Brave and Strong
- Nichole Wilkinson
- Oct 12, 2018
- 5 min read
“I am brave. I am strong.”, she kept repeating over and over again in her mind as she walked into the police station. She had drove by this station so many times, never thinking twice about it. Now she was going to report a crime. A crime that had been done to her. Her sister and her mom were with her. “Ma’am, can I help you?” She wasn’t sure. Could he? Was she sure she wanted to do this? She replayed the session with her therapist over and over again in her mind. They decided this would be a good idea for her healing process.
She walked into the police station and felt like that afraid little girl again. She was no longer a little girl. She was 22 years old and had been going to intensive therapy twice a week for four years.
“We’re here to file a report,” she told the officer at the front. “What kind of report?”, he asked. There they were in the middle of the police station, in front of everyone, and he wanted her to tell him right then and there what kind of report it was. She had too much shame and embarrassment to say it out loud. “Sexual abuse,” she whispered. “Hey, Officer Givens, we have a sexual abuse report over here. Is the back room available?”, the officer shouted across the room. She felt herself shrinking even smaller. Her mom looked at her and reassured her. They were led into a room with three other male officers. “What is this for?” the officer writing the report asked. Ugh…could she do it? Could she really tell him?
“My sister and I were sexually abused by a neighbor for 8 years. He did it to his daughter too but she isn’t willing to file a report.”, Celeste told him. All three men were looking at her, her sister, and her mother, waiting to hear more. This was SO uncomfortable, she thought! “Can’t I have a woman take the report?”, she asked. “No, sorry we’re short staffed today.,” said the officer in charge. “Why don’t you tell us when this happened?”, as they all sat waiting for the details.
“1984-1992, approximately.”, she answered.
“Did you tell anyone at the time it was happening?”, asked the officer. Little did she know that the next thing she was about to say would be reported incorrectly and would be one of the reasons this man was never prosecuted. She could not stand the thought of this man hurting other children and ruining their lives. She wanted to make him stop so badly, but there was absolutely nothing she could do.
“No, I repressed my memories.”, Celeste replied.
“What do you mean you ‘repressed’ your memories?”, the officer asked.
“When something traumatic happens to someone and their mind cannot process it at the time, they shove the trauma to the back of their mind. It’s a protective mechanism. I guess that’s what happened. Four years ago, I remembered everything. I started seeing a therapist and have been in intensive therapy for PTSD ever since.”
“Wait,” said the officer, “you started seeing a therapist and he told you that you were abused as a child?”
“No!”, Celeste answered. “My memories came back and then I started seeing a therapist.”
“Okay,” said the officer, “why don’t you tell us exactly what happened?” This was the part she did not think she could do, especially with three men staring at her. She wanted to run out of there but the thought of him continuing to do this to others forced her to stay. “I can’t talk about it but I wrote it down with ages next to each incident,” Celeste said, as she pushed the paper toward the officer.
“You need to tell me,” the officer said.
“I can’t”, said Celeste as she burst into tears. This was too much. Maybe this was a horrible idea! Her sister was able to recall a few details and told the officer. “Great,” he said. “A detective will be assigned to the case and will be in touch with you. I’m really sorry this happened to you guys.”
Celeste couldn’t get out of that room fast enough, out of that police station, into the car, and as far away from those memories as possible. She felt like she was going to explode. She started to panic. Her perpetrator may try to find her. He may know it was her that reported him. Everywhere she turned she thought he was there. For the next year, she could barely go to her home by herself for fear he’d be inside waiting. She knew the statistics. She knew that pedophiles were rarely violent. But she had the fear so deep within her, the same fear she had when she would lock her sister in the bathroom and tell her not to come out so he couldn’t get her.
She was staring off into space, completely detached from reality, looking out the window. “Celeste….Celeste….Celeste…” Someone was saying her name. As she came to, she realized she was sitting in her rehab circle, reading her autobiography to finish her first step. Recalling these memories forced her to disassociate. She didn’t even know what that was until the therapist in rehab told her. It was another coping mechanism to deal with trauma. What had happened to her? How did she get here? She always said she would never be like her father and now she was – a drug addict and alcoholic. The pain was so real though…and the fear…
The District Attorney did not take her case because they believed the therapist “planted” the abuse in her mind and there wasn’t enough corroboration or physical evidence. Essentially, they couldn’t win the case so they wouldn’t take it. Had they even investigated him? If they asked the other children that grew up in the same neighborhood, she was sure they would find someone. Now she was on a mission!
Would she post flyers with his face on it all over the neighborhood? Would she show up at his door and confront him? No, she couldn’t do those things. She decided she needed to understand why he did the things he did. She researched pedophilia and found support groups in the city. She anonymously sent him information on every research study, therapist, and support group that specialized in pedophilia. Maybe he’ll want to seek help…or at least it might scare him into stopping hurting others…someone was out there that knew his secret.
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