The struggle to be believed, part II

In terms of the number of books sold, the signing wasn't a huge success. I suspected it wouldn't be; rape culture is not a subject that tons of people would be lining out the door to read about. I did sell some copies, however; I signed books for two college-aged women who are involved in Cleveland's "Slutwalks" (an event where women "take back" the stigma of "slutty" clothing by wearing short skirts, heels, etc and march through town to send a message that men are not entitled to rape based on what a woman is wearing). So that was cool.

I judged my success that day by the number of conversations I had with people who were curious why the subject matters to me. So at the very least, I may have interested a few in the subject, if not my book. I'm okay with that. When you write for a cause, you don't do it for fame and money.

This week, I want to share a passage that deals further with the struggle of being believed, particularly that of a girl who experienced abuse within a relationship, and the surprising reasons why it's not so simple to label the relationship as "abusive" when you deeply love the person who is hurting you:

     So I guess Katherine doesn’t take me seriously after all. I had thought for a while that we were getting somewhere, but now all that progress seems shattered. Perhaps permanently. It’s too early to tell, but my hope for us is wearing drastically thin.

     At least I was able to convince her to let me take her the rest of the way home. No way was I going to just leave her there by the side of the road, ripe for another pervert to come and grab. I would have picked her up, thrown her over my shoulder, and put her in the backseat before I let that happen. Luckily, Katherine is smart enough to understand why she had to suffer the rest of the ride home with me. All six minutes of it. 

     I know it’s irrational, but remembering John cruelly mocking me with “You think Becca will believe you either?” got me thinking. It’s not about competition; she may think I’m just a bitter ex-something-or-other trying to poison her against him, but that’s only part of the reason I can’t tell her. A very small part, actually. 

     I can’t take the risk that she’ll go straight to John about it, either to make fun of me or to check his reaction to see if it’s true. I don’t know, but if she did…well, I’m not afraid of him coming after me with violence or anything, but it could mean more contact from him, and I’m already haunted by our last conversation. Is it selfish to be concerned about my own healing and my own well-being right now?

     Perhaps if there was evidence – physical evidence of trauma that wasn’t washed away – I wouldn’t have to worry about Becca believing me, because I could have gone straight to the police after it happened. Only, there probably wasn’t any trauma to record: none like Katherine’s, no visible cuts or bruising. Maybe not even a torn hymen either. For as much as it hurt, I never bled. It’s strange to admit, but now I wish I had, if that meant a stronger case against him. But there isn’t one.

     Any normal person would think Katherine had everything to turn the tide of criticism toward the man who raped her, and not herself. She had the bruises. She had the torn clothing. She insisted up and down she didn’t know the guy; couldn’t pick out any pictures in the collection of already existing mug shots from other area predators. And yet, there were a significant number of people in law enforcement who just couldn’t believe her. All they saw was her short skirt. So what would they see if they looked at me? I was supposedly in love! I’d be laughed right out of the police station without a second thought.

     All these factors make me question what my next move should be. Feelings may be valid, but they can’t be proven. So with no physical damage to show, and no other witnesses to corroborate my story, how do I know what really happened? I am a small, fragile, inexperienced girl who was willing to do anything, sacrifice everything, to be loved: something every human longs for. In a society that glorifies sex, who will believe me now? Who will ever believe me?