The Secret Lives of Hyapatia Lee

by Hyapatia Lee

  PLEASE GOD, NOT AGAIN!

  I worked in the Black Curtain Dinner Theater next door to my apartment from 10:00 in the morning until 6:00 at night, eating my lunch at my desk while answering the phone. For this I was paid $15.00 a day. At 7:30 Monday through Wednesday, I had rehearsal until 10:30 PM. On Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, we had an 8:00 curtain time for whatever show we were performing. Sundays were spent rehearsing from 2:30 to 5:00 and performing again at 8:00. For my work on stage I was paid $35 for the weekend. Obviously, I couldn’t really afford to live anywhere other than in Randy Galvin’s cheap apartment.

  There were plumbing problems in the kitchen. Randy always did the maintenance on his property himself and at around 6:00 one morning, he came in to fix the sink while I still slept. When he left, he forgot to lock the door.

  I awoke with a pair of orange-handled scissors at my throat. At first, I closed my eyes and thought it was a dream, but when I opened them again, the scene was still the same. A black man was standing by my bed with the scissors in his hand. I couldn’t breath at first; it was such a shock to me.

  He told me to take my clothes off. I tried to grab the phone but he cut the wire. I screamed and he put his hand over my mouth. He held me tight. I couldn’t get away. I kept staring at the furniture, wishing I had a gun and a chance to use it. I fixated on the clock, watching the minutes slowly go by. He kissed my left breast during it, although I never could understand why a rapist would kiss anything. When it was over, he announced it.

  He pulled me to the kitchen where my purse was and spied my car keys.

  “Give me your car keys.”

  “Sure, go a head and take it, you won’t get far.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It doesn’t run. Someone stole the battery out of it last week.” I lied.

  “Give me your money.”

  I showed him my wallet. It was empty except for seven one-dollar bills.

  When he left, he made me promise to not call the police for five minutes. He said he would be watching as he ran away and that if I were not outside watching him, he would come back and kill me. Of course, I locked the door immediately after he left and called the police.

  I gave them a complete description and they brought several men they had picked up on the street for me to look at, but none of them were the one who had raped me. They dusted for fingerprints and got several great sets off of a glass he touched. They took my only set of sheets as evidence, never to be returned. They tore my apartment upside down. There were men going in and out and asking me all kinds of rude questions.

  Detective Sergeant Judd Greene was the one assigned to my case. He was more sensitive than the others. They all insinuated I knew this man and had let him in. I had honestly never seen this guy before in my life. Not on the streets around the theater, not in any of the stores I frequented, not in the audience of any of my performances that I could tell, nowhere had I see this man before, to my knowledge. I certainly never dated him or let him in to my home!!!

  Judd said I should go to the hospital so they could gather semen as evidence. The bookkeeper at the theater, a lovely lady named Jo, took me, as I was in no shape to drive. She was a good friend and she waited with me in the emergency room.

  It was just another insult to the injury to go through the humiliating experience of being examined for semen. I still can’t have a gynecological exam today without thinking of it. The nurses were as kind as they could be, but no one seemed to want to believe that I had been innocently sleeping in my bed and that I did not know this man. It made them feel so vulnerable to think that it was in no way the victim’s fault. They didn’t want to believe that there was nothing I did to provoke this. If they couldn’t find any fault in my actions, then they could see that this could also happen to them. That made them feel too uncomfortable, it was easier to distance them from me somehow, even if that meant not believing me or making me feelat fault. This is how all victims of rape and incest get the feeling that they themselves are guilty. It is an often unspoken attitude and tone of voice filled with assumptions and disbelief that further cripples the victim, often hurting them more than the original injury.

  After it was all over, I got dressed, and to my horror, the zipper on my pants broke! Now I had to walk around with my pants undone! I was very thankful that I had a sweater I could hold in front of me to cover it up. I went back out to meet up with Jo and leave, but they wouldn’t let me go yet. It was standard procedure for all rape victims to visit a therapist first. I had to wait in line.

  As Jo and I sat there waiting, we started watching the crowd and trying to talk about anything that distracted us from the painfully obvious reason we were there. A tall, muscular man with long dark hair and skin came down the hall towards our spot.

  “Look at him, wouldn’t that be great if he was your therapist.” She said.

  “Yeah, he’s real cute.” I tried to respond politely. I could think about it and realize he was good looking, but at the time all men looked very ugly to me.

  It turned out he was to be my therapist, and we went to a private room to talk. He asked me to tell him what had happened today. I had repeated it so many times for the cold, callused police officers, to Jo and to the disbelieving nurses, it had become a tape I played, trying to separate myself from the emotion as a self-preservation technique. It hurt too much to feel this kind of pain any more.

  John Cochran listened as I talked, nodding politely, and then he said something that changed my world. He rattled me to the core. Acting sincerely interested, he asked, “How does that make you feel?”

  It took the wind out of me. I had been running from my emotions for so many years. No one had ever asked me how something made me feel. Even my grandmother, although I knew she cared, never asked me how I felt about things!!!

  I broke down and cried for a long time before I could answer. I explained how I felt, like I was back in Florida, like I would never escape being at the sexual whims of some demon, like I wanted to die to escape the pain I couldn’t bury anymore.

  We talked for a long time. I felt bad for Jo, waiting. When I left, I had an appointment to see him in the morning and a prescription for Valium. I knew I couldn’t sleep in my apartment, I never wanted to sleep again unless I could be assured I would never wake up, so he had helped me call a girlfriend of mine named Linda Leonard, and she agreed to help me through the night.

  I didn’t want to tell my grandmother for two reasons. These were mainly the same reasons I didn’t tell her about my stepfather. I was afraid she would be like all the other people I had told and judge me to be at fault somehow. I also did not want to hurt her and I knew, just like I would be hurt if something happened to my children, she would be hurt too. It was bad enough that I had been hurt; I didn’t want my perpetrators, both my stepfather and the man who broke into my apartment, to have the satisfaction of hurting anyone else by their demented actions. Naturally, this is not possible, as what I have been through effects my every action from now on and my children and their children and everyone else I have intimate contact with will be touched by this.

  There was a man who lived across the street from the Black Curtain Dinner Theater in another one of Randy Galvin’s Buildings. His name was Johnny Hamilton and he was in his sixties. I stayed with him the second night after it happened, and from then on for several months.

  I was seeing John every day or every other day now. My sessions with him lasted hours and it was very painful. I recalled what had happened in Florida, memories of my stepfather’s repeated rapes I had to suppress in order to get through life. When the man broke into my apartment and I was raped again, I could no longer live a normal life. I had to spend every piece of energy just getting from one breath to the next. I went from Valiums to Triavil and Meserill, and Donatol Extentab for my constantly upset stomach. The first two drugs made me numb.

  Having my senses dulled, I was supposed to be able to get through life better, not feeling the
depth of my pain. I really was having a hard time functioning at all. I was like a zombie.

  I spent days in the police station going through mug shots of sex offenders and other criminals. None of them looked like the man in my apartment. The fingerprints are only used as evidence if someone is caught. There was no way at the time to take a fingerprint and find it’s owner out of a haystack. The differences in them are very subtle and hard to see. Detective Greene told me my case was being put on the back burner. They never caught the man who broke into my apartment and my stepfather has never faced justice either. I was told that not only was it very difficult to go after my step-father because of crossing state lines, the statute of limitations was almost up. It is hard to believe there is any justice in this world sometimes.

  John Cochran suggested I move into a halfway house called Helios. It wasn’t far from where I had been raped, in fact, just a block or two down the street. I could have a room there. John was a member of the staff and it would be a good environment to help me heal. I was often upset and there would be help for me there 24 hours a day.

  I tried to do what I had done before, ignore it and go on. I tried to bury all the emotions by keeping myself busy. I continued to plan for my trip to New York City and attend rehearsals for the play “Barefoot In The Park”. I had just been given the lead role. Eventually it was obvious I couldn’t do it. I was afraid to go out in public or to drive. I couldn’t concentrate on my lines. I wanted to just give up on everything and die. John convinced me to give one last thing a try, New York.

  I had another girlfriend named Linda who had moved to New York a few years back for the same reasons that brought me there. She had been with several agencies and set up an appointment for me with one of the best. I would only be there for a week, so I wanted to make the most of my time. I needed to see if there was work there that could keep me busy and help me run away from my problems in Indiana. I was very grateful for Linda and the help she was giving me. She even went with me to her agent’s office.

  On our way, Linda offered me a little advice. Her voice grew very serious as she started her conversation.

  “I know you’ve done a lot of plays, musicals, commercials and I’ve seen your portfolio. Some of those reviews in there really prove you can act, I don’t have to tell you that. But here, you are a dime a dozen. Every pretty talented girl comes to New York to make it big, and I’m not saying that you don’t have a chance; I just want you to be prepared. You’re only 17!”

  “Well I don’t expect instant success.”

  “I know.” Linda said, “I mean, I want you to know what you’re getting into. Look, you’re young, pretty, and talented, you’re going to get many offers that might offend you, but to succeed in this business, you’re going to have to compromise yourself. It’s just a matter of how much. I did it for a while, you know what I mean?”

  I really wasn’t quite sure. Linda laid it straight on the line.

  “You know, the casting couch. A little sex with the agent and he gets you into the audition. The union has everything tied up. You can’t be in an Actor’s Equity production unless you are an Equity member, but you can’t join until you’ve been in TWO productions! And all auditions are open to members only. Catch 22.”

  I had already been informed about this situation many times over from my friends who had gone out to “make it” and came back with their sad stories. Her words scared me so much I didn’t even attend any auditions while I was there. I was so afraid. I only left her apartment twice, with Linda right by my side, to go to the grocery store and to see her agent.

  Linda and I walked into the sleazy looking room of an old Manhattan Building. The place smelled it’s age. Behind a partition of glass in another room was a man in his early forties talking on the phone. His long sleeves were rolled up and the first two buttons on his shirt were undone. He never seemed to notice us.

  “May I help you?”

  I didn’t see the receptionist at her small desk to the side. Linda spoke for me and we were told to be seated. She went in to tell the man we were there.

  After a few minutes I was told I could go in. I don’t think I’d ever been so nervous as I walked over to his office door and entered the room. This was what I had been working for all my life! Finally I was knocking on the door of opportunity in the big time and the door opened. Now it was all up to me.

  “Have a seat. What’s this?” He motioned to my portfolio.

  “This is my portfolio. Resume, 8X10 glossy, and reviews from things I have done.” I handed it to him and he began to leaf through it. Much to my surprise, he even took time to read a few parts.

  “I’ve been in over 72 different plays and musicals since I was 12.”

  “And how old are you now?”

  “I’m 17.”

  He looked up at me and gave me a faint smile, studying me, and then went back to my portfolio.

  After a while, he said, “You’ve got a lot of credits here, seems like you’ve got some talent, and you’re pretty enough, a little short, but we can work around that. I think I might be able to do something with you.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears! My heart was flying!

  “The hardest part about this business is getting the audition. You don’t have your Equity card yet, do you?”

  I admitted that I wasn’t a member of the stage actors unionyet.

  “Well then you probably know how it goes.”

  I nodded my head.

  “I’m having a little get together with the producer of a new Broadway musical this Saturday night. It might be a good opportunity for you to get to know some important people. If you two get to be friends, you’ll have an open door. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Linda will explain it to you, she’s a great girl. She’ll tell you what to expect.”

  “Thank you very much. This is great!” I was so excited.

  “You’re welcome. I think you could get some work. Look, you got my number, call me tomorrow and I’ll give you the instructions on how to get there and at what time.”

  I was excited, happy and scared to death all at the same time.

  On the way out of the building I relayed the whole story to Linda. She didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic as I had hoped she would be. The rest of the way to her home, for the most part, was spent in silence.

  When we got there, her father with whom she shared the apartment was out grocery shopping with Linda’s two-year-old son.

  “I’m glad they’re not back yet. I think we should talk. This thing Saturday night, I don’t know if you fully understand the situation. You’re so young and I’d hate for you to do something you might regret for the rest of your life.”

  I started to think about it. The ugly, sleazy office, the agent that went with it, and me, locked together intimately, having sex, for an audition. Then the producer, what would he look like? Would I have to service him too? Linda seemed to think so. Would I have any control at all in a situation like that? Considering what I had just been through, this was a guaranteed ticket to the booby hatch.

  I never called the agent back and I certainly didn’t go to the party on Saturday night. Instead, I went back home to Indiana.

  I ran into some of my old circle of acting friends and relayed my experience to them.

  “Don’t feel so bad kid, look at Joyce Dewitt! She’s been out in LA for about 5 years now and she’s still not doing anything!” Joyce used to do shows at the Black Curtain. ‘Tou could’ve stayed and played the games and still not gotten anywhere.” Randy was trying to be nice.

  “Randy’s right,” said CJ, “Why give in to those fat old producers for nothing?”

  I thought that was rather ironic, coming from one of the ladies who used her own sexual prowess on Randy himself to get parts, though time and time again the critics panned her. Cynthia Johns was a very beautiful woman, a stunning blond with a perfect figure and although she didn’t want anyone to know it,p
lenty of brains to match. She made a very good living by dancing at a local gentleman’s club and was a Miss Nude World 1970something. I had been down to see her strip after rehearsals with some of the other actors and actresses. They were always sneaking me into bars of all kinds.

  This last blow in New York had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. I had nothing left. There were no reserves of energy or hope for the future. I had nothing to care about, no reason to go on. No hope. All my dreams had been shattered, my desire to live, totally destroyed. I stopped seeing all my friends. I slept, stared into space listened to sad records and occasionally tried to kill myself and that was about all there was to my existence. I didn’t care about anything anymore.

  John saw me for free because I was in such a financial state. He worked under the supervision of a psychiatrist. I had sessions with either John or Dr. Koons almost daily. I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD).

  PTSD is commonly associated with war veterans. It happens when people have been exposed to repeated unpredictable acts of violence. It makes people forget where they are and go back to a dangerous time in their minds. They act as if they were in that violent situation. It is not an uncommon phenomenon, this often happens when people live for extended periods of time in a “war zone”, either literally or figuratively.

  There have been several movies and television shows about Multiple Personality Disorder, but it is not very common. This happens when the psyche is living in an unbearable situation as a natural defense mechanism. The personality that takes over gives the other a rest. The original personality usually doesn’t remember anything that happened while the other personality or personalities, took over.

  There were many times at Helios when I would find myself standing somewhere and not know how I had gotten there. It would be night, when just a moment before, it was day. John encouraged me to write in a journal as often as I possibly could. Not only would this help me to uncover hidden memories and issues for us to work on in therapy, but he thought it would help me stay in the here and now.