Invisible Girls

by Patti Feuereisen

  I never really slept well because I never knew when she would come and wake me up and tell me to go with “Jason.” Sometimes she’d wake me up and beat me with the belt, or one of her “boyfriends” would come into my bed.

  My brother used to also wake up if he heard footsteps coming toward our room, and he would tell me to go out the window and down the fire escape. I often was roaming the streets in the middle of the night. I have to say, I was a little scared, but I felt safer on the streets than in my bedroom. It was one of these nights at about 3:00 in the morning, I heard my mother screaming that she was coming to my bed to beat me. My brother stood in the doorway and I escaped down the fire escape. Often my brother took a beating for the both of us—he said at least he was not being sexually abused, and he felt so helpless—this was one way he helped me.

  I started walking down the street as I often did. I just walked. The streets were deserted. A van pulled up next to me and a man said, “Get in.” I said no and kept walking. I picked up my pace, saw there was no store open to run into. Before I knew what was happening, a man’s hand was on my shoulder. He shoved my face to the window of the van, another man opened the window and put a gun to my head—I was then shoved into the van. The man with the gun kept the gun to my head, opened my mouth, and stuffed pills down my throat. They raped me in the van and then took me to Philadelphia and put me in a hotel room, where one man after another came in and did things to me that I would love to forget. Because I was drugged up I kind of do forget some things, and because I had already been abused by my “uncle” and other of my mother’s boyfriends, I had already taught myself to “disappear” during the abuse.

  After three days I woke up in a hospital outside of Philadelphia. The next thing I knew, my aunt who had just finished a tour in the army was at my bedside. Because she was in the military, she was able to locate me through a military GPS. I was badly bruised, my breasts and vagina were bruised and aching. My aunt was going back on a tour with the army, so believe it or not I was sent back to my mother’s home.

  Pretty much everyone at school had heard about what happened to me, and also on the streets they already knew my brother and I were not really taken care of. I started to get a reputation as a “ho.” People in the neighborhood said they knew who the thugs were and they could come and get me again. I was smoking a lot of pot at this point and really trying to be numb. More than anything I was afraid that the thugs would come back for me. That’s when I met Darren.

  Darren was in his thirties. He was clean cut and nice—he told me he would protect me. He told me that he knew the thugs and that he could promise to keep them away from me. He told me he would be like a daddy to me—the daddy I never had. He told me I was sweet and pretty and not a “ho.” He was really kind—he took me to dinner at a nice restaurant—he called me, he got me a cell phone.

  After a few weeks he asked if he could be my boyfriend. Looking back now I can see how crazy all this was, but you have to understand, by this point my body was covered with bruises and burns from my mother and the men who abducted me, I was stoned most of the time, I did not really give a shit about anything. Most days I just wanted to disappear. So of course I was happy that Darren was nice to me.

  Then we started “dating.” He told me I was such a “beautiful young flower,” and he wanted to take photos of me. Of course, I was totally taken in and I did let him take photos. A few weeks after that he told me that if I really loved him, I would be with his “friend.” By this time my self-esteem was nonexistent. Someone had called social services again, and my brother and I were placed in another foster home, but I was MIA most of the time.

  Darren put my pictures up on craigslist. He then would drive me to different men’s apartments and they would have sex with me. These men were usually older, some of them were obscene and nasty, but the ones who were cops (lots of cops go to prostitutes) were never abusive. Some of them said I reminded them of their daughters. Yes, that was creepy.

  By this point I had been getting molested for so many years that I had this mental escape route I would use to deal with it. I would transport myself to a Hawaiian spa resort. I would picture myself on a beautiful beach with big palm trees and mangos—I would pick the mangos and eat them. There was beautiful, crystal-clear water—the color of turquoise. I would be in a really nice bathing suit and so would my brother, because he was usually there with me. The very best part would be swimming with the dolphins. My brother and I would be swimming with the dolphins and the dolphins would kiss me and protect me. I would float with them through the water. And then the sun would set. By that time the john would be finished with me.…

  One afternoon I was walking on the street after leaving one john’s apartment—it was a school day—and the police picked me up and took me to the station. They figured it out that I was being prostituted. At first I was really scared—I was fifteen years old, been abused since I cannot even remember the first time, my mother was totally MIA, I had been cutting school all the time, smoking pot, numbing myself out as much as I could.

  I was placed in another foster home and sent to court. A court advocate from GEMS met me there and helped me not go to a detention center. I agreed to go to the program at GEMS and attend the therapy groups with other girls who got out of “the life.” I started sessions with Dr. Patti and began to understand that I did have worth and I had the power to stay healthy and strong and out of “the life.” Then my aunt finished her tour in the army, and she filed papers to be mine and my brother’s foster mother.

  We moved to another neighborhood and moved in with my aunt. I started to catch up with school, I joined lots of clubs, picked up the violin, which is something I had started learning as a small child. I also played the piano by ear. One day I was sitting in the music room at school, playing the piano, and the school orchestra leader came in and recruited me. I love music, and I loved playing with the school orchestra. I also love the energy it takes to do gymnastics—I have been captain of my school’s gymnastics team for the past year.

  I am making my body strong again in positive ways. I have a real job now working at Taco Bell, and I have to say that flipping tacos never felt so good. I wear that corny hat with pride!

  I am healing the wounds that I’ve been trying to cope with. I love having my life. I appreciate each day that I realize I am free. I love knitting, writing, singing, dancing, learning, reading, swimming, doing yoga, and spending time with people I care about. I love making positive connections and going forward with my life. I am really proud that I attended the retreat that Girlthrive sponsored last summer for teen girl survivors of sexual abuse. Dr. Patti ran some groups with us, and it was pretty amazing to be with a group of girls who have been through incest and other kinds of sexual abuse and to believe for the first time that I was sexually abused.

  I did not choose to be a prostitute. I was trapped in a life, then “in the life.” I am beginning to trust myself, to love myself. I will never be trapped again. I can only move forward full force!

  MY THOUGHTS

  We cannot change the culture quickly enough. We have to stop calling girls who are prostitutes whores. We have to start prosecuting pimps and johns. They need to go to jail for sexual abuse. As a culture we need to open our eyes and see when girls are being exploited, and we need to take action. We can write letters to elected officials. But most importantly we need to stop calling these girls hookers with so much judgment and disdain. We need to remember Ruby Rose. We can remember how her mother was there for her until her psychotic breakdown. We can remember how, at the age of eleven, Ruby Rose learned to escape through her bedroom window to prevent another ride in the car to her mother’s “boyfriend’s” dirty apartment where she would be raped “for the rent money.” We can remember that prostitution is sexual abuse.

  PART FOUR

  THE ROAD BACK

  CHAPTER 13

  DIFFERENT PATHS TO HEALING

  All the men who have crossed my path hav
e hurt me, invading the journey I was supposed to be on. I have been tampered with and washed up. I am clearing out a new path now.

  —a twenty-year-old incest and rape survivor

  As we’ve seen, there are many different paths to healing. You’ve heard from many girls by now, and although their experiences vary, each of them told how they were able to move on in their lives once they spoke out about their abuse. This was their primary means to healing. When you release something that you have held deep inside, you feel lighter, you feel hopeful, you let go of a burden that you have been carrying.

  Throughout this book, we have seen how powerful and healing it can be to tell your story, and, as you move through the various feelings, you might want to take some further action. Much of this book is about dealing with your sexual abuse once you have already left your home, because that’s when most girls have their first real opportunity to get some perspective and to heal. As much as I understand how difficult and perhaps impossible it can be to leave home before you are eighteen, one important purpose of this book is to open new pathways for you, pathways you might not have known about before. If you are still living at home, make a list of all the adults you know, and figure out who might take you in, who would support you, and who would help you get away from your abuser. Use your sixth sense. You’ll know if you have the option to leave.

  Trying to move out before you’re eighteen might involve you in a court case, but if you feel you have a good option for getting away from your abuser, you might choose to go ahead anyway. If you are being molested and feel trapped, please know that there are organizations out there that will help you if you choose to leave. Check our Resource Center. I understand that it is so difficult for a girl to leave before she graduates high school and moves out to college or an apartment. But please know you can get out. I have known girls who told and had teachers take them in, neighbors, friends’ parents.

  Beyond telling and getting away, however, there are an awful lot of myths out there about how to move on or get “justice.” People may tell you to report the crime or confront your abuser—or even to forgive him. I don’t necessarily advocate any of these things. I think counseling of some kind can be enormously useful, but the bottom line is that the main way to heal is to find people who will support you, to talk about what happened, and to ground yourself in the reality that the abuse was not your fault, that you have nothing to be ashamed of, and that you deserve great love and happiness in your life. But I would be remiss were I not to at least look at some of the paths that some girls take and to give you some information.

  SHOULD YOU REPORT THE CRIME?

  Throughout this book, we’ve been talking about how important it is to tell someone what happened to you, to choose wisely whom you tell, and to get support. You should know that, no matter what kind of sexual abuse you’ve endured, you may be encouraged to report what happened to the police. That’s not necessarily the kind of telling that is important for your healing. Many girls who have been sexually abused don’t want to get the police involved. They don’t want to press charges and have to face the legal system. And that’s completely understandable.

  Some instances of sexual abuse, especially if they happened in the distant past, would be too hard to prove. When the abuser is a family member, girls are often pressured by their family not to press charges and cause the family embarrassment. Girls also know that they’d need iron wills to be able to withstand all the interviews, get on the witness stand, tell their stories publicly, and undergo brutal cross-examination that dredges up every intimate detail of their life, to make no mention of low prosecution rates. Every girl has to ask herself whether it’s worth reporting the crime in her particular case. For many, the answer will be no, and that is okay.

  Many girls who choose to report end up feeling violated all over again by the criminal justice system. The process can really stink. The one good reason I can think of to report your abuse and press charges is if your abuser is likely to be a danger to other girls. As Pearl tells us in her story in this chapter, for example, she became afraid that her uncle was abusing her younger sister. She stepped forward and told in the hopes that she could stop him.

  Pearl told her guidance counselor about her uncle, and her counselor called the police, as he was required to do. Police came to the school and spoke with Pearl. They also interviewed me, because she had disclosed the abuse to me and given me extensive details. They took my verbal and written word as evidence, and I was considered a witness to the disclosure.

  With the support of her family, Pearl pressed charges against her uncle. An order of protection was issued that prohibited him from coming within ten feet of Pearl. Her uncle then pleaded guilty to the charges, and the case was settled out of court. This was a positive thing for Pearl. Going to court is a very difficult part of the process for a girl—having to face your abuser, tell your story over and over again in detail, and have all the intimate details of your life become public property.

  In Pearl’s uncle’s case, because the abuse had taken place seven years prior to the disclosure, he received only a very light sentence: probation and mandatory counseling for a year. It seems that he never went after Pearl’s sister again, but now other girls have made allegations of sexual abuse against him. Was it worth it for Pearl to report the abuse and press charges against her uncle? Maybe. It did prove to her that her parents were squarely in her corner, and that in itself helped her heal from the abuse. But then there was Garnet, who also reported the abuse; nothing was done because her father managed to convince the police that he was innocent and her sister refused to corroborate the abuse—and then ended up living on the streets as a prostitute.

  I have a client who did report an acquaintance rape to the police. They pressured her to wear a wire and meet with the rapist, and at that meeting he once again attempted to rape her. The police intervened, but even with a witness and good solid proof, this rapist was jailed for only six months.

  And then there is Emily, whom you’ll read about in this chapter through her mother’s story and who, during a custody trial in family court, did report her father’s abuse. The judge allowed his visitation rights to continue—albeit under supervision—until further information could be gathered.

  Many counselors and police detectives will tell you that it’s always best to report the crime. That may serve them and give them useful data. And it may be right for you. But you must never let anyone force you to report abuse. And the people around you should support your choice. If they don’t, remind them that it is your choice. If you think there’s little chance that you can prove that the abuse took place (if it was years ago, or there were no witnesses and you didn’t undergo a medical exam), you have to ask yourself what is to be gained by reporting. Only you can make the right choice for you. I feel the same way about your confronting your abuser. If you don’t want to, don’t. This is about your healing and no one else’s.

  All that said, the criminal justice system is far more responsive to and respectful of women now than it was, say, thirty years ago. It is not, however, strong enough in protecting females. Women are still subjected to a misogynistic culture. And girls and women of color have the added intersectional problem of being black or brown and a woman; thus, they suffer racism and sexism. One of my clients, a beautiful, strong African American, nineteen years old, went to the police to report her biological father for incest. She was convinced to sign a waiver. The waiver said she would not press legal charges against her father if given an order of protection then and there. She told me that the detectives were male and white. And this was right outside of Newark, New Jersey, an integrated urban community! If you decide that prosecuting is a part of speaking your truth and healing, then use the criminal justice system well. Be prepared, have advocates, and know that, no matter what happens in court, you have spoken your truth and it was not your fault. The legal route is certainly not for everyone. Only you can decide if it’s right for you. The Resou
rce Center at the back of this book has more information.

  SHOULD YOU CONFRONT YOUR ABUSER?

  You fat fuck of a blood-sucking villain. The time has come for me to squash my mosquitoes, and you, buddy, are the first to go.

  —a seventeen-year-old rape survivor

  This quote is from a poem in a rape survivor’s journal. She never confronted the rapist, but she sure is confrontational in her writing, and that has been a huge factor in her healing. There are many types of confrontation. The most important thing is that you confront, in your own mind, the truth that your abuser is the guilty party.

  Many girls ask whether they should confront their abuser directly. My short answer is no.

  That said, if you somehow end up in the court system, either by choice or because your parents insist on it, you will be forced to see your abuser in court, to look at him and speak about what happened. You may have been told or read somewhere that confronting your abuser, in person, in a letter, in a phone call, will help you heal. That has not been my experience at all. Confronting your abuser could have almost nothing to do with healing. I have seen many cases where girls were pushed to confront their abusers and it only hurt them more. If you choose to confront your abuser, never do it to get an apology or response from him. Only do it because you want to get it out of your system. His response will likely disappoint you. Sometimes it makes you feel retraumatized. I think it’s simply a fallacy that, by telling the abuser what he did to you and airing your feelings, you will somehow feel better. Much of the time your abuser will just deny everything anyway. It took more than 170 brave girls to confront their abuser in a court of law in the Dr. Nassar case. There is always comfort in numbers, yet most cases may not have that many survivors coming forward. This could be why incest is the least confronted or reported crime.