throughout pregnancy, or didn’t even know they were pregnant, and went on to have perfectly healthy babies. I tried so hard to do everything right. I gave up sushi and hot tubs, took my vitamins every night, and attended every appointment diligently. Why wasn’t it enough? How could this have possibly happened to us? These were questions that would never be answered.
Eventually, my pain meds ran out, my ‘maternity’ leave ended, and James and I found ourselves on the road to recovery. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. It doesn’t matter how much pain is thrown at you; life has a way of carrying on. Thanksgiving came, followed by Christmas and New Year’s. I drank a lot of wine and spent many quality hours with my girls, albeit not simultaneously. We took a vacation to Williamsburg for a week in January and made new memories. We found the balance between moving on and never forgetting.
There is a rainbow at the end of this tale. During my journey of recovery, I came across the term ‘rainbow baby.’ The following is a description of it:
“It is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn’t mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy, and hope.” (Author unknown)
Our rainbow baby came one year and 20 days after we lost Declan. The beautiful Quinlyn Levay Bass was conceived in March, 2012 and, after a perfectly ordinary, drama-free (although not stress-free!) pregnancy, she was delivered via C-Section on 11/20/12. Her birth was bittersweet. I’d waited almost 2 years and 20 months of pregnancy for a baby to take home in my arms. The death of Declan scarred me, and I am constantly petrified that something is going to happen to Quinnie. Although it probably isn’t fair to her and she will most likely be in therapy 20 years from now because of it, two babies worth of love and anticipation have been showered upon her. She will always be my rainbow, kissed by her brother in heaven before being sent to us.
People say that I am strong.
I am not.
My marriage is strong. Many couples don’t make it through the loss of a child. James is as much reliable and supportive as he is sensitive and empathetic. He is a wonderful husband and we survived this together and came out the other side closer than ever.
My family is strong. I know without a doubt that my parents would drop anything, anytime we needed them. They understand that just because I don’t always show my emotions, it doesn’t mean I’m not feeling them. My mother was the only person other than me and James who held my son in her arms. She knows more certainly than I do that Declan is our guardian angel. She and my dad took care of our girls and our home while were recovering and their presence made it just a little bit easier.
But me? No, I’m not strong. What I am is present. I have three living children and a husband. I have parents, in-laws, brothers, nieces, and nephews. I have a job and a home. In other words, life goes on. I am persistently on the verge of tears and some days I feel as though I will explode with emotion. On the outside, however, I am very careful not to emote too much lest everything that is pushed down and backed up comes out with it.
I try to live each day.
I try to be present with my living children.
Everything I do in life is for them. Because, if you believe in that sort of thing (which I’d like to), my afterlife will be with my son.
Late at night, after every living creature in my house is asleep, I close my eyes and picture him. I no longer dwell on the life that could have been and I don’t focus on the things that will never happen. I know I’ll never mark his height on the wall, nor chase after him down the street as he rides his bike the first time. I’ll never stay up late worried if he’s ok and I’ll never beam with pride at his graduation.
I know this.
As selfish as this sounds, Declan was mine. I carried him for 37 weeks, nourished him, sang to him, watched him on the monitors at our numerous ultrasounds. I planned for him and worried for him and accepted him. His entire life on this earth was lived within me. He was mine and we will be together again. God can’t keep him all to Himself forever. In the quiet hours of the night, I focus on Declan and I know:
We all have letters we’d like to send, but know that we can’t. A letter to someone we no longer have a relationship with, a letter to a family member or friend who has died, a letter to reclaim our power or our voice from an abuser.
Letters where actual contact is just not possible.
Do you have a letter you can’t send?
Why not send it to The Band?
Emily,
I thought about changing your name for this but then I realized, nope, screw that. You didn’t care about my feelings when you did what you did, why should I protect you?
I was going through a really hard time when you and I met. I had been dealing with infertility and wasn’t taking it well. We weren’t telling anyone we were trying to have a baby yet, so no one knew why I was fighting with depression as much as I was.
We were still fairly new to the area, and I was desparate for friendship. That’s where you came in. Your office was right next to mine, and we both had a lot of down-time with our individual jobs. We had a lot in common, so our friendship came naturally.
We confided in each other. Neither of us was in a stable marriage. Your husband preferred to go hunting rather than spend time with you. My husband liked hanging out with his friends after work instead of coming home.
I didn’t approve when my boss’ marriage started to fall apart and you flirted with him. You were not appropriate with how you handled that situation. But then one of our co-workers started paying attention to me. I won’t lie. I liked the attention. My husband was ignoring me, and this guy was cute.
I regret that I flirted with him.
Unlike you, I kept my flirtation to just at work. There was nothing more to it than two people who were attracted to each other who talked and flirted at work. I didn’t take breaks with him. I didn’t go anywhere alone with him. Did you know that when I took my breaks, I was in my office working on a Christmas gift for my husband?
You, on the other hand, took my boss out for lunch, just the two of you. You even went so far as to throw a party when your husband was out of town and invited a bunch of guys (and only one girl) from work to the party. There was drinking and craziness, and you admitted to groping my boss. I knew he was too emotionally distraught to return your inappropriate behavior, but I was less than impressed with what you were doing.
Then came that horrible night when my husband confronted me about my supposed affair. He repeated things back to me that I had told you in confidence. My words had been twisted to sound like I was guilty of much more than a mild flirtation. He accused me of a full-blown affair and implied that I was using this other guy to try to get pregnant. He said that I had been seen leaving with this other guy and we had been seen holding hands and kissing. You know as well as I do that that never happened.
He had his mind set that I was cheating on him and anything I said was a lie. I wish I could say I was 100% innocent, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.
We were leaving the next day on vacation. We still went. We talked through things and eventually he said he believed me that I hadn’t cheated.
What I couldn’t figure out was how he’d found out the specific things I had said. I had trusted you. Your sister-in-law also worked for the same company we all worked for. I figured you’d blabbed to her and things got back to him through the company grapevine.
We returned from vacation, and I went back to work. I still considered you my friend, but I was much more careful about what I said to you because clearly you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. I completely severed any friendship with our co-worker as soon as I returned. I requested a transfer to a different location, so my husband wouldn’t have to worry about me being around our co-worker.
A few years passed. I found out that the whole time my husband had been “hanging out with friends” after work, he had actually been having multiple affairs. While he never admitted to anything, I had learned to read between the lines to figure out what was going on. One day, he let enough information slip that I figured out you two were sleeping together. All that time I thought I could trust you, not only were you having sex with him, you were reporting back to him everything I said – twisting it to sound like I was mocking my marriage.
I looked you up online recently. I was happy to see your first husband divorced you. I wonder how much of his not being around you was caused by his knowledge of your behavior.
I’m still very angry. I’m angry at all of the women who knew my now-ex-husband was married and chose to have sex with him anyway. I’m angry with the people who knew about his cheating and didn’t tell me. I’m especially angry with you for pretending to be my friend while betraying me in the worst way possible. I don’t want to be angry anymore. The fact is, you’re not worth my anger.
I’ve moved on. I haven’t had any contact with my ex in years. I’m happily married and busy raising my kids. I don’t need to hold on to the past. I’m hoping that writing this letter and releasing it out to the world will help me to forgive you for your actions.
So I’m going to say it, even though I don’t feel it yet, in hopes that I’ll feel it soon.
We all have letters we’d like to send, but know that we can’t. A letter to someone we no longer have a relationship with, a letter to a family member or friend who has died, a letter to reclaim our power or our voice from an abuser.
Letters where actual contact is just not possible.
Do you have a letter you can’t send?
Why not send it to The Band?
Dear Bryan,
I know that our relationship is long over. I have moved on and so have you.
I’m confused though.
The way you spoke to me those last few days, made me think that you wouldn’t find someone else. You told me that I didn’t meet your religious standards, but how does she? I would have converted for you. Hell, I would have done anything for you.
You let me go and said I wasn’t good enough, so how is she? Do I not deserve answers? I want to forget the pain that I went through for you, but your words repeat in my head on the nights that he works late. He knows some of what I went through for you, but never the words you said.
Why was I not good enough? Why was your only explanation “I didn’t plan on dating her?” Just why?
You can call me Alice, but know that none of the names of people or places I use here will be real. I wouldn’t feel safe if they were; maybe I’ll never feel safe again. This story is old, well most of it. When it happened, there was no one safe to tell and when I tried, life got really unsafe.
I was fifteen, drinking at my boyfriend’s house.
My second drink tasted strange but I drank it anyway. Soon, I realized I was really drunk, no coordination, my speech sounded crazy slow. I thought “It’s way too soon to feel like this.” I noticed strange interaction between my boyfriend and my friend Pamela – I was suddenly sure there was something going on between them. Angrily, I left the party.
I stumbled down the busy highway, trying to hitchhike. People in cars kept yelling at me. Guess I was too close to the road. There was a bit of snow on the ground and I could see my breath. I looked down the road and saw what looked like an abandoned building. Like magic, it had appeared just as I thought it would be good to find a place to get out of the cold.
The door wouldn’t open.
I made a decision that would alter my life in unimaginable ways.
I broke the window. I heard a noise that sounded like a distant siren. I kicked glass out of the window frame then laid my jacket over it and climbed in. I felt around in the dark and found a desk, curling up underneath it.
It wasn’t long before I heard a policeman shouting to me to come out with my hands up. I was so relieved; I knew I’d be safe. I called back that I didn’t think I could get out; I was scared. The voice in the dark said he’d help me. I stood in front of the window, bright light in my eyes as he helped me climb out. Another policeman responded; they didn’t know who was going to arrest me.
At the police station, I vaguely remember being asked questions. I refused to answer any questions about my name or age – I’d experienced some horrific child abuse at home and didn’t want to be taken back. They acted like they thought I was an adult and I went along with it; maybe I could establish myself as an adult and never have to go home again. I heard the first officer telling someone he thought I’d been drugged at a party. It made sense based on how I felt. While I sat there, the two arresting officers discussed where to take me. The county cop made a suggestion. I don’t really remember the car ride except for the pain from the cuffs.
When we arrived at our destination, the county facility, I was fingerprinted and I think they took a mug shot. Shortly after, they took me to a cell with a bunch of men in it. The Sheriff Deputy, Jerry, acted like he “didn’t believe” I was a girl. He wasn’t confused but he wouldn’t listen to me.
I was scared.
I told him my name and how old I was, thinking it would make a difference but he said it was too late for that. I sat on the floor near the bars, facing out but it wasn’t long before someone told me to get up. The guys in the cell made a circle with me in the middle, one guy holding me.
I was gang raped by a number of people in that cell.
It’s kind of a blur. I struggled futilely – I knew I wasn’t going to get away. I begged them not to rape me, I didn’t want to get pregnant. The guy holding my arms told them not to come inside me. After 3 or 4 of them finished raping me, they let me go. During the rape, the guys were talking about someone who was watching; I realized they meant someone was watching the gang rape through the camera at the top of the cell wall.
I was left alone in the cell for a while before I was taken out and walked down the hall to a flight of stairs where another prisoner was scrubbing the stairs with a toothbrush. The officer gave me a toothbrush and told me to help him. When the cop walked away, the other prisoner and I talked a little – turned out that he’d dated my older sister and I’d briefly dated his little brother. He’d been sent out of the cell when I was being raped because he was crying.
After a while, a couple of officers came down the stairs and I said I wanted to speak to an attorney or make a phone call. One of the cops told me to stand up, saying, “He said have a nice trip, see you next fall.” The other prisoner warned, “don’t back up, there’s someone behind you.”
When I turned to see what he was talking about, the cop with the ponytail pushed me and I fell over someone who’d crouched behind me. I hit my head and was unconscious for a bit. As I was coming to, I heard the other prisoner arguing with ponytail cop. The other prisoner said he wouldn’t let them rape me to which ponytail cop said that he’d have to hold me down as they gang raped me again. There was a scuffle. I gathered the other prisoner had taken a swing at ponytail cop.
Officer Paris who’d originally arrested me started giving orders. He sent Officer Twist (the cop who’d been behind me) somewhere with the other prisoner and told the other cop to do something else. When they were gone, he asked me if I could walk. I said I thought so but as I started, I felt a rush of pain in both legs. I told him that both sides hurt, and he said he’d carry me. I was terrified he’d drop me down the stairs but he said he wouldn’t. I squeezed my eyes shut and held on tight and he took me up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, he took me into a lounge with an ugly green sofa, which he laid me on, saying, “try to get some sleep; I’ll be back in a little while.” I think I did doze off until I heard voices, “What the hell is she doing in here?” I opened my eyes and said, “Officer Paris said to stay here and sleep, he’s going to be back in a little bit.”
“Well I outrank him,” the sandy-haired cop said, “so get out of here.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” I asked.
He said to go back to my cell. I told him I didn’t have one. One of the other cops said Officer Paris was in the locker room so I headed the direction he pointed. As I approached the locker room, Officer Paris was coming out. I told him I’d been kicked out of the lounge and was looking for him, I’d needed to use the restroom anyway. He took me back to the locker room and I went in one of the restroom stalls. As I sat down, I looked up and I could see his eyes looking over the divider down at me. I finished urinating, stood up and asked him if he wanted to join me.
He said no …but he didn’t go away.
I don’t know why I did it but I took off my shirt and hung it over the wall. The next thing I knew, he was standing in front of me in the open doorway of the stall. We kissed and groped a little, I unbuttoned his shirt and he shrugged out of it. I tossed it behind me.
He unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis. “Is this what you want?” I turned my head and hid my face against his neck: I didn’t know what to do or say. When he asked how old I was, I told him the truth: I was fifteen. He said he was too old for me. When he asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?” I nodded. We started to engage right there but I didn’t think I could do it standing up. He told me to wrap my legs around him, and when I did, he walked to a counter-top and set me on it.
“Is that better?”
I nodded and we had sex. It was crazy. Out of control. Urgent. Passionate. I desperately needed him. It was amazing until he said, “I’m going to come, let go.” I didn’t want him to stop so I didn’t listen.
Suddenly, he was no longer passionate but ice cold, “Are you done? Because when you are, I’m going to kill you.” I looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. “I am now,” I said, suddenly dizzy and terrified. “Please don’t. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to stop.”
He was still angry, “You’re fifteen and I’m not going to go to prison for this. You’re not going to leave here.” I asked what he was going to do. He said “I don’t know, I could put you in the incinerator.”
“Please kill me first if that’s what you’re going to do,” I begged. He said he’d think about it. That’s when a lady officer came into the locker room, “Oh this looks like fun, I want some.” I said I “didn’t think so” but Officer Paris said, “You will do what we tell you to do.” The cops talked about what they were going to do with me. She said she didn’t think he needed to kill me; his semen wouldn’t be identifiable if there was more semen in me from other “donors.” They decided to pretend I was a hooker and have some of the other officers have sex with me.
At the end of the discussion, he started to walk away. I asked where he was going and he replied, “They’re going to rape you and I’m not going to watch.” I slumped onto the floor and cried.
When I looked up again, I was surrounded by cops. The first person to touch me was the female officer. She said, “I’m not going to hurt you” I said I didn’t care, I still didn’t want her to touch me. She did anyway. She undressed herself and got on top of me with her private part over my face. I gagged then I bit her. She screamed but she got off of me. She was crying and acting like I’d just done something terrible when she was being so nice to me. I said it wasn’t nice and I’d already said, “No.”
She left and the guys moved in. I told them, “I’m not a prostitute. I don’t want to do this, please let me go.” They wouldn’t let me out of the circle so I sat down, pulled my knees up to my chest, and put my head down. I heard someone ask what I was doing and Jerry answered, “passive resistance.”
As he had in the cell, Jerry held me as they pulled my clothes off me. The first guy, Officer Twist, asked me how old I was, I said I was fifteen but he thought I’d said thirteen. He stood up and said “No way, she’s not even legal. She said she’s not a hooker and this is rape. I’m not doing it.” He talked a lot of the guys into leaving with him to go talk to the chief but there were still maybe six or so left.
When the first one started to rape me, I fought to get away. The guy holding me said “He’s enjoying it more because you’re fighting,” so I played dead. He didn’t stop.
To the next one I said, “I don’t want to do this but I’m not going to fight with you.” He replied, “I don’t like my women willing,” and smacked me hard across the face a couple of times. The guy holding me yelled at him. I was sobbing. Satisfied with my tears, he finished pretty quickly.
The next guy wanted to pee on me but when he started peeing on me, he got some on Jerry and got kicked. When the last one started, I was hiding my face against Jerry’s arm. He was already in me when I heard him asking, “What, is she ugly? Let me see your face.” I kept my eyes closed but turned my face so the man raping me could see it.
Then he said my name.
“Alice, Alice, it’s me, Evan, do you remember me?” Jerry asked how he knew me and he said he’d dated me when he was taking a remedial high-school class. “I didn’t know she was a hooker though.” I opened my eyes and started screaming at him, “I was not a fucking hooker,” and “hookers probably wouldn’t have to be held down and taken by force!”
Evan started freaking out. He said “I didn’t rape you.” Scathingly, I replied, “Yes, yes you did. That’s what it’s called when you have sex with someone who doesn’t want to do it – rape.” I ranted, called him names, made fun of his stupidity. I knew I should shut up but I was too hurt and angry. It was Evan after all, and maybe if he felt guilty enough, he’d help me get away.
There was another cop in the room I’d gone to school with, but this guy hated me. He said “I know who you are but I don’t care. In fact, I’m glad it happened.” Evan did try to get Jerry, who was holding me, to let me go and talk to the Chief but Jerry refused. When the other cops were done raping me, Jerry said, “You’re not done.” I thought he was referring to raping me, but instead he said, “I’m going to punish you. You can either cooperate and we’ll get it over with quickly or you can fight and you might really get hurt.”
I asked what he intended to do and he replied that he was going to spank me and instructed me to lay across his lap. Trying not to show fear, I said, “This might be fun.” He warned, “It will not be fun.” The first slap was a lot harder than I’d expected. It felt like the kind of blow that might break bones. He hit me a dozen or so times. Only later I would realize that each blow had left a deep purple hand print-shaped bruise.
As he finished, Officer Paris came back and asked why I was crying. Jerry said “I gave her a spanking.” Officer Paris said he had something for me, too. Jerry pushed me back onto my stomach and Officer Paris took off his belt and hit me with it – it stung like crazy. I was trying to get up when the second strike came and it landed between my legs on my genital area. I collapsed onto the floor, screaming in pain. He struck me again. I think it stopped but I was beyond thought and couldn’t stop screaming.
Most of my memories of the next couple of days is fragmented. I remember being asked how long I’d been there and what I remembered about how I’d gotten there. At some point, they figured out I was repressing memories. I was assaulted repeatedly while in custody. At one point, I was forced to play Russian Roulette by the sandy-haired officer. I’m pretty sure I’d been drugged when I was interrogated about my life and the assaults. I was given a polygraph test. I was told to look at a line up to identify an officer who’d committed a particularly brutal sexual assault on me. I was often led to believe they were trying to help me but intermittently treated with extreme cruelty. I wasn’t given regular meals but a few times I was allowed to eat something like a piece of toast or mashed potatoes. I was not allowed to sleep for more than an hour or so most of the time I was there.
At some point I was taken to a room where they’d hand-cuffed the prisoner who’d tried to protect me to a bar on the wall. The cops acted like they were going to beat him up to punish me. I said I didn’t care what they did; he was not my friend. I slapped him. I wasn’t trying to be hateful, I was trying to make the cops believe that causing him pain wouldn’t hurt me so they wouldn’t hurt him. I was either unconvincing or they didn’t care.
As I was taken away, I could here the group of officers yelling “Boom-boom, out go the lights,” the accompanying sounds told me he was being punched. Later we were put into the same cell. I asked for some things to try to make him more comfortable, he had been beaten severely and his face was bruised and swollen. He asked me to stitch up his lip so I asked for a needle and thread. When I got it, I couldn’t stitch him. The lady cop said I was a regular Florence Nightingale and I told her that his lip needed stitches but I couldn’t do it. She said she could. I think she did.
Later, someone brought me out of the cell and told me to sit in a chair and not to move. Evan walked by me and said, “we are going to help you, so do exactly what I say.” Another guy walked past me and said, “They’re going to kill you.” He was smiling like he was pretty happy about that. I was asked what kind of coat I’d worn in, and I told him I’d had my leather jacket. He brought it to me. He said “I’m going to cut a hole in the fence. When I come back, you need to run out the door. Go straight toward the fence. There will be someone on the other side with a car. They will get you out of here. You got it?”
I was afraid. Evan asked, “Do you trust me?” I said I did and he left with a pair of wire cutters. When Evan returned, he said “Now go as fast as you can!” I did what he said.
I could hear a helicopter as I ran toward the fence. It seemed to take forever to get there. The helicopter was low and someone was shooting from it, the sand to my left erupting in a line of little poofs of sand. There was someone at the fence yelling at me, he came through the hole, grabbed me, and pushed me to the other side. It was Ike, the sandy-haired guy from the lounge. When we got to the car, Jerry was in the backseat and they told me to get in back with him. I did.
We lay in the seat, curled-up together. He held me, said he was sorry for hurting me. The guy driving made fun of us in a good-natured way. I thought these aren’t really horrible people; they’re rescuing me. They took me to a motel and where we were going to lay low. In the room Jerry told me to lay down on the bed. I said I didn’t want to but he said, “Come on. I’ll lay down with you, we’ll take a nap.” I cuddled up to him on the bed. Soon, it turned into making out.
“I’m going to blindfold you” he said. “But I’m not going to hurt you.” As soon as he had the blindfold on me, he grabbed my wrists. There were more voices. I realized the room hadn’t been empty when we arrived. My wrists and ankles were held tightly. It felt like there were four different people holding them as I was stretched across the bed.
Someone got on top of me, he didn’t talk at first. It wasn’t brutal; actually it was probably the most gently I’d been touched since I’d been arrested. He kissed me and when I didn’t respond, he whispered, “Kiss me back.” It was an order. I did. Based on stopping and starting and the different ways I was being touched and spoken to, it felt like a couple of people in a row. Some of the voices were soothing while others were cruel, said insulting things, and called me names. Most left when they were done. Eventually, I was told I could take off the blindfold.
When I did, ponytail cop was there and he said, “You need a bath, it will make you feel better.” I didn’t want to bathe in front of him but I wasn’t given choices, just orders. He washed me and he washed my hair. When he let me get out of the tub he combed my hair gently. I got dressed and he took me back into the main room. He said, sitting on the edge of the dresser, we’d be leaving soon but I had to give him oral sex, then we could go. Ike, who was behind me, pushed the back of my knees with his foot so I knelt. Ponytail asked if I wanted to do it, and when I opened my mouth to say “No,” I was pushed forward. He grabbed my hair as he forced his penis into my mouth.
I was choking, terrified, I thought he was going to strangle me. He told me to swallow over and over again. Pretty soon he was done and let go of my head. I pulled away feeling the come on the back of my throat. I asked him to kiss me, but he refused. Ike said he’d kiss me, and when he did, I spit the slime into his mouth. He spit it out and said “You’re going to pay for that.”
But that’s when Jerry came back and said it was time to go. He looked at my wet hair and said, “What the hell did you do that for? She’ll catch pneumonia.”
They took me to a biker bar. Jerry informed me me I was going to have to have sex with more people and that I’d better act like I wanted to be there. I said it’d be easier if I was high. He asked what drugs I liked and I said acid would work – when I’d tried it before, it made things feel kind of dreamlike and not quite real. He told Ike to stay with me and he took off. He returned with a tiny pink pill, telling me it was all he could get – the kids at school called it pink micro-dot, it had the same approximate effect as blotter acid. I swallowed it.
We went into the bar and Jerry told me to have a drink first. The man behind the bar mixed up a vanilla coke for me. I drank part of it. There was a line forming in front of a door and they were taking money from the guys in line. Jerry took me into the room. There was a bed and a chair and it was really dark.
“I’m going to stay here to make sure no one hurts you,” Jerry said. It sounded almost compassionate. I started crying, “Why are you doing this to me? I thought you were going to help me!” “I’m helping you stay alive,” he said. “You only have to take three, then you can stop.”
He yelled, “We’re ready!” and the first guy came in. He started pulling my clothes off and when I struggled, he slapped me in the face. Jerry told him not to hit me. The next guy said I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. I said I didn’t want to do anything and he said okay – could we make some noise? He grabbed the headboard and bounced on the bed. I laughed and we shook the bed for a few minutes. Then, he left. Jerry said “that was cute, two more.”
The next guy liked violence. He hit me, telling me that he was going to kill me. Jerry quietly said, “No, you’re not, hurry up and finish. When she’s done, she’s leaving with me.” And it was over.
Jerry said “Come on, I think you’ve had enough.” They took me back to the jail. I was woozy and sick to my stomach. I asked to use the restroom and Jerry came into the stall with me. I couldn’t go with him there. He brought me back out.
Officer Paris was standing next to me when I told him I was going to be sick. He said they’d have me in a cell soon. “No,” I said. “I really needed to go back to the restroom.” “No,” he said. I leaned forward and threw up on his shoes. He swore and told me to stay there. I stood up for a second and saw Jerry standing just around the corner from me. I walked toward him and as he turned around I punched him in the eye as hard as I could.
Next thing I knew, I had been tased, I was on the ground where I stayed until Officer Paris returned with clean shoes and a straightjacket. He told me to fold my arms and he put the straightjacket on me. Then, he pushed me into a dark padded cell. Noises came and went. I cried. I couldn’t breathe right. I was there for hours. I heard voices at the door, “Please let me out, I’ll do whatever you want.” A voice on the other side of the door said, “I can’t let you out, but I can come in if you want.’
I said “okay.” Two people came into the cell. One of them told me to lay down and face the wall so I did. He asked if he could have sex with me. I said “okay.” He told me to stay where I was, he started petting my hair and put his arms around me. He said, “You want this, right?” I said I didn’t want to be left alone in there. He talked for a while as he messed with the straightjacket. He had the strap from between my legs undone but left the rest of it on as he rolled me onto my back.
When I was on my back, he started talking to the other guy as he looked between my legs. He realized there were stitches in me – I’d been abused by my stepbrother the prior summer and the stitches were never removed. I started crying and telling him about the abuse I’d experienced. The cop slapped me across the face a few times and pulled the remnants of the stitches from my skin. I stopped crying and he started to have sex with me. I asked him to put my knees up on his shoulders. He laughed and said “ohkaaay.”
When my knees were resting on his shoulders, I locked my feet together behind his head and flipped myself over so I had his neck in a scissor-hold. I said “Stop now or I will kill you.” His friend started to come toward us and I squeezed his neck harder, “Okay, what do you want?” the standing officer asked. “I want you to get out and take him with you,” I said.
He opened the door and said “Okay, on three you let him go, and I’ll take him out.” He counted and I shoved the guy toward him with my legs. The door closed. They were still in the room. I tried to roll over and get away, but Ike grabbed my hair and lunged on top of me where he raped me – anal rape, this time. It was brutal and left me screaming in pain. When he was done, the other guy took a turn. It was Jerry. When they were both finished, they left me in the cell but didn’t fasten the straight jacket back up. I lay there crying until I heard Officer Paris.
“Why did you let them in here?” I asked through the door. He asked me who I was talking about, and I told him about the two men who’d raped me. “Close your eyes,” he said, “the light will hurt them.” I stood in front of the door and closed my eyes. Officer Paris put his hand over my eyes and said, “Go ahead and open your eyes.”
I fell against him and started sobbing and telling him what they had done. He held me close and sat down on the floor in front of the cell with me on his lap. He stroked my hair, saying “Don’t cry.” I couldn’t stop. He said he’d put me in there because he thought it was the only way to keep me safe while he was gone. I asked him to get me out of the straightjacket and he said he had to go get the key. He told someone to watch me and he left. “They said Jerry has it,” he reported back. Someone called Jerry and he brought the key. When I was out of the straightjacket, they put me into a cell with a window looking into it. Paris and the lady cop from the locker room talked to me from the window.
I got tired and sat down beneath the window, wheezing. I told them I didn’t have asthma but wheezed when I cried or got winded. They seemed worried and got an inhaler from Officer Twist who had asthma. He handed it to Officer Paris and left. I tried to use it like he’d said – neither of us realized I was holding it upside down – it didn’t work and I broke it by accident.
While I was sitting there a man came in who’d been stung by a bee and was allergic. Within seconds he was on the floor, Officer Paris said his airway was closing. I said he needed a tracheotomy. Paris asked me what I knew about it and I told him how to do it. Shortly after, an ambulance arrived. The paramedic said it had saved the man’s life.
Jerry came back down the hall. He said I was having an asthma attack and if it didn’t stop, they would need to take me to the hospital. Jerry held me on his lap for a while and tried to get me to relax. It felt better being held but my chest hurt. He put his ear against my chest and said he thought my left lung was collapsed. He started yelling at Officer Paris telling him that my lips were blue and he was not going to let me die there. Officer Paris looked at me and said we’d all go.
On the way, he asked me things about my health. He told me that when we got there, I was not to speak, he’d take care of everything. When we got to the hospital, Officer Paris told them he was my father. Jerry sat in a chair holding me on his lap while Officer Paris talked to someone at the desk. Then a lady came and listened to my chest. She said my lung was completely collapsed, that she was going to have to draw the air out from around my lung. If everything went well, I could take a deep breath and that might re-inflate the lung. She jabbed something into my chest; Jerry had gotten a hold on me so I wouldn’t be able to get my hands in the way. Then, she told me to take a really big breath. I was afraid and she finally convinced me to try by showing me a tube that would have to be inserted into my chest to re-inflate my lung if I couldn’t do it.
I did it.
I think we were all pretty relieved. They said I’d need to stay for observation. The nurse started an IV and Jerry came back with a nurse carrying restraints which they put on me. I was trying to get some rest when Ike came into the room with a syringe. He said “I’m going to kill you,” as he poked the syringe into the IV line. I couldn’t get it out of me with my hands so I pulled the IV from my arm with my teeth. Monitors went off and people came running. Ike had slipped out of the room. Officer Paris came back. I was screaming, explaining why I’d done it. He said into my ear that it was just something to make you sleep. Next thing I knew, I was enveloped in blackness. Then I was waking up.
As I was waking up, the nurse was talking to Officer Paris who was sitting next to me. “Her tests came back and she has all kinds of things in her blood.” She rattled off some drug names I didn’t understand. When she was leaving, she said something about my dad. I said “You’re my dad? I don’t know you.”
He had a puzzled expression on his face. I said “I’m sorry, if it makes you feel any better I don’t know me right now, either.” It was true. For a little while, all I felt were vague detached feelings. Not long after, I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror and a stranger was looking back. When I got back in bed, Officer Paris was talking to me and it all came flooding back. He held me and it calmed me. He said they would not be taking me back to the jail. He said he was going to take me to a juvenile facility for the night and he’d be back to take me to my arraignment in the morning.
When he was dropping me off, he told the lady officer that I’d been through hell and he hoped I wouldn’t remember it. After he left, I was taken to a dark room with a long row of beds. I was taken to an empty one and told to get some sleep. I got into the bed but then the lady officer returned and told me she was going to take me to the infirmary for an intake check-up.
When we got into the exam room, she had me undress and sit on a stainless table. She saw the bruises and commented about how terrible they were. She said she was going to “make it all better” but didn’t sound like she meant it. She wiped a wet cloth all over me and told me to sit in a chair that looked like a dental chair. She kept saying, “It was just a bad dream.” A large man in uniform had come into the room and watched as she touched me with a white stick. Every time she touched me with it I got a horrible electrical shock. In between, I sobbed and begged her to stop. I grabbed her wrist with one hand and the wand with my other. It worked – she got a jolt too. When she broke my grip, she kept torturing me until I was barely conscious. Then she had the guy dress me and carry me back to bed. He sat on the edge of my bed and quietly told me they weren’t going to hurt me anymore. I thought he was crying.
I asked him to please call Officer Paris and tell him to come back and get me. He said he was sorry but he couldn’t help me. I slept until I heard a girl saying “Get up, you’re going to be in trouble.”
I sat up.
I was sent to the shower room to get ready for court. In the showers, the lady officer from the night before entered and told me my friend was on his way to get me, but she was going to finish what she’d started later when I returned. When Officer Paris and Jerry came in, I jumped into Paris’ arms sobbing and told him what she had done. I begged him not to bring me back. He told Jerry to get me ready and he stepped into the hallway where I heard yelling. Jerry watched a minute then said “He slapped her” and laughed. Jerry said “Let me hold you.”
I did.
He asked me what I wanted him to do. I said “Protect me,” he said he would if I would do something for him. He took me into a restroom stall and said he wanted a blowjob first. I cried and said I didn’t want to be sexual. He said ,”It will just be this once.” I asked him not to make me do it, I begged. He said “Just do it and we’ll go.” I started to do it. Officer Paris came in and started yelling at us. When I told him what Jerry said, he just yelled at Jerry. I washed my hair quickly and we left for court. In the car, I heard Jerry say he had taken my file.
The judge said I’d have to go back to the juvenile facility and I freaked out. Officer Paris asked the judge to give him custody but the judge refused. I thought they were going to take me back there but Officer Paris took me home with him. He told me I could get a shower while he washed my clothes but I was not to lock the door or try to leave.
I locked the door. I found a razor and took out the blade. I thought I’d just go ahead and die but I couldn’t work up the nerve to cut myself. I was afraid that I’d wreck my hands if I didn’t bleed to death. I love art, it’s one of my few refuges. I couldn’t risk losing that if I did survive. Paris came pounding at the door and swearing that I wasn’t supposed to lock it. I said, “Well shit, I don’t think you’ve been doing exactly what you were supposed to do either.” I unlocked the door and said “Don’t come in, I’m getting in the bath.” When I was in with the curtain shut, he came in. I was on my back rinsing my hair when I looked up and saw him peeking through the edge of the curtain. He said “Look, I need you to let me know when you’re done.” I said that I would.
When I was done washing I asked for a towel. He handed it to me and came into the bathroom with a tube of antibiotic cream in his hand. He told me to sit down and gestured toward the toilet. I said I didn’t need to. He said “Just do it.” So I did. He knelt in front of me and said, “Open your legs” I naturally squeezed my knees tight together and said no. He started to pry my legs apart with his hands and I slapped him hard across the face.
I said “I said NO!” He looked angry, but said “Put your arms around my neck.” Afraid of his anger, I did. When I had my arms around him, he lifted me off the seat and laid me on the floor. He put some of the cream on his fingers and applied it to my crotch area while he had me pinned on the floor. I said “I thought you were going to rape me again. He said he wasn’t going to have to rape me because I was going to let him.
We argued and I struggled to get away.
I said that I wanted to be with someone who loved me, for something more than just sex. He said “I do. I want you more than I want my wife.” I still fought. He begged me to give in and I said no. He promised he wouldn’t hurt me. I said “You are hurting me,” and he stopped briefly. I explained that while it may feel physically okay, it would be emotionally horrible for me if he kept using me like this. I did not give in, but eventually he got inside me. I fought until I was on the brink of orgasm. When he finished inside me, he asked if I wanted him to stop. I said “if you stop now I will kill you!” He didn’t stop until I was exhausted and physically satisfied.
Then he said “We have to get up and get dressed. My wife will be home soon.” We got dressed and went to the living room where I asked him to sing me something, anything. He sang a little bit of Silver Bells, a Christmas carol as we lay on the sofa together. I fell asleep. When his wife came in, they had a fight – she didn’t believe that he wanted me to stay with them just to keep me safe. I was wearing some of her sweats and she was angry about that, too. He went and got my clothes from the dryer and they followed me into the bedroom. I was hurt and angry; I didn’t want to be there while they fought about me.
I took her sweats off and put on my own clothes in front of them. She saw the bruises on my backside. She asked who’d done that to me and he told her Jerry had left the hand-prints but he had hit me with his belt. She calmed down a bit and they decided he was going to take me back to the police station and do everything as it should have been done in the first place. He took me back to the county facility. He held me while Jerry injected alcohol into my arm – they said they had to make it look like the beginning of the night I was arrested. From there, I was taken to the juvenile facility where I was placed in an observation cell.
My mother had been called at 10PM but it was 3AM before she came to pick me up. When she got there, Officer Twist was watching me scream and pound the window of the cell with my fists and kick it over and over again. When I heard my mom, I started to calm down. He told her to take me to the hospital for a thorough examination. She said she would. There was a gold cross I’d been wearing when I came in, Officer Paris had given it to me, but it looked just like one my grandmother had given me years before, only maybe a bit larger.
As we drove away, I told my mother I thought I’d been raped but I couldn’t remember anything clearly. She said “Well, you’d know if that happened!” She drove to the hospital but when we got there, the person at the desk told my mother she didn’t know why we would have been sent there; they were very busy. We could wait if we wanted. My mother took me home.
Later my mother came barging into the bathroom as I was getting into the tub. She saw the bruises asked if someone had spanked me. I said I guessed you could call it that.
When I went back to school I didn’t remember the arrest at all – kids said I’d been in jail for three days. My mom said I’d only been there for a few hours.
I started remembering months later. I called the police station and was told the stuff I’d remembered couldn’t have happened. A few days later, I was visited by angry cops who wanted me to stop talking about it. I got beat up and sexually assaulted every time I remembered and each time I’d repress the memories. It went on for years.
I had an affair with Officer Paris who I reached out to every time I was hurt again for about a decade. I was married and divorced twice but the terror didn’t end. I knew Paris saved my life a couple of times when I was assaulted and I loved him. I know now what I felt was the result of terror-bonding. It’s what kept me alive, and knowing this, I have begun to hate myself a bit less for this insane connection to someone who caused me so much pain, who treated me so badly. I know what it is and why I feel this way, but it does not change the fact that it feels like my heart has been ripped out.
We no longer talk. The last time we were involved was 20 years ago. There are still so many things I want to say, to ask him. He acts like I’m crazy which sometimes makes me feel like I am. The last words he said to me about a month ago were, ” I don’t think anything did happen to you.” My therapist told me not to let him make me doubt myself. She’s told me over and over that she believes me. Sometimes it helps to hear that.
Sometimes I don’t believe that anyone will believe me ever.
We all have letters we’d like to send, but know that we can’t. A letter to someone we no longer have a relationship with, a letter to a family member or friend who has died, a letter to reclaim our power or our voice from an abuser.
Letters where actual contact is just not possible.
Do you have a letter you can’t send?
Why not send it to The Band?
My sister called you “The Blond to End All Blonds.” There was a good reason for this. After you had been in my life, I had no interest in any other blonds until I met my husband.
I kept you on a pedestal. You were my ideal. No one could compare to you.
8th grade was a really hard year for me. I don’t know why that group of girls targeted me, but the bullying was rough. They made fun of my hair, my clothes, made me feel worthless. My mom and my sister were very supportive during that time, like they always were, but it wasn’t enough to keep my spirits up.
Then came the basketball game where I met you. I only sat next to you that night so I could have a chance to talk to the other saxophone player sitting on the other side of you. Justin was really popular with the girls, and I could never find a moment when he wasn’t talking to some girl. I don’t know why I was so brave that day. I wasn’t normally like that. I figured I could strike up a conversation with the cute blond sax player while waiting for a chance to talk to Justin.
You seemed startled, but pleased when I sat down and started talking to you. I still remember what you were wearing that day: blue jeans and an olive green sweatshirt with a bird on it, a parrot, I think. The longer we talked, the more Justin disappeared from my mind.
From then on, the weekends were what got me through the difficult weeks. My sister was always happy to let me hang out with her and her friends. I was at all of the high school football games, basketball games, and concerts – anywhere the band members would be. I would have gone with her anyway, but you were an extra incentive.
It was very flattering to have an Older Man pay attention to me. You were only two years older than me, but because you were in high school, and I was in junior high, that was a really big deal. You were always so sweet and so kind to me.
I’d never seen anyone look good in those horrible marching band uniforms, but you did. I will never forget the night of that one football game. I stood there holding a heavy quilt because it was supposed to be very cold that night. As I listened to the band teacher gruffly instructing everyone what he expected of them, I looked over at you. You grinned at me.
My heart stopped.
That was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen, and it was just for me!
You never came right out and said that you liked me back, but your actions did. I felt like the only thing keeping you from pursuing more of a relationship was the fact that I was only in junior high.
I was sitting behind you at a football game one afternoon, talking to one of my sister’s friends about the party we were all going to that night. I made a point of mentioning whose house we would be going to, for your benefit.
Little did you know you were actually going to show up!
A car pulled up in front of the house that night. I heard one of the seniors say that it looked like your sister’s car. When I got outside to see what was going on, I saw a pack of boys standing around the car. They all looked too afraid to come closer with all those big senior boys in the house. I yelled for you by name. The other boys laughed and said you weren’t there, but when some of the bigger guys came outside, and everyone jumped back in the car, I saw you.
I got up the nerve to call you the next day. Our conversation was a little weird and awkward, but you were sweet. You admitted to being with the boys in the car the night before, but wouldn’t say anything else about it.
Was I wrong to believe you were there for me?
But then came the horrible news that you were moving. I was heartbroken. After you left, I used my school connections to find out what school you had transferred to in Texas. I wrote you a letter, and mailed it, care of your new school. In it, I jokingly threatened to write to you constantly until you answered me. I regretted it as soon as it was in the mail. It sounded creepy. I was sure you would think I was insane when you read it. I never wrote again, but I missed you all the time, and always wondered what might have happened if you hadn’t moved away.
A couple of years passed, and I took a trip to Washington to visit a friend. On the way, I had a long layover in Utah. My sister was going to school there, and we took the time between my flights to go shopping. We drove to the mall and pulled into the parking garage.
As we looked for a parking place, I noticed a familiar face. I asked my sister if she thought that looked like your sister. My heart stopped again when I realized the guy walking behind her looked just like YOU. I begged for my sister to stop the car, but she was afraid she would lose me if we didn’t stay together. She rolled the window, yelled your name, and YOU TURNED AROUND!
As soon as we could find a parking space, I was on the hunt for you, but I never found you. I cried through much of the flight to Washington, devastated that I might have just missed my chance to connect with you again.
You and I are friends on Facebook now. I’ve apologized about basically stalking you back then. I’ve thanked you for making me feel good about myself during that tough year. I enjoy seeing pictures of your family, your wife and pretty little girls. You look so happy, and I’m glad.
I’ve tried to ask you more than once if that really was you in Utah that day, but you won’t tell me. I wish you would. We all have unanswered questions that we wish someone could answer. You have the ability to ease my curiosity. It’s an important question to me because seeing you that day opened the doors in my heart to allow me to fall in love for the first time.
Thank you for being kind to me at a time when I really needed it.
