She came from around the corner and caught my eye. My breath stopped. I hadn't seen her for six or seven years. I didn't think she'd recognize me, we'd met during an emotional and traumatic time for one, I was now in a wheelchair for two. But when her eyes met mine the recognition was instantaneous. How could I have thought she'd have forgotten?
I was called in for an emergency consultation. A woman with Down Syndrome had been raped by a care provider. After the police interview she had asked to talk to someone and I was called. I wondered aloud if it would be better for a woman to speak with her, if my size and my gender would be too difficult for her. So much had happened, the rape, the report, the response. Now she was asking for something for her, I wanted to make sure that I would do. She said she didn't care if she spoke to a man or a woman, she just wanted to talk to someone.
The police OK'd the conversation but asked that I be supportive without questioning. I know the drill, I assured them that I understood and wasn't interested in investigating, this was about support and that was all. They told me that she'd been worked over pretty badly and to be prepared for what I saw.
You can't prepare.
Her face had been bludgeoned. Her eyes looked out past swollen and torn tissue. She did not cry. We were given some privacy and I began by asking a stupid and silly question, "How are you?" and immediately followed that with, "I'm sorry, I can see that things aren't good, do you want to talk?" She told me that she did.
She didn't talk about the assault, my mind was bursting with questions but I knew I could ask none, my will wanted to assert itself and take the conversation away from the everydayness of what she was telling me, but I knew that this conversation was hers, not mine. She was talking about her job, how much she liked it, about the people there and how much they liked her. She talked about her mom and her dad. He had died a few years ago but her mom still came and visited her. She talked about her favourite television shows and even laughed when talking about how silly Simon was on American Idol. She talked and she talked. She never looked at me much, glancing every now and then to assure herself that I was listening.
And I was.
Because I had come to understand what she was doing. She was asserting to herself that she had a life that she loved. A job and a family. Television shows and Taco Bell. She had been raped. She had talked to the police. But the world was still there, unchanged. Waiting for her. She had taken control of her own healing. She demanded little from me.
At first.
Then she asked me if she could ask me a question, and I told her self to go ahead. "Do you think I'm a dirty girl now that I've had sex?" Now the tears flowed. She had assured herself that the world still existed and now she wanted to know from me if she still fit into that world. The world where she had a place, belonged. Could she go back to that world, or was she now unsuited for it?
"You haven't had sex," I told her. Once again I had to shut my mind up, I wanted to talk to her about the idea of sex being dirty, that our sexuality is normal and part of us, but that's my agenda, she had a different one. So I stayed with, "You haven't had sex." She looked up at me confused, then she explained that he had put his penis into her. He had hurt her 'down there'. That was having sex. I told her that rape was not sex. That rape was rape. That she was not responsible for what he had done. It's all stuff we know. It's all stuff we hear on Oprah and on Dr. Phil, it's in every plot of Law and Order: SVU. It's part of our culture now. But it wasn't trite here. With her. She listened to me deeply. She asked a few more questions and I could see her process the news that she had been attacked but that the attack did not define her.
"Then, I'm still the same as before?" She asked with hope in her voice. I told her that she'd had different experiences and bad things had happened to her but that 'yes' she was the same as before.
"Thank you," she said.
I saw her one more time, several months later. She had asked to see me again and we got together for a coffee. Her face had healed, all except for what turned into a permanent bruise below her right eye. Again she talked about her life, her new job, her new home, and then she told me that I had been right, that she was OK and that she was the same girl as she had been before. Then she put her hand on top of mine and said, "If it happens to someone else, tell them that Emily's OK."
And now, here she was looking at me. There was a woman with her, a staff I'd guess, she patted the woman's hand in the way that meant, 'Stay here.' She walked over to me and asked if I was OK. I told her that I was in the wheelchair now. But I'm still the same as before. She smiled, the 900 watt smile that only those with Down Syndrome can do, and said, "So am I."
I can only thank the Lord that he gave Emily "you."
ReplyDeleteA well-meaning pastor, someone who I loved, trusted and knew very well was trying to help me process some of the issues that had arisen from my youth and were still hurting in my forties. They had re-surfaced at a time of real vulnerability. He told me then, by way of "counselling" that I was not the same person as when I had been assaulted as a child and later as a teen. He told me that I had to view the little girl I was as having died when the abuse started and I had to forget that person and build an entire new identity out of the rubble. Another counsellor, a professional one, supported that theory.
ReplyDeleteI tried to tell them, "No, I'm still 'me', and I have to reconnect somehow", but they held me down, as it were, and shoved their "truth" down my throat. Their second round of abuse (perhaps because they thought they were helping - and I was so confused by that) was far more wounding and pervasive than the first. I fell into a deep and lasting depression.
Belinda found me "bleeding in a ditch somewhere" (so to speak) and told me the TRUTH through words and actions. And yes, she got a little help from Oprah, too :) I came back to who I am, and I got a lot healthier in the process.
I was supposed to "die" for those well-meaning counsellors, but I couldn't. I wouldn't. And I needed someone else to affirm that for me. I'm so thankful that God sent Belinda along to do just that.
So thank you Dave, for the gift you gave to Emily. No-one knows better than I what a powerful gift that is. I pray that others learn from this post and pass this gift on to others.
And thank you, Belinda, for the gift you gave to me. In fact,until writing this, I didn't realize how deep and how powerful a gift it was. God used you to give the gift of "me" back to me.
Yes, Emily, and Dave, we're all still the same as before!
Now I think I'll go dry my tears...
Oh my god Dave, this piece has left me in tears because of the wisdom & knowing that both you & Emily have. I work with women who've experienced violence. We're doing a training for staff. I would like to pass this on to them.
ReplyDeleteSitting here typing through tears. Echoing others' sentiments that you were sent to Emily that day.
ReplyDeleteDave,
ReplyDelete1) Your stories are always told beautifully.
2) I am always so moved by the fact that the folks we support want so much to be there for us as well (referring to Emily's wanting to know if you were okay).
Thanks,
Roia
I think... after any kinf of trauma, you're both "the same person" and "a different person". Tho, this isn't really just true of trauma, it's true of every aspect of life...
ReplyDeleteHowever, to tell someone that they ought to view their former self as "dead" is IMO totally out of order - it reminds me of what Amanda (Ballastexistenz) was told by one doctor - that he wanted to "kill the (autistic) person she was and replace her with someone else"...
I do think Emily might have needed to be told that sexuality wasn't "dirty", but was positive and natural. But i agree that she definitely needed to be told that being a victim of rape didn't make her guilty of or "responsible" for anything herself.
Have you seen the site scarleteen.com? It's a feminist sex education site which i discovered recently and think is utterly awesome - it even has an article (written by an autistic woman, no less) about sex and disability...
Shiva....I had intended to say something similar....the challenge is to learn to hold both ie "I'm still me", & "this event has changed how I experience the world....it's also part of my history"
ReplyDeleteThanks for the info re scarleteen.com
I feel like saying, "if it happens to someone else, tell them Emily's okay," is exactly right. That's just what we want when something unthinkable happens, reassurance that it's possible to be okay.
ReplyDeleteoh thanks for making me a blubbering mess of bodily fluids before i go to work!
ReplyDelete:-)
your words are so beautiful...the gift of being the ultimate storyteller is an amazing morning treat for my old eyes.
but my heart breaks in reading this one.
This is the fear that all mommies of girls with DS keep hidden back there in the taboo-thought part of our brains.
How can this happen??? What kind of monsters are out there? Even in knowing that this can happen.. we continue to prepare them to be independent.
Thank you....from this mommy. Thank you for helping our children find, and re-find themselves.
*sniff*
Hey Dave, was at your presentations at the RSA conference in London. A couple of years ago for an assignment I created a presentation "Teaching Sexuality to Deafblind Adults." Wish there was some way I could get you to have a look at it and comment. You need email - set up through hotmail :)
ReplyDeleteThanks napdaw@hotmail.com