NellanneCasual Contributor
I'm a prisoner of what happened to me
Almost three years ago at approx 10.30pm on November 11th Rememberance Day a day I will remember for all the wrong reasons.
A late night knock at the door
A person in a police uniform standing there. Yes I let him in
What ensued was a nasty sexual assault.
Yes I reported it.
Yes I went through with the forensic examination,
And nearly three years on I am a shell of who I was.
I have moved interstate
I have changed my name
I am a prisoner in my own home.
scared of people I don't know.
terrified of crowds.
And above all absolutely NO TRUST or FAITH in the police.
I was made to feel it was my fault, lord knows i blamed myself then and continue to do so now.
<they found my mental health meds in my bedside table and assumed I'd lost the plot.
It has cost me more than I could have ever anticipated.
I understand why women don't report it, pull out, throw their hands in the air, walk away refusing to take the matter any further.
I understand what it's like to be made to feel it was your fault, you asked for it.
I know what it feels like recounting your story to every bloody police person that crosses your path afterwards, doing a photo ID of the person and seeing the likeness staring at you from a computer screen.
I know this and much more and I hate it, that one person could cause this to happen.
I hate myself for allowing it to happen, for trusting a uniform we are taught to trust and believe are there to help us.
I hate the thought that one day I may need to call them for help, that I will never ever make that call no matter what.
I hate that this is my life, I question my existence.
I am existing not living.
I am going through the motions day after day.
My nights are not peaceful slumber but screaming nightmares and flashbacks.
I look in the mirror and all I see is a broken shattered person who I barely recognise, who I dislike because her stupidity in trusting a police person has left her wondering why she continues each day, a person who cries until there are no tears left and then cries some more.
Who has professional help, someone she has trust in, but one step forward, three steps back makes her wonder why she bothers, but shr knows if she doesn't it will get worse.
Who is living in absolute fear of November, the 11th day of the 11th month because she knows the horror will be relived over and over, more so than it is every bloody day of her useless existence.And at the end of the day all I can think is why do I bother, I'm trapped in a life I hate with frightening memories I can't shut off. I'm no where near suicidal, I don't want to die, have no intention, but I'm so tired of fighting my memories, the constant being on edge, unable to watch TV like I used to, unable to read the books I used to. I fight it every day.