Kill the Silence

by Monika Korra

  Copyright © 2015 by Monika Kørra

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Harmony Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  Harmony Books is a registered trademark and the Circle colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Korra, Monika.

  Kill the silence : a survivor’s life reclaimed / Monika Korra.—First edition.

  1. Korra, Monika. 2. Rape victims—United States—Biography. 3. Rape victims—Rehabilitation. 4. Rape trauma syndrome—Treatment. I. Title.

  HV6561.K66 2015

  362.883092—dc23

  [B] 2015009127

  ISBN 9780804139625

  eBook ISBN 9780804139632

  Cover design by Jess Morphew

  Cover photograph by Larry Sengbush

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1: Stillhetens Timer

  2: A Black SUV

  3: Tomorrow

  4: Home

  5: Focus

  6: The Station

  7: Departure

  8: Christmas

  9: My Dallas

  10: My Team

  11: Going Solo

  12: Measuring Progress

  13: Running in Circles

  14: Candles

  15: Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

  16: Release

  17: Asking Why

  18: Going Public

  19: Perseverance

  20: Mediation

  21: I Am Monika Kørra

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For my family and dearest friends—the guiding stars of my life. Thank you for showing me that love conquers hate in every way; thank you for giving me my lovely life back!

  Prologue

  December 23, 2013

  I sit at the frost-rimmed window. Outside the snow falls in gentle arcs through the gray light of a Little Christmas Eve Norwegian day. I smile. The lights of our just-decorated Christmas tree color the nearest flakes, transforming them into a kind of flowing spectral rainbow. The glass is cold to the touch as I attempt to wipe away some of the moisture that has built up, a by-product of the fragrant dish that my mother has simmering on the stove to later serve to my sister, my father, and me for lunch. The sweet smells of the pork sausage and dill are carried on the draft from the poorly sealed glass-and-wood windows. What I’m really looking forward to is the porridge we’ll have this evening, a renewed tradition from childhood in which whoever ended up with the bowl that had the almond in it got presented with a marzipan pig as a prize.

  Though it is barely noon, I know that my window of opportunity to get outside will close quickly. With my base layer already on, it takes just a few minutes to fully dress before I grab my skis, poles, and boots and head toward the door. I say good-bye to my mother on my way out. She is seated on a chair in the living room, enjoying the newspaper and an extra day off of work two days before Christmas.

  “Ha det bra, Mamma.” I wave to her as I head for the door.

  “God tur, Monika. Kos deg på ski,” she responds, wishing me a good ski trip without even turning to look.

  My mother knows me well. Not many people would want to go outside in such weather, especially with the temperature so far below freezing, never mind choose to put their body through the exertion that I’m about to. But I’ve never let what most people do define me.

  As I drive to Budor, the skiing area where I’ve spent countless hours propelling myself on cross-country skis around hundreds of kilometers of trails, I think about the conversation I had with my mother earlier that morning. I was having trouble with a zipper on my favorite Swix running/skiing jacket. I tugged and tugged at it, but its teeth wouldn’t release their grip. In frustration, I muttered about the stupid thing, louder than I probably should have, and stamped my feet.

  My mother came up to me and held out her hand. I handed over the jacket.

  She pinched her face in concentration. “This is as stubborn as you are. It only wants to go where it wants to go and doesn’t like anyone insisting too strongly.”

  As she coaxed the zipper down, she reminded me about the time when I was a little girl just starting out on skis. Like most kids in Norway, I was strapped into a pair of cross-country skis as soon as I could walk. Unlike most one-year-olds, who fell, cried, and held out their arms to be picked up when they couldn’t keep their balance, I only cried if someone tried to help me. I was going to do it on my own or there was going to be hell to pay. I joked that that was because I wanted to be like Anette, my older and only sibling, who was four when I was first put on skis, but my mother shook her head.

  “You were always so headstrong, in a good way,” she added, smiling. “It’s helped you more than hurt you.”

  Arriving at the trails, I think about how some things have changed and how others have not. I’ve had to learn to let other people help me over the last few years. Anette is still someone I look up to and admire, but I’ve become less competitive with her in many ways. We’ve always been close and supportive, but the dynamic of our relationship has shifted. Though I was thousands of miles away from her when the attack occurred, and it is impossible for anyone who hasn’t been subjected to what I was to ever completely close the gap between the raped and the non-raped, Anette, my friend Ida, and my mother have been as close to being with me stride for stride since that horrific night as it is possible to be. I had always wanted to race ahead of everyone, to be the first to the finish line, and it still feels odd to me to let others stay with me, to maintain my pace, to resist the urge to sprint away.

  When I was younger, very few people ever said my name, Monika, without using the word lille or “little” in front of it. That was natural, I suppose, given that I was always the shortest and slightest of my classmates and fellow teammates and competitors. I spent my childhood trying to keep up with my sister and her friends, on skis, on Rollerblades, while running around our property in Løten playing gjemsel (“hide and go seek”) and hermegåsa (“follow the leader”). Maybe that was where I’d become so goal oriented—if I didn’t keep up with Anette and the other kids, I wouldn’t get to play. And I always wanted to be a part of the action. I didn’t just want to play; I wanted to win.

  I pull into the parking lot at Budor, close to the lodge. I look through the gloaming and see the platter lift. Its swing-set seats and curved metal poles look like baited fishhooks. They climb the hill, oscillating slightly in the wind. Empty. The scene could have been sad, like a dilapidated amusement park standing empty in the off-season, but instead it cheers me. If the parking lot’s sparseness and the lift’s emptiness are any indication, I’ll have the Nordic trails mostly to myself.

  I snap into my bindings, wind the handles of my poles around my wrists, and set off. The snow on the trail is well packed, and each of my kicks is accompanied by a satisfying squeak. The trail climbs from the base near the simple lodge. I bend slightly at the waist and thrust my arms directly ahead of me while bringing my leg forward, before propelling myself up the slope. My father waxed my skis for me the night before, and I’m pleased that I am both gaining good traction and also enjoying a bit of a glide. If the skis had been too slick, I would have lost momentum going up the hill, losing a bit of distance with each stride. I don’t like slipping back, losing at anything, not even a little bit.

  Soon the trail levels off a bit, and I move into a smooth rhythm. As
I pick up speed, the wind numbs my cheeks and ears. My breathing settles into a good pattern, and I can feel my heart rate climb. About a thousand feet ahead of me, I see where the trail enters the forest, a tunnel of trees carved out of the mountainside. I give myself one minute to get to the first of the trees and kick into a sprint.

  Training for an endurance sport demands that you be comfortable being alone—whether that isolation is in your mind or literally so in your training. Your coach can provide you with guidance; your family can stand on the sidelines and cheer you on, or cheer you up later when you have a bad result, but ultimately the responsibility for how you perform lies on your shoulders alone. You’re the only one who truly knows your own limits; you’re the only one who can truly assess how much you tested them.

  By inclination, I’m a social person and love the company of others, but I have always needed my independence; I need to have time by myself and with my thoughts. When I’m alone with my thoughts I’m better able to solve problems, put events into their proper perspective, do all the work necessary to build the kind of mental strength you need to succeed as an athlete and as a person. At those times I’m both my harshest critic and my most caring comforter—I know when I need a kick in the butt and when I need a shoulder to cry on. Too often I’ve struggled with communicating those needs to others.

  As I speed along, I feel a lightness come into my heart. I am outside in the crisp winter air, nimble as I glide between the snow-frosted trees that seem to embrace me, and I allow my mind to wander.

  Four years earlier, almost to the day, I also came to Budor. That was the Christmas just after the attack. I was so wiped out by the anti-HIV drugs I was taking that it was a struggle to get out of bed at all. I was so tortured by memories that not even my sister’s presence in my bed was sufficient to make me feel secure enough to surrender to sleep. I didn’t like the idea that what had happened to me was bringing everyone else down, and I tried to be even more cheerful as a way to reassure everyone that I was okay, but I wasn’t.

  That Christmas in 2009, I felt friction in every part of my life. I just wanted everyone to believe that I was the same old Monika, that nothing had changed. I clung to the belief that the essential parts of me—my tenacity, my work ethic, my hunger to prove to everyone that I had what it took to take on any challenge—were still there. Those traits rubbed against another part of my reality—that the culture I was raised in emphasized a different set of values, and subtle forces were telling me that I should fit in and not fight.

  The trail leads to a slight depression, a cut in the mountainside that leads sharply down and then equally sharply up an incline. I dig my poles in deeper, settle back on my heels to maintain my balance, and am soon on more level ground again.

  That Little Christmas Eve back in 2009, with everyone in my family hovering over me, blanketing me with well-intended concern and compassion, I grew claustrophobic. Their hovering began to feel intrusive; it was as if I couldn’t make any movement without someone noting it, assessing it, pondering its potential deeper meanings. I felt as if I were a specimen in a jar, floating in a fluid of their and my own fears and anxieties. I was as angry and hurting, both over what had happened and because I did not want to be so fragile, so helpless.

  I can’t blame them for thinking of me that way. They saw through the façade I’d tried so hard to erect around myself. I was a wreck—physically and emotionally and spiritually sore and spent. I’d been a competitor all my life; I hated to lose, but when I did, I’d always manage to find some element of the competition to give me hope for the future. That could mean having a chance to evaluate my performance, to set new training goals, or simply to enjoy being out in the environment giving my body a chance to express itself. But after the rape, I found nothing hopeful about what had been done to me. I saw no lessons, only injuries that had been inflicted. I worried I might never recover. It was as if my body, the thing that in many ways gave my life meaning, was lost to me. Being in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by ribbons, trophies, and other marks of achievement, only reminded me of what I’d lost, what had been taken from me; the accolades were no longer signifiers of any kind of victory.

  On Christmas Eve, 2009, I had gone to Budor because I had experienced a loss greater than any other in my life, and the only way I knew how to move beyond it was to train harder than ever. I turned to what I knew best—the same way I responded after a race that hadn’t gone as I’d hoped. First, I would experience panic and the desire for wish fulfillment—I wanted to get back out on the track immediately and do everything different, fix every mistake. I was certain that a bad race meant it was over—my running career, my chances of progressing, everything gone. If I could just get out there again, maybe no one would notice that I’d failed.

  Over time, I’d learned that first reaction wasn’t the best reaction. No good could come of rushing right back out there. I needed to give myself time—time to reflect, to analyze, and to plan a better strategy. I also came to understand that my career wasn’t over, that the stakes of every race weren’t that high. We all have good races and bad races. I couldn’t outrun my mistakes or pretend that they hadn’t happened. I had to learn from them. What was the point of enduring if all you were going to do was repeat the same mistakes and wind up back at the starting line having learned nothing?

  I’d come to think of it like this: We couldn’t ever expect to have a completely pristine, track-free trail of snow to ski on. Those other marks would still be there, showing where our missteps were, where we’d not taken the most efficient line around a turn, but that was okay. We’d eventually settle into a groove and make the fastest progress.

  That morning in 2009, my parents had both gone off to work; Anette was no longer living at home, and I was alone. I decided that I needed to get my body back into its familiar routine. I got out of bed and struggled just to pull on my base layer. It was as if the polyester and spandex had been transformed into some kind of super fabric that resisted my muscles’ efforts to overcome the forces of their friction and resistance. As I pulled and tugged, I sat down on the bed, breathing hard and crying, remembering how someone else’s force had stripped me of my dress, my bra, and my underwear.

  If I felt like my power was diminished now in the simple act of clothing myself, then what had taken place on the night those three men overpowered me? What they had stripped from me couldn’t be measured on a stopwatch. I knew that I would need to achieve a series of victories if I was ever going to reclaim some of what had been taken from me. And in that moment, I realized that getting dressed and going to Budor was going to be the first. I knew that more than my body had been damaged, but that is where the harm had begun, and it was there that I was going to begin to heal.

  The Christmas of 2009, I attacked the trails at Budor with a fury that seared my lungs and strafed my quadriceps and my hamstrings. I beat my way across the snow and the climbs, teeth gritted, snarling and slipping, sometimes spinning in place and then recklessly hurtling downhill once past the apex. For three hours, I burned calories and bridges hoping to put as great a distance between that night and myself as I possibly could. I remember stopping at the crest of one hill, my heart pounding, my chest heaving, nearly every fluid in my body pouring out of my eyes and nose, and thinking that I didn’t want to go back there—not back to Dallas and the scene of the crime and not back home, either. I just wanted to ski on forever, stay lost in those woods and mountains, allowing the cold and the wind to numb me past sensibility and reason.

  Now, four years later, I power up those hills and fly on the downhills and am thrilled with the feeling of speed and being on the edge of control and my limits. I can feel myself, my body—that essential part of me, who I am and how I view myself—returning bit by bit.

  Just as I begin to think about turning around to retrace my path back to the lodge and my car, the path bursts out of the trees. The snow has stopped and the wind has picked up, creating a soft swishing of tree branches that
is the only sound. I look to the west, down the slope and across a snow-covered valley where Norwegian fir trees poke their tips out of the drifts like beard stubble. The sun stands balanced on the distant tree line, a bright glow illuminating the sky, spreading a swath of light toward me. To the east, another light shines. The moon has risen in almost perfect parallel to the sun, a great circle the mottled orange color of an ember coming to life, burnished and silhouetting a stand of trees. I have a choice now. I can turn around and retrace my steps, move toward that setting sun and return home; but instead, I take a deep breath and watch as the frigid air sets fire to my exhalation.

  Settling into my stride, I kick and dig, moving forward slowly and then gradually crossing larger and larger distances with each stride. I am confident that above me, the moon is rising and the stars are beginning to emerge, that those constant beacons will be there to guide me if I lose my way. I am full in the knowledge that I still have miles to go, but that, no matter which direction I choose to travel, many, many more things will make themselves available to get me home safely again.

  I’m certain that my parents will know that not so lille Monika is still outside, doing what I need to do. They and the porridge will be warm and waiting for me when I arrive. But whether or not there is an almond in my bowl, I’ve already won. I’m not back to who I was, but a different, and better, version of the person who walked out of a party and into an early-morning nightmare four years ago.

  —

  DECEMBER 5, 2009, was the most horrific day of my life. I wish that I could say that what I experienced in being kidnapped and raped was an isolated incident of random violence. Sadly, the statistics point to a devastating alternate truth: On the day I was raped, 1,870 other people in the United States endured the horror that I did.