Rosemary Trible, Founder of Fear 2 Freedom
My name is Rosemary Trible, and my life changed forever on December 21, 1975. But the story begins a few days earlier. I was 25 years old, and I was the host of a talk show called “Rosemary’s Guest Book” in Richmond, VA. I decided that I wanted to invite two rape victims onto the show, as well as a Commonwealth Attorney and a police officer. You see, back then, no one spoke about the lasting wounds that sexual violence can cause. After the show aired, I got hundreds of letters and calls from viewers who had never been able to share their story before. It touched my heart to be able to respond to these disclosures. I couldn’t have known that, less than a week later, I would experience similar wounds.
I was drafting the scripts for a few more episodes of my show since I wanted to be at our home for Christmas to celebrate that time with my family. At about 11:00 p.m., I went down to the hotel lobby for a cup of coffee. When I came back, I settled into my chair, but then all of a sudden, a huge man grabbed me. He began to strangle me, then pulled out a gun. He pressed it to my temple and said, “Okay, cute talk show host; what do you do with a gun at your head?” In all the research I had done on rape, I hadn’t ever thought about that.
He began to violently assault me. I can only guess that he had seen my television show and wanted to punish me for speaking out about sexual assault. The last thing he did to me was maybe the worst thing. He dragged me over to the window, put the gun back at my head, and said “I know who you are, I know where you live, and I’ll kill you if you tell.” That was the dagger of fear that stuck with me. The man fled out my window into a waiting getaway car.
Despite this threat, I immediately called the police and hotel security. They took my report, but this man was never found. I called my husband of five years and told him what had happened. Paul, a Commonwealth Attorney himself, was two and a half hours away. He raced to me as I went to the hospital alone. Back then, there was no PERK (Physical Evidence Recovery Kit) exam; I called my gynecologist, and he was able to see me in the emergency room.
I felt I had to do the show the next morning; my rapist would know I had told if I didn’t go on air. I told only my station manager and did the show, feeling sick to my stomach. Once I had finished, I fell into my husband’s arms.
We went to our home an hour away for Christmas. I didn’t want to ruin the holiday. My parents came, but I only told my brother. I tried so hard to be normal for everyone else. While I smiled and laughed, there was a volcano of fear building inside me. A few days later, I knew I had to return to the show, but I was terrified of driving that hour. I heard that awful tape recorder in my mind: “I’ll kill you if you tell.” I was so consumed with fear and pain that I passed out. When my parents found me, Paul had no choice but to tell them what had happened. They held me and told me that they loved me, but they didn’t know how to help.
Over the next three months, I tried to continue to do the show. I loved my job, but it ate away at me. I decided to give it up, telling my station manager that “I’ve lost Rosemary and I have to go find her.”
Six months later, Paul had an opportunity to run for Congress. I had never expected to be in the political arena, but I knew I wanted to be there for Paul. Despite this, I was filled with pain. I was healing from my assault and, at the same time, putting on the happy face of a candidate’s wife. I don’t think I would have gotten through this time without the support of Paul or my good friend, René. When I think of them, I remember an interesting fact about elephants. When an elephant falls down due to injury, they are likely to die from the weight on their injury. In response to this, two other elephants come along and prop up their injured counterpart. Renee and Paul were my elephants; they kept me up so I could heal. During the campaign, I became pregnant with our first child. That gave me a reason to live.
Time passed, and Paul won his campaign! We moved up to D.C. for his work, and I became more and more involved in the political sphere.
Ten days after Paul was sworn into office, it was time for me to deliver our child. It was winter 1976, less than a year after my assault. Paul, René, and I attended President Ford’s Farewell address. I was nine months and three weeks along in my pregnancy. Halfway through the address, I started to have contractions. Some of the members of Congress began to take bets as to whether I would make it through the address, or if Paul would be the first Congressman to become a father on the Congress floor.
After the address, Paul, René, and I made it to our hospital two hours away. I delivered a healthy baby girl. The gynecologist said that our daughter was “the first baby I’ve ever delivered who came out shaking hands and giving political speeches.” I was especially touched because Dr. Crooks, just over one year earlier, had come to my rescue and examined me after my assault.
My healing process was defined by walking with other survivors. It was almost as if I could sense them; I was drawn to them. If I could give advice to any survivor reading this, I would say that your past doesn’t have to control the rest of your life. Your experience will always be a part of you, the scar will be there, but how it impacts your life will change over time. I would challenge survivors to believe that there is a future for them.
Understand that healing is a process, a journey. There will be times where your fear comes back; it’s a natural response to trauma. You might feel triggered by something seemingly innocuous, maybe a smell or a touch. I did some work in inner-city D.C., a place that reminded me of where my assault took place. I faced my fears and saw happy children living in poverty. I remember one day in particular. We were building a playground, and a volunteer brought their tractor. A young boy, maybe five years old, walked over to me and held his arms up. I picked him up and set him on the lap of the tractor operator. Both the operator and the little boy laughed and smiled joyfully, gaps being bridged by a shared love of machinery. Even though I was afraid at first, I had a meaningful experience. Reach out to your elephants, let them prop you up; they can help you to not become consumed by the fear.
As part of my healing process, I began Fear 2 Freedom in 2011. After Paul had left Congress, he became the president of Christopher Newport University in Virginia. I made connections on Christopher Newport University’s campus, and on other campuses in Virginia. The number of students who had experienced sexual violence in their young lives left me astonished. My care for sexual assault survivors spread. I started to get calls when a student was being taken to the hospital for a forensic exam. I would sit with the students through the exam and was shocked when I saw that they had to leave in hospital gowns or paper scrubs. I thought that there had to be something that could be done, and it wasn’t long before I developed F2F’s AfterCare Kit.
The AfterCare Kit had clothing, toiletries, and a journal, but it was missing something. I thought for a few days, and then three nights in a row I had a dream of a small teddy bear. It was a tan bear with a pocket in his heart. On his back was a backpack with slips of paper. I realized that the backpack was filled with dissolving paper, and then everything connected. The survivor would write something on the piece of paper, the name of their assailant maybe, and they would put it in Freedom Bear’s heart pocket until they were ready. Once they were, they could take the paper and dissolve it away. I saw the name fading away, then the paper itself. We designed the Freedom Bear and ordered 10,000 from a facility in Cambodia. This facility in itself was important to me because it was staffed by women and girls rescued from the sex trade. I went there and spoke to some of the employees. One woman told us, “This is the first thing I have done that has made me feel whole again.” It touched my heart, and I was newly reassured of the power of caring for others.
I’ll leave you with this: You are not alone. Your past does not define you. There are many people who want to see you heal. Remember, I care about you. I am here for whatever you need to help you heal. Please feel free to reach out to me. Thank you.