Today was the court date. Ed testified that he was sending all of these text messages out of genuine concern. The lawyers in the courtroom waiting for other cases laughed at that one.
“I promise you he sounded like a fool,” says my friend A. She has come with me today. Ed also testifies that my detective called him and told him there was a restraining order in place because he was harassing me.
Now the detective is helping Ed? Giving him a heads up? What’s next, going to take the stand and testify for him too? It’s too much for me to take. The detective cockblocked me from getting a restraining order through the police and now that I do all the work, he fucking calls Ed?
“You should be working with your detectives in order to get a restraining order in place. There are no threats of murder and no physical violence, so the order is dissolved,” the judge says to me.
I’m not even in shock anymore. I have fought all I can fight. A tries to console me outside the courtroom. I flip out and tell her I just want out of the building. The bailiff comes out and tells me if anything happens to come right back to the same courtroom. He will remember who I am. We get to the car and I apologize for being angry with A. We start bawling on each other’s shoulders. I get home and A is still crying. I’m tired of crying. I lie and tell A I want to go home, decompress and that I will go to the rape center and talk to them.
After I get home I call my advocate. I’m crying because I already know how the final chapter will end in this whole fucked up story. I left a message to cancel all future appointments with the center. They will all win and there isn’t shit I can do about it. I don’t want to be in this world anymore. I don’t want to be in a world where rapists walk and victims are bullied for it. I know friends have read this story and told me how proud they are. That I am so brave. I don’t feel brave. I feel like this is auto pilot, and I’m sick of it. I’m tired of fighting. Nothing will ever happen to any of them. I quit. I know that what I am about to do is the most cowardly thing possible, but why the hell not? I don’t want to be in this fucked up world anymore. To my friends I truly apologize for letting you all down.
I know the judge would say the determination isn’t personal. Well, neither is my suicide.
I am writing this knowing that a few minutes after I write the end, I will go to my bathroom, and open every container of pain killers I had intended on taking back to the pharmacy to be destroyed instead of just flushing them down the toilet. I will also open a bottle of wine. I will then take all the pills and drink all the wine and walk out of this life. This hard life that just isn’t worth fighting anymore. I thought life was supposed to have a lot of enjoyable moments along the way too.
Strange thoughts will cross my mind. Should I clean a little first so when they find my body, they won’t be discussing how I should have vacuumed more often?
The bottle of wine is already open.
Do I want a final meal of some sort? Or is that just more work for the coroner. Will Mr. A be my coroner? Will he know who I am? What would he think if he did?
I would say I have a pretty good mixture. A handful of hydrocodone, Tylenol with codine, Percocet, Carisoprodol, Alprazolam and one that I’m not sure what it is. At this point it’s not like it matters.
I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the hero you wanted me to be.
This is no one else’s fault. There was nothing A could have done to stop this and I don’t want her to blame herself in any way for this. This is the fault of a rapist, a friend who sold me out and two detectives who wouldn’t do anything to believe me. I doubt this will change their minds.
I’m sorry I just wasn’t as strong as I should have been.
I hope for any future woman to never have to go through what I have had to go through. I sincerely wish that the system will change and that more is done to stop rapists. Just because they don’t drag you into an alley and you know who they are doesn’t mean it isn’t rape. And for what it’s worth, I believe you. I know you are telling the truth. I know you have laid in bed sobbing and shaking and wondering why God would allow this to happen. When I get up there, I will ask. But just know, I believe you. The end.
I was intubated and given chest compressions. I stopped breathing on the table. Three close friends watched this happen and were told to leave the room. I did this to people who I love and care about, that care about me. I have no memory of any of this except a small flash of throwing up the black liquid.
My friend A tells me I turned combative at one point, and that I wasn’t like myself at all. I was swinging and cursing and trying to leave. I was restrained and given a catheter. I came to when it was dark outside. I’m in a private room begging for ice chips. My mouth is so dehydrated. My chest and throat will hurt for days. So will my whole body. Taking a handful of muscle relaxers apparently does the opposite. I’m glad I don’t have any memory of the ER. I ask the registered nurse who comes to see me to please tell everyone at the ER how sorry I am for what I have done.
That was a really dark place. I read the handwritten notes I had attached to my journal about how easy it really is once the first pill is down. Four was nothing. I’m not really sure how many I took, if any, after the four. Welcome to the basement level of crazy, I wrote. The 7th level of hell. Yup, the elevator dings, and here I am. I started flip flopping. I didn’t want to die, but to think the detective would call Ed and that the restraining order was dissolved was too much. I couldn’t believe he had called him. He was fucking served, he knew there was a restraining order in place. Detective T barred me from getting one through the police station. So I manage to get a temporary one and now its worth sticking your fucking nose in it to see how Ed feels about this? Fuck him.
I had sent my friend T the final chapter, or what I thought it was, followed by a text message that I couldn’t go through with it. Then I decided I could. T called the police, my friend A and M, and the rape center. I remember him coming into my apartment. He tries to take the bottle of wine out of my hand. I won’t give it up. Things go to a blackout after that. Apparently it took four cops to get the bottle of wine out of my hand. What can I say, I’m southern. We don’t relinquish our alcohol easily.
The hospital tells my friends I will be held for three days and made to rest. My friends are asked to come up with a plan and rotate hanging out with me and staying in contact with me. They end up releasing me after a day. They have determined I am no longer a threat to myself and I wonder if insurance doesn’t have more to do with it. The nurse takes my IV port out of my arm and tapes the cotton ball into place. I am talking to him and still dealing with the feeling that all of this is happening kinda fast.
I feel warmth on my arm and side. My gown is covered with my blood. I bled through the cotton ball. The woman assigned to baby sit me has stopped texting. Her mouth is just as big as her eyes at the sight of all the blood. I clean myself up and now I just want to leave. The pills I tried to kill myself with are locked up in a safe with security. Twice they ask me if I want them back. No, please destroy them I say. I get my inventory of everything I came in with. I get home before I realize the cash is missing out of my wallet. It was noted on the inventory, along with my debit card. It was supposed to be in my purse. I call my case worker and tell her. I will have to call Monday to find out about getting it mailed to me. I can’t deal with this again. I can’t deal with doing other people’s jobs.
I know my friends have called my boss and manager. That they said take as much time as you need. I email my boss the whole journal. I tell him it has been a lot and I am trying to not let it affect my job, but I know he has seen me not happy and asked me if I am ok. I tell him if he feels I am not capable of doing my job, I understand if he wants to fire me. T takes me out for dinner.
“Whatever you want to eat,” he tells me.
We go for Mexican. He starts to cross a major street, not wanting to walk down to the crosswalk. I pull him back and ask him what he’s doing.
“Oh, now you care?”
We start cracking up on the streets. He does a “no sympathy” dance for me about my chest and throat hurting. His eyes water up when he tells me he starting getting misty eyed at the hospital eating a scone at the thought of never seeing me again.
I get into my bed and sleep for twelve hours.
My friend P calls the next morning. She has been enraged with all of this from the start. She is an activist for women’s rights and well being. She is big on starting campaigns and workshops to build girls self esteem. She blogs about inspiration and beautiful things in life. She is a beautiful spirit. She calls me on the phone and we talk. Angry doesn’t begin to describe it. My phone starts clicking and making weird noises. I tell her I wouldn’t be surprised if they are tapping my phone. It’s probably the one month of outside services the detectives were talking about for tracking Naylor down.
They will spend time and money tracking me and tapping my phone, but they wont stop Naylor from drugging who ever he wants. My friend P is pissed. Not only that, but if my phone is tapped, they are now forced to listen to her. I would almost have to feel bad for the person that will have to review this conversation and the venom that comes from her mouth.
“I don’t want to hear about you have other cases to deal with, what do your other cases have to do with me? I’m not asking you to be my friend, I just want you to do your job mother fucker. You agreed to do a service and all that comes with it when you accepted this position. You’re not a volunteer working out of your home, you are a civil servant being paid to do a service and you have routinely failed in this service.”
This goes on for almost half an hour before I have to accept a call from M. I have already decided to call P back later and just set the phone down. There is something deeply comforting about an angry and strong woman on my side and her having a voice to fight them with. She’s on fire and doesn’t want to get off the phone, but begrudgingly does.
M and I go out for breakfast. It was a damn good breakfast. I tell her I need to get to a psychologist at the rape center on Monday and start coming up with a plan for how to live with all of this. My attempt, the rape, the police. I still haven’t processed the rape yet. I have to come up with a plan for living and accepting when everyone walks with no accountability.
I will wait and see what they come up with the “background” check. It’s a sinking feeling every time I think they aren’t doing one at all. Just monitoring me. When they come back in a week or so telling me how they have found nothing and they feel there isn’t enough evidence to present to the DA, I will let this story be published. I am not the only woman going thru this. I am not the only woman who has attempted suicide because of this. I’m sure there are those who were successful. They didn’t need to die because of a rape. They shouldn’t have been raped in the first place.
I have friends who have tried to get an appointment with the DA on my behalf. It’s like trying to see The Wonderful Wizard of OZ.
I ask M to come to the hospital with me to collect my money. Another sinking feeling. We get there and find our way through the maze to the security room. We don’t have any cash, but we have a bag of pills, did you want those?
I snap. I snap hard.
“No!” I tell the security guard. “Those were the pills I tried to kill myself with because of a rape two and a half months ago! What I want is for them to be destroyed and handed my money.
“Well, you will have to come back on Monday.”
I snap harder. Yeah, I feel bad that this guy didn’t wake up and get out of bed and say to himself, “Hey, let’s fuck with a rape victim today”. But guess what, now you get to deal with a crazy rape victim who is losing her mind.
It’s not about the money. It’s about one more person stealing from me. Taking from me. Why don’t I just buy one of those number dispensers that you see at the deli and just let people take what they want from me. Just walk up and steal from my purse, or have sex with my body while I just lay there and take it and then I can fill out a form afterwards for no one to do shit about. Fuck your forms. Find my fucking money.
He leads me and M to the emergency room to check the safe there. I am already starting to lose it. No, not again. He comes out through the door and leads us outside. I already know what this means.
“You will have to come back on Monday”.
I scream loud. I am sobbing and screaming. Its not good enough, it’s the same bullshit, this is not good enough, I want my fucking money.
“Do you want me to call my supervisor?” he asks.
Ya think? M goes in to get me tissue. I sit by the fountain crying and shaking. The security guard comes out with a social worker or psychologist, or someone who can help. She tries to tell me to come back Monday, that they just aren’t equipped to help me until then. Well, I’m not equipped to hang onto my mind so you can have an enjoyable weekend by the pool with the kiddies.
M pulls her aside and they talk. They say they are going to check one more place. I am sitting by the fountain shaking. I can’t even cry anymore. I’m not leaving this place with out my $66. I have to have one win, one small win. It’s not about the value amount. It’s about hanging onto my mind.
The social worker and M come out. The social worker has an envelope in her hand. She says it was in the other social workers desk, the one I talked to after I got home the day before. She asks me to open it and check to make sure its all there. I don’t know if M pulled the money out to help save my mind or if it really was in the lady’s desk, but there is $66 dollars looking back at me.
I don’t know how I feel at first. Embarrassed, relieved, vindicated, grateful for one battle I won’t have to fight behind paperwork. Relieved. That’s what I feel. Relieved. The social worker tells me if I am having a hard time coping to feel free to come back to the hospital or to go to the rape center.
For a minute, I was scared they were going to admit me again. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but I don’t want to go back in. I don’t want to be a burden on my friends and if they need a break, so be it. I really don’t want to go back though. I just feel like I need a break for a while and some peace and quiet. I will get better and I want the chance to prove that. I just need a break. I have strength in me somewhere. It will come back again. M reminds me I have been through A LOT in a small amount of time. She tells the social worker she will drive me home.
She still just has a temporary license. Hers hasn’t arrived in the mail yet. She says my Dodge Caliber has a big dashboard and she’s having a hard time seeing over the steering wheel. I start laughing. God bless her for wanting to drive, but after almost going in an out only lane and almost running over a family before we even get out of the parking garage, I take back over driving.
As T would say, “Oh now you care?”
I hope the next few days will get my strength back again. Like a wounded warrior having to lay up and wait for everything to heal. Then onto training. Then onto the battle again. I already envision my meeting with the DA, if I get one, to be the same. Work with your detective they will tell me. But for now, I heal and recover. I will get to that battle when I am ready.
Original Fiction from a Sitcom Mind > The Halls of Shambala > The Non-Fiction Archives: 2012-2014 >