Where In Hell Am I? - Chapter 9 and the Conclusion (For Now)

posted May 18, 2012, 4:35 PM by Terrence Moss   [ updated May 18, 2012, 4:35 PM ]

Chapter 9

There are a lot of reasons to not kill yourself -- family, friends, the painful process of passing charcoal (which sounds as fun as it is). I know now that the Judge did what she did because of what the law defines as a threat. The fact that there is not something else in place to defend people from harassment is a failure of our system. To me it’s just bending the rules on free speech.

Did the judge and bailiff do for me all they could by putting Ed in the hot seat with an understanding to never contact me again? Yes.

Did I feel like it was defeat and take it completely the wrong way with almost really bad consequences? Yes.   

I have had time to think about just how screwed up our whole system is. To most people no means no and the bad guys get put away. If a person is drunk or unconscious, it is considered rape. If they are unable to consent, it is rape. If they are handicapped or old or unable to defend themselves even from someone they know, it is rape.

Rape as defined by our justice system….

If you are white, black, Latino, Asian, pacific islander, middle eastern, Inuit, native American, or other; it is not rape.
If you have ever had consensual sex, sexted, flirted with or looked at the person who raped you, it is not rape.
If you know the name of the person who raped you, it is not rape.
If you don’t know the name of the person who raped you, what do you expect me to do about it?
If you were unable to consent it is not rape, you put yourself in this position, what do you expect me to do about it?
If you were wearing clothing, no matter how much or how little, it is not rape.
If you were drugged, you were probably having a good time and it is not rape.
If you were dancing or moving about in any way, it is not rape.
If you were breathing, it is not rape.
If you are a woman, it is not rape.  
If you are a man, you can’t be raped so what do you want me to do about it?

Can I have my paycheck now since I just solved all these rapes?

80% of rapists are serial rapists. This number is probably higher.

10% of rape cases are found to be untrue. Really? Like how these detectives are saying mine is? I have to wonder if this percentage should be smaller.

Out of 100 rapes, only one rapist will spend any time in jail. And that might even be limited to only one day.

Murder is considered the highest violent committed crime in our country, with rape a close second.

Most murders are committed by someone who the victim knew. If 80% of murderers were serial killers, there would be militias forming all over our country. But rape? Well, lets treat 80% of the cases like the minority 10% that will be unfounded or thought to be a fabrication.

Lets face it, we are a rape-friendly country. We help rapists. That’s the bottom line. We do. But because the men of our country won’t or can’t help us, we are left to be raped and carry on. If more men felt the humiliation of warm blood and cum dripping down your thigh and a cop said you’re mistaken, more men might be willing to help us women put these serial rapists away. They prey on ones they have made contact with. That’s how they operate. Of course we know them. That’s their plan. Yet, we are held responsible for their plan. I’m not the one who walked out of my house with date rape drugs in my pocket. Naylor was. But I am blamed for not knowing what he was carrying.   

Chapter 10

It’s Monday after my attempt. It wasn’t even 9 am when my phone rings. It’s the psychologist from the rape treatment center. She doesn’t think in light of my recent attempt that she should start with me since it is a limited amount of visits. She knows of other wonderful resources that might be available to me. Like I haven’t tried to find a psychologist on my own.

I haven’t heard back from the Victim’s Fund and my insurance won’t budge on my co-pay. I can’t afford $400 in therapy on my own in the first month alone and no one can help me to change that. Every time someone talks to me about therapy, the first thing they talk about is the fucking cost. The money. That’s all they want is the money. Now this person is going to throw me back into the same broken system.

She says she knows therapists that will hold off on charging until Victim’s Fund goes through. Oh yeah, well if the fucktard detective has anything to do with providing information to the Victims Fund, I will be denied. Then what? I’m stuck with all the back pay.

I’m not sure if you have heard, but I tried to kill myself recently. If you have ever heard of a thing called suicide it usually stems from a thing called not being able to cope/deal with shit. Now this. A free counseling session that’s pulled out from under me the day of. Fuck you. Why, because you weren’t getting compensated either? Are you going to do all the leg work lady? Are you going to call my insurance, and these other psychologists, and get me an appointment today? Are you going to get it for free no matter what with no promise of pay later in case Victim’s Fund doesn’t go through?

Because that was your job. Free counseling until my Victims Fund comes in. Six fucking sessions you just blew me off on. Something to be able to talk to a professional to help me come up with a plan to cope. But your not going to do any of that and at the end of the day you go home and open your bottle of wine and give yourself a pat on the back for helping these poor defenseless rape victims.

I am damn sick of this place giving me false hope. I never got that legal advice. The lawyer was out of town. I never got a counseling session before court. The psychologist was sick. Is there only one psychologist working there and there is no one who can take her place when she is sick? Was my advocate sitting next to me in court the day of even when I asked her to? No. Even after all the times she has said, “I’m your advocate, call me for dealing with the detectives or court.”

Did she even mention it when she called me back with the disappointing news? No legal advice, no therapy, no advocate.

Guess what. I’m not asking you to be my friend, I’m asking you to do what you say you will. Stop giving me false hope, because honestly, I can tell you right now its doing a lot worse damage than if you just shut up and fucked off. Why does everyone involved in this think there is no accountability? That I’m supposed to do everyone else’s fucking job for them? Why, because you have other cases? What the fuck do your other cases have to do with me? You told me to trust you. I did. For what? To blow me off when things really got tough because you couldn’t deal? Well where in hell are you leaving me at?

I will take the drive out there, and drop off this whole journal. Because the one thing I have to hold onto, the one truth of this is no other woman should have to go through what I am going through. This place, this rape treatment center, failed me too. I’m sure they won’t see it that way. I know they won’t. They will have a million excuses, but not a damn good reason. Just don’t give any other women any false hope like you did me.

I drive out there with this journal. This journal is the only form of sanity I have anymore. It is what has kept me from really falling apart. I leave it at the little window and tell them its for my advocate and psychologist. Page 24 is dedicated to them. I have tunnel vision the whole way out there and back. I even have tunnel vision when I go in to buy a double cheeseburger and fried zucchini combo. I have tunnel vision when I park my car and come back to typing my journal.  

A woman from the center has already called me back. I am debating on calling them back. Why bother? To tell me how there is nothing you can do?

She tells me that she is sorry. That they mishandled things and that is not my problem or fault. To please trust them again. She will see me tomorrow morning to help me come up with a coping plan.

Lord, I am exhausted. This was supposed to be a time of recouping and being calm. When is that allowed? When do I get to just rest and heal?

My boss sends me an email. He doesn’t know what’s going on, just wants to make sure I am ok and to let him know if I need anything.

I email him back.

I’m trying to sound not crazy, but in less than three months, I almost died twice (I know what the taste was in my mouth when I came to after being drugged. I know the sick fuck left me to choke on a wad of cum and vomit). Been drugged and raped, been robbed twice, been blocked by insurance from getting psychiatric help, been hauled into rooms by detectives trying to tell me I am a liar and had facts of my rape thrown into my face until I am in tears, been lied to about test results, and had my brain continually put through a meat grinder.

Today, I just want to focus on being able to get long term psychiatric help. Its one day at a time. I ask for a week off. If I was them, I’m sure I would consider letting me go too. I don’t know if that is what they will do, but it’s a high stress job and my PTSD is so high right now. I can’t even stand loud noises.

Then the hospital calls me. I think it’s an actual psych follow up. I didn’t realize it was a survey. Yeah, don’t steal money out of my wallet. How’s about that for starters? I can hear her cringe at that one.

How’s about a better bridge between being hospitalized and out patient after care? I can’t deal with insurance. Any suicide attempter can’t deal with insurance. How’s about you’re the hospital and you start telling insurance what’s up instead of the other way around? Instead of them saying, we won’t pay for three days, you the hospital sticks up for us the patient, and tell them they will. You the hospital are the system failing us, not just insurance.  So you, the hospital discharge me after just one day because insurance doesn’t want to pay (wild guess of course), and now it’s also on me to find my follow up care?

There should be at least ten outpatient visits through the hospital with no co-pay and I don’t even have to see a bill that should be directly paid by my insurance. You know why? Cause if I’m dead, I can’t pay for insurance you stupid fucks. That’s one less person paying you. In two years, you will make your money back, but you won’t if I’m dead.

You know what else I am sick and tired of hearing? Well that’s just the way the system is. How’s about not anymore. I pay for that system. I’m not paying for insurance for some CEO to buy a boat. I’m paying for insurance to be a safety net. How’s about no body pays for insurance until this crap stops. Until you start shelling out better health care at a reasonable price. Until you realize the hospital tells you what is best for the patient? How’s about we all just cancel our health insurance policies? You know how much money you will pull in then? $0.00. The same amount of zeroes on my blood alcohol test.

So now I am just focusing on my mind and trying to hang onto it. I came home with the intent of editing this journal to be published. I have to let this journal go. It’s becoming bigger than me.  I am well aware that people who know me, will now everything I have been through in the past three months. That I was drugged, and raped. Betrayed by a friend. Brutalized by the detectives. Tried to kill myself.

Yeah, there will be people who won’t believe me. There will be people who will judge me. But you know who else is out there. The people who can help me change this messed up system. I’m not the only woman put through this hell. The sad truth of it is, what I have experienced is the rule, not the exception.

If your daughter is raped, she will go through the exact same process.

If your mother is raped, she will be told she is mistaken.

If your girlfriend or wife is raped, it will be “what do you want me to do about it”?

I thought this would never happen to me. That because I had consensual sex with this guy once before, I was in some relative safety. Why the shit-where-you-eat attitude? This was his motive from the start. Yes, I had originally wanted to wait until the detectives came back with the final blow, that there will not be enough evidence to present to the DA. I want a fair shake. I want to have as much of a chance at justice as the sick piece of crap that did this to me. If publishing this journal is the only way of strong arming the detectives in this case to do their job, then so be it.

Read my journal. Share it with anyone who it will help to know they are not alone in this fight. It’s not enough to have to fight a rapist, its fighting a system too. The system will never change if we don’t make it. The bottom line is the system didn’t fail us. We failed ourselves. Humans make up the system. We thought, it will never happen to me, so I’m sure everything is fine. Why be involved? Because if it doesn’t happen to you, if you yourself never have to deal with the system, someone you love will. It is on us to change it. I am changing it by not silencing myself anymore.

Why do them the favor of holding this journal in?  I’m sure there will be updates. My journal has become its own entity. I am putting it in the safe hand of my friend P. She will know where to post it for everyone to see. Is that a terrifying thing? To know I am putting the most intimate details of my life out there for everyone to know? Hell yeah.

Will things change for better or worse if I don’t? Nope.

So here it goes…..