Spilled Milk: Based on a true story (31 page)

“Okay great,
what exactly do you want me to talk about?”

“There will be
a lot of judges there, lawyers, courthouse personnel, that kind of thing. I
want you to give them an inside look to what it’s like to go through the
system. Tell them what was right, what was wrong, see if they can make any
procedural changes or give any ideas to help children cope within the system.”

I was impressed
with the idea. “That actually sounds great, I’d have a lot to say. Do you know
how many people will be there, so I know?”

“Not too many.
Maybe around ten, fifteen. I’ll send out a memo that you’ll be there as a guest
speaker, see if we can get more people to show up.”

The room was
packed with over forty people. Court personnel made up the majority of the
population but there were also social service workers, some politicians and
even a funeral director. The room encompassed all types of people whose jobs
were impacted by domestic violence. The empowerment in the room was electric,
and I folded several note cards over in my hands as Dr. Russ introduced me. My
hands trembled as he turned the floor over to me.

“First I’d like
to thank Dr. Russ for bringing this meeting to my attention. I think it’s great
there is such a thing as a domestic violence policy group and I’m more than
happy to help everyone here understand what it’s like to go through the system
as a child.”

I cleared my
throat. “This is actually the first time I’m talking about these things, out
loud, to people who aren’t jurors or a judge. I’ve never talked publicly about
my own experiences before.”

Everyone’s eyes
were locked on mine. I addressed some of the latest statistics on domestic
violence and how so often children become silent victims when they witness a
parent being abused. “My mom was never physically abused by my dad, but my
siblings and I were.”

I told them
that more than half of teen relationships were domestically violent. “It’s just
in a different way. Boyfriends control who girls talk to, or who they text and
they think that’s okay. Girls think it’s okay to punch a guy in the arm or
scream in his face or scratch him. It’s normal for them to call each other
names that are degrading or hang up on each other in the middle of a
conversation. Teen dating is a breeding ground for adult relationships and if
they don’t realize that what they’re doing now is wrong, they’ll carry that
over into their relationships as adults and it only escalates from there.”

“The majority
of reported rapes are from women, although I’d be willing to bet it’s just as
high for men.” When I saw a few of the men in the audience roll their eyes I
explained.

“When people
found out in high school that I was being sexually abused, they came to me with
their own trauma. I think they thought I was the only one in the world who
would understand them. One guy told me he had been raped by his father from the
time he was six. Another guy told me he was being sexually harassed at work by
his boss.

A cousin of
mine was in a relationship where his girlfriend would scratch his back and
throw things at him. I also found out that a family member of mine had fallen
victim to my dad as well, but when he told no one believed him. I was small at
the time, and had someone believed him I wouldn’t be standing here today
telling you I am also a survivor of incestuous rape by my dad.” A woman in a
gray suit gasped and another man scribbled things down on a pad in front of
him.

“Just because
men don’t report it, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Men carry more shame with
their situations than women do because they think people will label them as
gay, or that they weren’t manly enough to stand up and fight the perpetrator
off. I’m here to tell you that I wish more of them would come forward so that
they can get the help they need to not carry their hurt into their adult
lives.”

Talking about
male victims had captured their attention. “I’m also here to tell you that 8
out of 10 times, the victim knows their rapist. It’s not like TV where there’s
a dark alley and someone waiting in the shadows. Yea, it happens, but not
nearly as frequently as when the victim knows the perpetrator.”

“Why not?”
someone called out.

“Thank you for
asking. Who better to know your schedule? When you leave the house, when you
come home. If you’re a small child who better to know what you like and don’t
like. They know what candy you’ll do anything for, and what rooms in your house
no one can hear them in. Children get groomed, won over, and that takes time
and patience. They get the things they want, special privileges, and then
touching body parts turns into a game that’s fun and expected. It only
escalates from there.”

A woman raised
her hand. “Why don’t they tell an adult, or someone about what’s being done to
them?” Several people shook their head.

“You don’t know
something is wrong if it’s all you know,” I explained. “If a child is groomed
from the time they’re three until the time they’re twelve, they don’t know that
home life is supposed to be any different. Then by the time they realize it’s
wrong, they’re threatened or blackmailed into keeping quiet. While my brothers
suffered physical violence from my dad in a way I could never fathom, I
suffered through sexual violence to an extent I never want them to know.”

Dr. Russ laid a
hand on my shoulder as I choked over my last words. “And don’t be fooled. I was
on the honor roll in high school, I was a cheerleader. I held a job, had a
boyfriend, friends, and I never in my life got detention. Yet my brother was in
and out of juvy three times during the time I testified against my dad. When my
dad was finally sentenced and sent away, he thought it would be a good idea to
send my brother a birthday card. He became so emotionally distraught and
re-traumatized, that he got doped up on every drug he could get his hands on
and went wandering into neighbor’s homes looking for things to steal so he
could buy more drugs. If he hadn’t been caught, he would have died of an
overdose.”

“Not all
children cope the same,” I continued. “Some channel their energy positively,
like I did. I wanted to pretend that I had a normal family, so on the outside
no one would suspect a thing. Some children channel their energy negatively,
and they are rebellious and in trouble with the law. Make no mistake, that
there is no example of what one child looks like or does when they’re being
abused.”

A man in the
back raised his hand. “So how do we get a child to tell us when they’re being
abused if we can’t pick them out. How do we know?”

I smiled. “You can’t,
and you don’t. Not until that child is ready to tell. And I mean one hundred
percent fed up with their life ready to tell. You can’t make a child tell you
anything, but what you
can
do is set them up in an environment where
if
they told, they would be taken care of.” I continued after a few confused
looks.

“Social
services came to my school and I could have told then. But I didn’t. My
boyfriend’s mother suspected I was being abused because of the way my dad
treated me and how he looked at me, but I didn’t tell her either. I didn’t tell
my best friends, and I didn’t tell my boyfriend. You know who I told? My aunt
and uncle. And do you know why?” The audience shook their head.

I held up my
hands, holding an imaginary basketball. “Because of this.”

They stared at
my hands with raised eyebrows and curious eyes. Some turned their heads to try
and figure out if my hands were contorted into any given shape or letter. I
smiled.

“It’s a bubble.
A safe, peaceful, bubble. My uncle did this exact thing to me when I went to
his house. He looked at me and he said
Brooke, our family has a protective
bubble over it. No one hurts anyone in it, and it’s safe in here. We have a
plan to help anyone who is in trouble, and we wanted you to know you are part
of this bubble
.” I passed the pretend bubble to the woman sitting across
from me and everyone laughed as she instinctively brought her hands up to catch
it.

“I needed three
things.” I held up my fingers. “I needed a safe place, my bubble. I needed
someone to talk to, a mentor, and I had my boyfriend’s mom. And I needed my
breaking point, a final straw.” I reached into the folder I brought and showed
the audience a picture of Ethan when he was two. “I realized that if I left my
house when I graduated high school, my little brother was going to have to face
my dad alone. I was not about to let that happen, not while I knew what kind of
torture and pain I had to go through.”

Heads nodded
from all around the table. “Now, you’re all here because you deal directly or
know someone who deals directly with the process of the court, correct?”

Nods again.
“Okay everyone, write these things down please, because they’re very important.
I’m going to go tell you what they don’t tell you in the textbooks.”

A few of the
men smiled as I proceeded. “First of all social services.” I shook my head in dramatization
and a few people laughed. “Please, do not ever, EVER tell a child that what
they tell you will be in confidence if it is not. Don’t lie to us. If it
is
confidential, do not send a letter home to said child’s parents telling them
that so-and-so said that they were being sexually abused, physically abused,
whatever. Do you have any idea how
dangerous
it was for me when my dad
opened up a letter from social services saying that I had talked to them?” One
woman to my left covered her mouth.

“He could have
killed me if I had actually told them what was going on. Also, when you do your
follow ups, why would you ask a child how they’re doing right in front of the
parent? If anything is new, they sure ain’t going to say something with the perpetrator
right there. And even if they aren’t there, get them out of the house. Bring
that child outside, or to your office. Their home is a constant reminder of the
hell they’re living in, don’t make them talk about it in an unsafe place if you
can help it.”

“Law
enforcement, police. When I went in to do my interview I was mortified. I
couldn’t look the guy in the face, there was nothing to help me cope with the
weight of what I was saying out loud for the first time. People will be
embarrassed, they’ll be scared and they will be blunt. They’ll say things like
‘He touched me’.

Let us know,
right away, that it’s okay to say the names of body parts.
Lie
to us,
please, and tell us you’ve heard this before. If it’s a girl victim, get a girl
cop. If there isn’t one available, tell them that you have talked to lots of
little girls about bad things that have happened to them. We need to know our
bodies are safe to talk about to a male in a police uniform. Give us a piece of
paper and a pencil so we can scribble as we talk to avoid watching your
reaction as we walk you through our horrific details, or let us write it down
instead if we can’t quite find the words. Also make sure your departments know
the laws about fleeing a state with children and Protection from Abuse orders.”

I shuffled my note
cards and moved on. “The district attorney’s office. My victim’s advocate was
the best thing that happened to me during my trial. I never had to ask what was
happening before, during or after anything. And everything was explained to me
in a way I could understand. Tour the courtroom before the hearing, and tell
the child that it’s okay to show emotion and who they can look at when they’re
sitting on the witness stand.

I was shy, and
I couldn’t bring myself to say the words penis or rape, but let us know that
those words are expected and we won’t get in trouble for saying them. My
advocate also signed me up to receive alerts to when my dad was transferred to
a different jail or anything changed in his status. It’s a relief to know where
he is at all times.”

I looked
around. “How many mental health or social service type agencies do we have in
here?” A few people raised their hands. “Okay, this is for you, and for the
schools. Confidentiality is everything. I had kids come up to me in school and
apologize for what happened to me because they had mothers in the front office
who knew all about it. That’s unacceptable. Counseling is what made the
difference in how I coped with the trial both during and after. I am the only
one of my siblings who sought help, and I am also the only one who doesn’t still
live at home and actually has a
healthy
relationship.

My mom and
siblings refused counseling after a few sessions, they didn’t want it. But then
they wonder why they have so much tension and anger in their lives. They wonder
why they have nervous breakdowns and call me in the middle of the night with
the latest drama.

Programs need
to be established, and required, to all of the families of these crimes. Just
because I was the one testifying does not mean that I am the only one who
needed help. I know my triggers, and what upsets me and now I know how to
handle those things. My siblings are depressed, and go in and out of
promiscuous or unhealthy relationships. They abuse drugs or alcohol and turn to
food for comfort. Sometimes I felt like I sacrificed two years of testimony for
nothing. My dad was out of the house and they still did all the same things,
still treated each other horribly. They didn’t want to deal with it, and they
haven’t. For years since I first came forward, I felt like the black sheep in
my family. I don’t want to believe I set my expectations too high when it comes
to having a happy life. Which leads me to my conclusion, you cannot change
someone who does not want to change.”

I held up a
finger. I needed this point to stick. “If a child does not
want
to tell,
they won’t. If a family does not
want
to heal, they won’t. I wanted to
heal, I wanted peace in my life and I wanted to tell. So I did. I thought my
family would want the same, and it kills me that they have such great potential
to thrive as a family and don’t. I lost a lot of sleep over that. I cried a lot
over that. But at the end of the day, the only person I can make changes to is
myself. No matter how much I tell them how liberating it feels to finally be as
happy as I am.”