*Trigger warning: description of sexual assault, suicidal thoughts.
Vickie Garton-Gundling, Logistics Coordinator
My name is Vickie, and I’m the Logistics Coordinator at Fear 2 Freedom.
In this strange time of social distancing, it can be easy for survivors of sexual assault to feel physically isolated and emotionally alone. So, today, I share with you my survivor story to provide encouragement to those who fear they will never be able to “Restore the Joy” in their lives. I promise you will get through this, and I send my love and hopes for healing to all survivors who read this. And, for secondary survivors and other concerned community members, I hope that hearing my story will inspire you to “Be the Change” in your community by helping combat and prevent sexual assault and supporting victims of sexual violence. Unfortunately, many survivors will not see their assailants brought to justice. In fact, according to the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN) “out of every 1,000 sexual assaults, 995 perpetrators will walk free.” My story shows that healing is possible, whether or not the assailant is brought to justice.
At 23-years-old, I was still finishing my undergraduate degree, as well as working full-time. I had just transferred jobs, and one of my new colleagues invited me to a party at her house. I always declined invitations like these; even before the assault, I struggled with social anxiety and was nervous about making new friends. But my colleague assured me that the party would be fairly small, and I convinced myself that breaking out of my comfort zone would be a good thing. Plus, since I was single and looking at the time, I figured it could be a good opportunity to meet some new dating prospects. So, I put on my sexiest outfit and headed to the party with a decided sense of optimism.
When I arrived, I entered into your typical house-party situation—people listening to music, eating food, talking and, of course, drinking. I chatted with my co-workers and met a few of their friends from outside of work. Of all the new people I met, one in particular caught my eye, for a couple of reasons. First, he was the only person at the party not drinking any alcohol, which struck me as somewhat odd, but I figured that perhaps he was a designated driver—which I usually interpreted as a sign of a responsible and kind person. Second, he had a large scar going down the side of his face and neck, which instantly made me feel compassion toward him. After the assault, I often (irrationally) imagined that this individual’s physical scar was a symbolic manifestation of the scars of all his sexual assault victims—of which (I later learned) I was unfortunately only one.
Due to a combination of the alcohol in my system and the date-rape drug my assaulter gave me, the details of my assault are spotty; this is something I’ve sometimes considered a blessing, sometimes a curse, and sometimes both. I remember being in a dark basement. I remember him placing me on top of him. I remember saying “no, please, I’m a good girl, I don’t want to do this.” The next thing I remember after that is waking up to bright lights and blood all over the white sheets of a bed that—hours earlier—my colleagues and I had been sitting on—talking, laughing, drinking. I was disoriented and lightheaded, and I felt a lot of pain in my vaginal area. The assaulter was still there, and he was trying to push me into a shower, saying that I needed to get clean. I resisted, and I fell back onto the bed. I blacked out, and when I came to, the following morning, he was thankfully gone. I grabbed my clothing, pulled it on as quickly as I could, and headed upstairs.
I didn’t feel safe to drive, but somehow I made it home. One of my roommates was awake, and I told him what happened. I was sobbing. I was shaking. He told me we should go to the hospital so I could get a rape kit done, but I was too scared; the thought of having anyone touch me—put anything into my body—caused feelings of intense panic and fear.
When I got to work that day, I tried to tell my co-worker—the party host—what had happened. She didn’t believe me. She told me that maybe I regretted what I did but that didn’t make it rape. She said to please not tell anyone else, since she didn’t want her mom to get in trouble for letting her have the party. I quit that job the next day. But, for a short time, I didn’t say anything to anyone else about what had happened.
After I quit my job, I became completely isolated. I rarely left the house except to go to class. I drank alone, in my room, most of the time. I cried, almost all the time. I barely ate. And, most detrimental, I internalized what my former co-worker had said and therefore grappled with deep shame and guilt. It was my fault because I went to the party in the first place. It was my fault because I was drinking. It was my fault because I had purposely dressed to try to attract people, so I guess I was asking for it, really. It was my fault because I had spent so much time with this particular person at the party, and my instincts should have been better. I hated myself. And I didn’t want to live anymore.
I had become a victim and nothing more, and I didn’t think that would ever change, so life was no longer worth living. Luckily, I’ve always been a person who hates pain and fears the unknown, and these two fears kept me from killing myself. But the drastic emotional and personality changes I underwent during this time did not go unnoticed by my family, my friends, my fellow students, and my teachers. I kept telling everyone I was fine, that I was just sick—not feeling well. But one of my professors—a close confidant and friend—wasn’t buying it. So I told her a very small portion of what was going on. She supported me and comforted me. But she also encouraged me to go to the police. But I couldn’t do it alone. So, I finally got the courage to tell my mom—my best friend—what had happened to her baby girl. She was devastated but—as always—she was a pillar of strength, and she took me to the police station to report this crime.
And now we come to the part of the story that is—perhaps surprisingly—the hardest for me to relive. The police detective assigned to my case did not believe me. He berated me. His words were almost an exact echo of what my co-worker had said, but with much more derision. Still, I kept following up on my case, and I kept getting the same answer—we cannot locate the accused party—he hasn’t been at his home. This went on for weeks. Finally, during one of my many drunken nights alone in my room, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I began to research the person who assaulted me. And what I found quickly and easily was that this man had a long history of criminal charges and convictions and that the reason the police could not find him was that he was currently in the county jail—a facility in the same city as the police department I had reported to. What’s more, the reason he was incarcerated was on sexual assault charges. I was livid! But, even when I told the police this information, they continued to say that I didn’t have any evidence, that my case wasn’t valid, and that I just needed to deal with my regret over a bad decision I made while I was drunk. At this point, I was so demoralized that I dropped the case entirely. And that is a decision that will haunt me forever, because I know that dropping my case probably made it less likely that the other person (or people) he had assaulted after me would have a chance of getting justice and that this man might walk free and assault more people in the future. But I just didn’t have the strength to continually have my feelings of shame reinforced by the police.
Somewhat counterintuitively, the police’s recriminations were a part of what pushed me to embark on my journey toward healing—toward realizing this incident was not my fault, toward letting go of the hate and thoughts of violence I had toward my attacker, and toward regaining some semblance of the self I was before the assault. I wanted to go from victim to survivor, or—in the words of F2F’s founder Rosemary Trible--from fear to freedom.
Over the next many years, a combination of resources and techniques helped me grapple with my experience. Therapy was central to my recovery, but—in some ways—confiding in some of my family members and a few close friends is what helped me most. Their repeated reassurance that I am a good person, that I didn’t deserve what happened, and that it wasn’t my fault helped me stop blaming myself.
While I would like to tell you that I am completely “recovered” from this experience, I am unsure that will ever truly be the case. I still feel a slight sense of dread whenever I attend a social function with people I don’t know, and I almost never drink alcohol at such functions, even if someone I know and trust is with me. But, overall, I have regained a large part of the person I was before this experience, and I am lucky to have a very happy life. I have a wonderful, loving husband who supports me in everything I do. I have an adorable 21-month-old son who has brought joy (and, admittedly, a lot of tiredness) to my life. I have so many family members and friends who love me and are always there for me.
Most importantly, I’ve been able to take my experience and use it for good. Through working for Fear 2 Freedom and helping other survivors, I’ve gained a sense of empowerment. And knowing that the education we do helps students and communities combat and prevent sexual assault gives me peace of mind and hope that others will not have to suffer in the future as I did in the past.