Then he told me that my reporting would likely not have any effect on anything because my rape had happened so long ago. And because the location was unclear, his department wouldn’t be able to tell if the university had responsibility for it or not. I knew he was talking about Clery stuff. He didn’t mean to be harsh. But I still felt like I’d been gut-punched.
My whole point in going through the reporting process was to get it on the books that a rape happened, perpetrated by a UNC student. But nope, it turns out that my coming forward was likely all for nothing. Hearing his words was really demoralizing. I’d dredged up the horrible memories for nothing. I’d shared them with this stranger for nothing. I felt weak, and I felt totally naked.
Depression set in. My suicide attempt was a few months later.
Was my depression triggered by the experience of reporting my rape?
I can’t speak to that. I do know that I wrote about the experience of reporting my rape shortly after I reported, and that the experiences of reporting and then writing took a lot out of me. The piece was “Being Counted: Reporting My Rape at a School Under Title IX Investigation,” published on The Toast. After writing that piece, I was a wreck for a week.
Later, I wrote another piece for The Toast about attempting suicide, “A Mother’s Suicide Attempt and the Guilty Burden of Statistics.” As with the first piece, writing this second piece was very draining.
So why write?
I think it’s important to talk about breaking taboos. The taboos around both those topics—rape and suicide—need to be broken. I’m an activist and writer, and I wanted to help other people by sharing my story. That’s why.
How can the Title IX offices at colleges and universities improve?
They could pull a page from rape crisis centers that take a holistic approach to caring for survivors. Forty percent of people who have experienced sexual assault will develop serious psychiatric disabilities as a result of their assault, and those people often have no resources.
But the campus Title IX office has two goals: to protect the university and to make sure the university complies with Title IX. Therefore, that office’s ultimate goal is not to help rape survivors if helping rape survivors doesn’t align with those two goals—and often the two do not align.
Title IX offices often send survivors on their way even when survivors need more services than that office can provide. There’s no follow-up, no connection between the Title IX office and Title II, which is the disability office.
Title IX offices need to be proactive. If you made it all the way to the Title IX office, they should make sure to add a simple question: “Do you mind if we have someone from the disability support office give you a call?” That student could get a call in two weeks. If it turns out that she hasn’t left her room in two weeks, someone will know there’s a problem.
A trained person could go to her room and provide guidance. Don’t wait until she’s flunked out of her classes. Give her a two-week phone call, three-month phone call, six-month phone call. We don’t think about how trauma is waiting in the wings. Which speaks to suicide.
* * *
Give her a two-week phone call, three-month phone call, six-month phone call.
* * *
After I kissed my children good-bye, dressed in dark clothes, and walked into traffic to die, I kept my suicide attempt a secret, from my husband, from everybody, from my amazing psychiatrist. I had to ask myself, “Why are you keeping a secret from people who take care of you and love you?”
I sat down and figured out why, and then told everybody: I had been afraid. I’d been afraid my doctor would commit me involuntarily. I didn’t want cops to show up at my house with shackles. And that happens. So I said to my doctor, “I don’t trust you to not commit me,” and she said, “All right, here’s a plan.” And we made a plan for the future, for when I’m depressed, so I won’t be afraid to tell her things.
I was afraid my husband wouldn’t love me anymore. And that sounds so stupid to say out loud now. I’d thought, “If I’m dead, he can find someone who is less trouble than I am, who is a better mom and a better wife.” That’s a depressed brain’s thoughts.
Now we talk about my depressed and suicidal feelings. He can get more proactive without me being annoyed. We struck a deal: I don’t get to be pissed off when he asks about my moods, and he promises to ask more often.
I’ve told him, “As soon as I get these feelings in the slightest sense, I want to tell you right away.”
You have to pull the fire alarm right away. If you wait until later, it gets worse. Worse and worse.
As soon as you have that first ugly thought, pull the alarm, tell somebody. But you have to have a team and you have to have a plan. People you trust. A support system.
I’ve thought about keeping my suicide attempt a secret from my sons. Would that protect them? Now I think not. I tried to die because there was no one I could tell. And there was no one I could tell because suicide was taboo.
And I feel that removing the taboo-ness will help solve the problem.
If one of my kids is in high school or college and hears that a girl was raped, I hope his reaction is, “Who’s helping her? Who took her to the hospital?” I want him to run toward her, with a gentle, helping spirit, instead of backing away with disgust. They can learn that through me. It’s my job as their mom to teach them.
Someday, their father and I are going to have that conversation with them. And when I tell them about my rape, I hope the message they learn is about having empathy, and that kindness is a rare and precious commodity.
Some days I go to bed a “survivor” and wake up a “victim”; some days I go to bed a “victim” and wake up a “survivor.”
—Kamilah Willingham
Music affects us in ways prose cannot. Some of us associate certain songs with times in our lives, whether a romantic relationship, a high school graduation, or a breakup. The same is true for many survivors of sexual assault and abuse. Music helped get us through times when we felt isolated or needed to feel empowered. For example, one song that was on repeat for hours before we filed the complaint about the mishandling of our cases was “Titanium” by David Guetta, sung by Sia. As survivors started connecting to one another, we started to share the songs and playlists that helped get us through our processing and healing. Here is one example. You can also find it on Apple Music as “Songs for Survival” by Nastassja Schmiedt.
Songs for Survival
A PLAYLIST
A. LEA ROTH AND NASTASSJA SCHMIEDT
1. “Put Your Records On”—Corinne Bailey Rae
2. “Green Garden”—Laura Mvula
3. “I Need”—Maverick Sabre
4. “Til It Happens to You”—Lady Gaga
5. “If I Ever Feel Better”—Phoenix
6. “Hold On”—Good Charlotte
7. “Move Along”—All-American Rejects
8. “Let It Be” (long version)—Carol Woods, Timothy T. Mitchum
9. “Private Party”—India. Arie
10. “That’s Alright”—Laura Mvula
11. “On My Way”—Axwell Ingrosso
12. “Battle Cry”—Angel Haze feat. Sia
13. “Q.U.E.E.N.”—Janelle Monáe feat. Erykah Badu
14. “Hate On Me”—Jill Scott
15. “i”—Kendrick Lamar
16. “Powerful”—Empire Cast feat. Jussie Smollett and Alicia Keys
17. “I Choose”—India. Arie
18. “Fight Song”—Rachel Platten
19. “Heroes (We Could Be)”—Alesso feat. Tove Lo
20. “Sun Is Shining”—Axwell Ingrosso
I Am a Phoenix
BRENDA TRACY
I was born in Alaska in 1973. My parents divorced when I was one and a half, and my dad stayed in Alaska. I mainly grew up in the Salem, Oregon, area. My mom remarried when I was two. I went to Alaska every summer until I was twelve—ro
de the plane by myself, starting in the first grade. I carried a backpack with crayons and stuff. My dad remarried and had two boys.
My stepdad and my mom fought a lot. My mom yelled a lot. I was an only child, so I spent a lot of time in my room. I had a TV, cool wallpaper, and lots of toys. I was physically taken care of but emotionally neglected.
When I was nine, my stepdad got sober. He told me, “I’m sorry. I have a sickness, and I’m going to get help.” My mom and stepdad started going to AA, and to church and to Al-Anon. And they started being involved parents.
I had been a latchkey kid, but our next-door neighbor, a high school girl named Amy, became my babysitter.
Amy had a boyfriend who would sneak over after my parents left. One night something woke me, and I saw Amy’s boyfriend standing next to my bed. He tore the blankets off and lay on top of me. I had on a long flannel nightdress that buttoned to my neck and had ruffles. He tried to rip the nightgown off me and it wouldn’t come off because it was buttoned. I remember extreme burning pain and not being able to breathe because he was lying on top of me and I was pinned inside my nightgown. To this day if I get stuck in something I’m wearing, I panic. I don’t know where Amy was. I don’t remember him saying anything during the rape. I was very afraid of him. He lived down the street. There were times when I walked home from the bus, he’d be standing in the window watching me walk by. His expression was like, “You better not say anything or I will kill you.”
Somewhere along the line, I decided the rape didn’t happen. We moved out of that neighborhood when I was about eleven. I thought, “I don’t see him anymore, so I can be a normal kid. I don’t have to be afraid anymore.” But I was still afraid.
When I was twelve, two things happened that brought it all back. The first was that I was riding my bike down the street and a car slowed as it came toward me and I looked and it was him. We locked eyes for a second, and I knew it was him and I panicked. I looked behind me and I saw brake lights. I rode home as fast as I could. When I got home I broke a Coke bottle and started furiously scratching my wrists and my inner forearms. The cuts ranged from superficial to a little deeper than that; bleeding, though not enough to require medical attention. But I felt like my body was exploding. I didn’t know what to do.
* * *
We locked eyes for a second, and I knew it was him and I panicked.
* * *
Shortly after that, I saw a movie on TV called Something About Amelia, with Ted Danson. In the movie, Amelia was being molested by her father. Amelia had the same type of nightgown that I’d had when I was nine, and it triggered me. My friend across the street came over and I was crying and upset and I told her I’d been raped. So she brought her mom over, and then her mom told my mom. The next day my mom called the Salem police and made a report. I remember thinking this was a big, big deal; my life was gonna change.
A few days later my mom said, “Brenda, I’m sorry, nothing can be done. The statute of limitations is up.”
After that, I became an angry, rebellious child. I started running away. I went back to that place I had learned to be in: alone, by myself, and It Didn’t Happen. School was where people loved me—the teachers loved me. I did well in my classes. I tried to excel where I was accepted and loved. I kept my chin down. I played basketball and volleyball.
But there was something very sexualized about me from a young age. A family member who I saw once in a while was very inappropriate with me from when I was two until the age of five. I had a very warped sense of what love was.
In my senior year of high school, I met Antwan. I felt like this was it. I was in love. We had sex right away. It was the first time I’d ever had consensual sex. I immediately got pregnant. I wanted my baby; I wanted to feel that connection of love.
I got really sick during my first trimester. Started skipping school. Didn’t tell anyone. But eventually the school called my mom and said, “We’re dropping Brenda from the roster.”
My mom said, “Are you pregnant?” I said yes, and she and my stepdad started crying. I told them I wanted to keep the baby, and they said, “Okay, we will help you.” I couldn’t believe it. I thought they would be angry and hate me.
I was supposed to graduate in June 1992.
One of my teachers was angry with me for getting pregnant and wouldn’t let me make up the work I missed during my first trimester. I was half a credit short of graduating. They allowed me to walk, but I didn’t really graduate.
I had my son Darius in November.
Antwan stayed around. He drank and did drugs and would get violent when he drank. He wasn’t violent when he was sober but, when he drank would kind of torture me. He’d keep me awake all night, kick me or pinch me or pull my hair. He used to bite me, terrorize me. But I felt like I had to marry him. We got married when I was nineteen. The night before, I cried and cried.
One night he was passed out, and he was gurgling. Vomit was coming out of his mouth. I remember thinking, “I could just let him die.” I was really contemplating that, and then I heard, “Mommy, what’s wrong with Daddy?” Darius was standing over Antwan. So I ran over and turned Antwan onto his side.
I had another son with Antwan, Devante. I didn’t want Darius to be alone. I had grown up alone. I thought, “Maybe if he has a brother he’ll be okay.”
The final straw was when Antwan threw a remote at me, and Darius, who was three or four, said, “Daddy, don’t hurt my mommy!” Antwan looked at Darius for a second, then said, “Fuck it, I’m out of here.” Darius looked at me and said, “You bitch, I hate you!” He was saying what he’d heard his dad say.
I was done with Antwan. I packed and moved in with my parents. I was twenty-two. I got a restraining order.
I went into a depression. I had two children, a failed marriage, no high school diploma, no job, and I was on welfare. Then I met a friend, Karmen, and we wanted to hang out and have fun, so we started going to clubs. I needed to be in control, so I didn’t do drugs or drink, but I was promiscuous; my attitude was “I’m going to use you. I’m going to use you before you use me.”
* * *
I went into a depression. I had two children, a failed marriage, no high school diploma, no job, and I was on welfare.
* * *
In October 1997 I met this football player, Anthony. He went to Oregon State. And we had an immediate connection. I stopped sleeping around. Anthony graduated. Then in June 1998, when I was twenty-four, I went with my friend Karmen to visit her boyfriend’s apartment. The boyfriend was one of Anthony’s teammates. There were five guys in all there. Karmen went into the back bedroom with her boyfriend. The other four guys drugged me and I was gang-raped, for hours.
The next morning I woke up on the floor, a blanket from the couch halfway thrown over me. I had a used condom stuck to my stomach, chips all over me, dried vomit in my hair, and gum stuck in there, too. I felt like a piece of garbage.
One of the men walked up and said, “Are you going to suck me off now?” I said no, and then Karmen and I left, and I fell apart.
Karmen called my mom, and my mom came to my side.
We went to the women’s crisis center. The nurse there suggested I go to the hospital. I was in a lot of pain. We went to the Salem hospital. Mom was driving, holding her hands at ten and two, so stressed, and I remember looking at her and thinking there was no safety for me on this earth and that I hurt people. In that moment I decided the only answer was death.
I reasoned that my sons couldn’t love me or respect me or be proud of me and that I brought my parents only pain, and that all I had ever known was abuse and pain. So I resolved that it was okay to die, that it would be better for everyone without me. I felt really calm. This was the answer to all that pain and suffering. I made this decision on the car ride to the hospital.
As a last wish for my mom, I agreed to do the rape kit. Jenny was my nurse. She didn’t look at me like I was gross. She was very warm, and kind, and she just looked at me like she lov
ed me. I didn’t understand how someone could look at me like I was beautiful. And in that moment I remember asking God, “What is the point of me being here?” And He said, “I want you to be a nurse and take care of your sons.” Getting that answer was so deep and so profound.
During the rape kit exam I started asking Jenny, “So how did you become a nurse?” We ping-ponged back and forth during the entire exam. She’d pluck a pubic hair and I’d ask, “So where did you go to school?” She’d swab me and I’d ask, “How much does nursing school cost?”
Jenny didn’t know I was suicidal, but by the time we were done with the exam, that had changed. By the time I got back into the car, I had decided I wanted to live. I turned to my mom and said, “Mom, you know what?” She was exhausted. We’d been there for hours. I said, “I’m gonna be a nurse.”
Since I had decided to live, I wanted to press charges, so I needed to make a statement. We left the hospital and drove to the police and I made a statement. The next day, I pointed out the men and identified the apartment. The police arrested all four of them. They were booked.
The hospital report said, “This appears to be nonconsensual.”
People started taking sides. Karmen showed up at my house and essentially said, “I will testify against you if you go to court.” We never talked again. Anthony decided he wanted nothing to do with the trial. He said his friend didn’t deserve to go to prison for twenty years.
I received two death threats over the phone. An older gentleman said my kids and I would be hurt. All four of the men arrested were athletes. One was recruited to UC Berkeley, two were from Oregon State, and the other guy played for a community college. They were all football players. The DA said it was a “he said, she said,” and that there would be four separate trials. Based on that, and the backlash, and the fact I was traumatized and just wanted to go to nursing school, two weeks later I dropped the charges.
We Believe You: Survivors of Campus Sexual Assault Speak Out Page 20