There's more than one right answer; my answer is to close and lock the door

Choose to Challenge is the theme for this year’s (2021) International Women’s Day and I want to take some time to think about what that means to me.

I’m a divorced single woman in her early 50s. I have two adult daughters who both live many hours away from me. I live with my aging mother. I have thoughts and feelings about all those things, but today, I have darker thoughts clouding my mind.

Rape. Sexual assault. Violence. Fear. Shame. Sadness. Responsibility.

I must decide.

The man who raped and tried to strangle me January 18, 2016, was charged in the fall of 2020 with assault and with holding someone against their will. Someone else. Someone other than me.

Last year, two women – more victims – created social media posts to warn other women about this man, a predator who hunts for his prey using dating sites. Now I must decide if I want to step forward and give a formal statement that will add to the assault charges already laid against him by women like me, women who fell hook, line, and sinker for his very believable lie – that he was a good and decent man.

I’ve already spoken with the detective in charge of the case. We spoke for quite some time, and he was surprisingly kind and compassionate. (I wasn’t expecting that to be the case.) He’s left it up to me to decide if I want to give a formal statement. Once I do, there will be no turning back. If the police decide to file charges against my rapist based on my statement – which the detective believes is likely – then I will no longer be able to change my mind. It will be too late. I will be back in the middle of the nightmare.

In 2016, after the rape, I was broken, and I was suicidal.

I went to the Ottawa Rape Crisis Centre. This service helped me in many ways, one of which was giving me the power to choose whether to contact police and file charges. I chose not to. At the time, I had several reasons for choosing not to come forward. I was afraid for my safety. I was certain no one would believe me, considering his background and his work in the field of ethics. I was ashamed and embarrassed. I failed to keep myself safe. I failed to keep myself from getting raped for a second time in my life, but this time, instead of being a 17-year-old virgin, I was a 45-year-old single mother of two teenage daughters.

When I was 17, I was raped by someone I knew. For the first few months he seemed distraught and incredibly remorseful. There were apologies, and a lot of time spent lamenting his actions. There were “Oh my God, I’m so sorry” statements. Several. Until, one day, they stopped. Things were suddenly different. This “accidental rapist” no longer believed in rape.

He rewrote the script for what happened that night. I can only assume that he no longer liked the feeling of being someone who committed the act of rape and, so, he took it from a tragedy to just a teenage romance of no great significance. It became a date that simply didn’t work out.

Why did he do this? Was the guilt too much to handle? Was he afraid of his shadow self – the one who could do something so hurtful and cruel? I don’t know. I have no idea what he was thinking then, and I have no idea what he’s thinking now. It’s been hard enough trying to make sense of my own emotions and my own actions and reactions. I can only be responsible for me. My job is to take care of me, not him.

And yes, he’s still free. No, he was never charged. Aside from a doctor who wasn’t my regular doctor, I didn’t tell any adults the truth of what happened to me that night.

Many years later, I heard that he allegedly raped another woman, one who did file charges. Things weren’t looking good for her case, so I considered coming forward, but at the time, I was advised by a policeman I knew that my statement wouldn’t help. I had no proof.

In addition, I was warned that once I gave my statement – told the truth about what had happened to me that night – everything would be out of my control. What was happening to this young woman would probably happen to me. I would be causing myself, and all those around me, pain. And for what? It was unlikely – highly unlikely – the outcome would be in our favour, and it was probable – highly probable – that it would cause further trauma. So, I did nothing. I was told that she lost, and he won. I felt more shame. And on top of that, I now had the bonus of feeling some intense guilt for staying silent.

It took me years – too many years – but I found a way to forgive myself and to forgive him.

I had to forgive myself for not being there for me when this happened. Not only that, but I had to forgive myself – that scared, confused, young woman who was programmed to give at her own expense – I had to forgive her for abandoning me to take care of him. I saw him suffering. I wanted to make his suffering stop, so, I desperately tried to make him believe that it wasn’t that bad. It was over and done, and everything will be okay. (I was wrong. Massively wrong.)

It was bad and things weren’t okay. I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t okay for a very long time.

After I was raped at age 17, I vowed to die fighting rather than live through something like that ever again. Fast forward 28 years and I find myself in a situation where I’m about to be raped and instead of fighting, I do my best to be accommodating, so as not to make the man mad enough to hurt me more than he already intends to. I was trapped with no clear exit and we both knew it.

How did this happen? I overlooked red flags. I went to his house. I sat my phone on the ledge by the door while I took my winter boots and coat off. I was ushered away from the door and my phone too quickly. He pushed me toward the basement, and I remember thinking at the top of the stairs that I needed to get out, but I wasn’t sure how to do it without making him mad. I was teetering at the top of the staircase leading down to the basement. He was directly behind me with his hands on me, standing so close I could feel his body touching mine. He never stopped talking. From the time I entered the house, until the time we were in the basement, he never left space for me to say a word.

It soon became clear he was on drugs, or crazy, or possibly both. I was scared, I was off-balance, and I decided my best chance was to pray and to hope that I was wrong – that he was a good ethical man whose intentions were only honourable.

I wasn’t wrong. The feeling coming up as I entered his house that night was there to warn me, but I didn’t recognize it. I thought it was just first-date anxiety. In any case, ignoring that feeling turned out to be a huge mistake.

He was not an ethical man. His intentions were not good. I was wrong. And I was trapped. No clear escape route. No people close by to hear me scream or come to my aid. No clear weapon available. And my phone was still sitting upstairs by the door.

How did I survive? He let me go. Seriously. He let me go. (Was it a miracle? Quite possibly, considering what happened.)

He was on top of me, with his hands firmly around my neck, squeezing. He was physically fit and incredibly strong. He slammed his body into mine again and again, for what seemed like forever. He was extra large with an aim that was not exact. He was like a sledgehammer being wielded by a blind and raving lunatic. I knew if I survived, there would be bruising. I remember my thoughts. They were many. I was scared, but I was conscious and aware.

This can’t be happening to me. Not again. How did I get here? Breathe and it will be over soon.

At one point, for just a moment, he looked into my eyes and whatever he thought he saw, he suddenly and quickly jumped backward. It was like he flew in reverse, off me, and pinned himself to the wall. In a frightened voice he said, “You have to leave. You have to go.” He even mumbled something about how we should have met in public. (I was wishing we had never met at all.)

When I was sure he wasn’t going to move toward me or block the door, I grabbed my clothes, and I left the room. I made my way out of the maze-like basement, and I ran up the stairs to the door. He followed me. I was trying to breathe, trying to stay calm, trying to think. I almost ran outside without my snow boots, coat, and phone. But I didn’t. I stopped. I was at the door. It was open. I was at the escape hatch, and he wouldn’t be able to stop me. Not now. I grabbed my phone, I pushed on my boots, and I grabbed my coat. While I was doing this, he was just standing there watching me, but not too close. He was keeping a safe distance. I was afraid he might change his mind, but he looked calmer. Then, just as I was going out the door, he asked if he would see me again.

He asked me if he would see me again, as though we had just spent a very pleasant evening together.

I was dumbfounded. I almost left without answering the question. But I didn’t. I stopped for just a moment, and I said, “I guess that’s up to you now, isn’t it?” I had no intention whatsoever of seeing him again. I couldn’t control what he chose to do that night and I definitely knew I would have no control over what he might do in the future. In my mind, when I said those words, I was telling him he had just abused his power and I knew it. I guess I was speaking in code. In retrospect, I’m fairly certain he had no idea what I meant. Who would? It was a crazy thing to say considering that he’d just raped me, not to mention the strangling bit. (I can no longer wear turtlenecks or anything too restricting around my neck. I wear a necklace here and there, but not for long.)

If I had been thinking more clearly, I would have dialed 911 and then punched him in the face. That’s what I wish I had done. But I didn’t. With my coat in hand, I rushed to my car. I got in and I locked the doors. He stood in the front door of his house watching me. My hands were shaking so badly that it took me longer than usual to get my key into the ignition. When I did, I drove away, crying, asking myself if this was real.

I was shaking and crying so badly that I decided to pull into the shopping centre parking lot. I parked, and the shaking kicked up about 10 notches, and I cried. I just sat there, crying and shaking, and shaking and crying. I was basically vibrating. Eventually, I began to calm down.

Looking back, I don’t think I realized just how terrified I was until I was safe inside my car in the strip mall parking lot, where I was surrounded by people. The fear gave way to clearer thinking, and I was able to acknowledge what had just happened. In the understatement of the century, I sent him a text before driving home. I said: “Ethically speaking, that wasn’t very nice.” An understatement, to be sure, but I felt the need to have the last word, and I felt the need to make sure he knew that I knew who he really was, that I could see the real monster underneath the shiny Mr. Ethics. I blocked his phone number, his email address, his Facebook profile, and his Match.com dating profile.

I waited to go home until I was sure I could act like nothing had happened. My 17-year-old daughter was at home, and I didn’t want her to know that I’d just been raped. I knew it wouldn’t have happened if I’d followed the rules for online dating, such as meeting in public or making sure a friend knew where I was going. I ignored the rules, the same safety rules that I had often lectured my daughters on in the past. How could I face them or anyone else for that matter?

When I arrived home, I greeted my daughter briefly before going to my room. Then I locked myself in my bathroom, where I crawled into a ball on the floor and just cried. I was afraid to call my friends because I had just done what I promised I would never do: I met the guy alone in his house. After 28 years of looking behind me, avoiding elevators and enclosed spaces with male strangers, not walking alone at night, and being on high alert and suspicious with every man I met, I didn’t just let my guard down, I threw out the whole damn rulebook! What was I thinking? How could I have done something so incredibly stupid?

I beat myself up for days, which turned into weeks, which then turned into years.

When they did find out, concerned friends, professionals, and family said it wasn’t my fault. But here’s the thing: the truth is that, indirectly, it was my fault. I had a part to play. My part was getting me to the venue. I did that. That was me. I made that decision, and I took that action.

He holds full blame and full responsibility for raping me, for strangling me, and for the trauma he caused. That’s true. I know that’s true. I do. But I hold the blame for walking myself into an unsafe situation. Once I was in there, I had limited options. But before I got there, I could have said no. I could have insisted on meeting in public. If I had done that, I may have avoided the rape altogether. I could have prevented it from happening to me that night.

Is that true? Is it the whole truth? At first glance, it appears to be true, but when I look deeper, not so much.

Like one of the Rape Crisis Centre nurses said, I may have only postponed it. I could have met him ten times in public without picking up on the crazy. I could have thought I knew him well enough after seeing him so many times, and months later agreed to go to his home, where he still could have raped me if he chose to do so. He was a rapist. I didn’t know he was a rapist. I wasn’t going to know he was rapist no matter how many dates we had. I wasn’t going to know he was a rapist until he showed me his real face, which he had no intention of doing.

Also, on a side note, the first time I was raped was not in a house. It was on a porch in the back of a building surrounded by trees and a parking lot. It can happen anywhere.

So, that night in 2016, I could have chosen to meet him somewhere else, somewhere in public. And he could have raped me anyway. He could have raped me behind a Starbucks, in a parking lot, or behind a tree or shrub. The rape was not my fault. It wasn’t my fault.

Neither rape was my fault.

I will never officially report the rape that took place when I was a teenager. We were both basically children on the verge of becoming adults and we both had our own bag of crazy that we were tackling at the time. That doesn’t excuse what he did. In retrospect, I should have done things differently. I should have reported it at the time, but I didn’t. And now I don’t want to report it and that’s my right.

The 1987 rape isn’t what I need to make a decision about today. The person who raped me when I was 17 no longer exists. He’s a different person now. I’m a different person now. I don’t want revenge. I don’t even want justice, if in fact that’s a real thing. I want peace. I want healing. That’s what I want.

The 2016 rape is different.

The man who raped me five years ago is a dangerous predator. He searches, he hunts, and he stalks his prey. He knows what he’s doing. He’s not going to stop until someone makes him stop. For years, he’s continued to do what he does. In fact, he was doing this before he raped me. I wasn’t his first victim. But with each victim, it looks like his intent has grown more sinister, while his actions have become terrifyingly more severe. I believe he’s a serial rapist, on the road to becoming a serial killer, if given the opportunity.

Of course, I feel like I have a duty – a responsibility – to at least try to stop him.

But I’m afraid.

What if he’s not convicted? What if he’s set free? What if he decides to come back and finish what he started? What if he tracks me down and strangles me to death?

And.

What if I do what the detective suggested? What if I go to the station and make the official statement? Will the police move forward with charges, like the detective thinks they will? Does that mean I will have to be in the same room as him at some point? Will I have to see him again? Will I be forced to testify, to speak in front of strangers about what happened to me?

I have no proof. I didn’t get a rape kit that night. (Despite the one and only friend I contacted that night telling me to do so.) I didn’t get it on video, and it didn’t happen where anyone could see or hear. It comes down to my word against his, and historically speaking, the odds are not in my favour. I’m the woman, and the woman is usually seen as somehow unworthy of being believed or protected, while the man, her attacker, is usually seen as a victim who was somehow taken in by a witchy woman.

If I could leave it there, I might feel no shame in walking away. But I can’t.

Other women have come forward. His entire world has been turned upside down and everything he’s said or done is being examined. I was told by the police that he’s an extremely dangerous person and, while the detective didn’t tell me the details of what they’ve uncovered, he did say that I should not blame myself for not seeing his true nature. No one did. It appears he might be an actual psychopath.

If other women have come forward, why can’t I? Don’t I owe it to potential future victims to try to stop him? Don’t I owe it to all women to see that justice is done for this heinous crime?

No, I don’t.

The detective, as well as every professional I’ve dealt with since the attack, said that I don’t have to come forward, not now and not ever. I get to choose what I’m ready for and when I’m ready for it. I get to choose if I simply don’t want to do it. I was the victim. I’m not responsible for him or for his actions.

Today, my power lies in getting to choose what I do now. I didn’t get a choice in being raped, but I do get a choice in whether I want to relive the nightmare by telling my story in a police station or a courtroom. I’m choosing not to do that.

I’m allowed to consider my own well-being, my own mental health, and I’m allowed to decide that I don’t want to talk about this or be faced with this every day of my life until such time as the legal system enacts justice. Or not. Remember, there’s always the chance I could go through months or years of having to relive the trauma only to see the person who hurt me walk away free or worse, get a metaphorical slap on the wrist. I’m not doing that.

Some of you may understand, and some of you, no doubt, will not. Your first impulse might be to shame me. What about his potential future victims? What about my role as a woman and as a victim of rape to stand up and demand justice? Not just for me, but for future rape victims who are facing the same difficult decision. How can I expect the justice system to change if I’m not willing to speak up, to stand up, or to fight for what’s right?

You don’t have to shame me. You don’t have to do that because I’m doing it well enough all on my own.

Or I did. I’m trying to release the shame along with the belief that it’s my job to stop him. (At the moment, it’s still a bit of a vicious circle with me going around and around the decision wheel.)

I finally know and I finally believe that I’m not responsible for my rapist’s actions – past, present, or future. He is. Just him. I know that now. I also know that I didn’t get a choice in being raped. I didn’t get a choice in the months and years of trauma that followed. I didn’t get a choice in how it impacted my mental health.

But today, I do get a choice. I’ve done the work. I’ve done the therapy. Heck, I’m still doing the therapy and I probably will be for the foreseeable future. But I’m doing so much better now. I’m no longer suicidal, which is a huge check in the plus column. Things are much better in so many ways and I’m grateful for that.

Today, I choose not to go back into that nightmare, not even if it results in seeing him behind bars for a few years. I choose to move forward with my life, and I choose to leave him in my past where he belongs. He took several years from me already, and I won’t let him take anymore. I’m done. For me, this is over.

Until tomorrow. Or next week, or next month, or next year. Until I read about another woman who’s faced the same thing and who found the courage to come forward. History has shown that I will then question my decision and the cycle will begin again. I will replay all the reasons I should have come forward and all the reasons I shouldn’t have done that. Around and around and around I will go until I’m okay with the choice I’ve made. Until I’ve learned to love myself enough to know that there is no one right answer to this situation. My answer doesn’t have to be the same as Jane Doe’s. I’m me. This is what I feel is right for me right now at this moment in time.

I’m throwing him behind me and I’m locking that damn door.