Real Heroes Wear Leotards

Grieving Jane Doe

I was sitting on the tarmac about to take off when I saw the footage of the Larry Nassar case. I watched, in awe, as each gymnast approached the bench and said her piece. I can’t remember where I was going, but I’ll never forget that moment. So many emotions ran through me. I couldn’t believe the forcefulness of their words, my healing was still steps behind. Kyle Stephens saying, “Little girls don’t stay little forever. They grow into strong women that return to destroy your world.”  Wow. Woooooow.

I felt gratitude that the judge, Rosemarie Aquilina, gave them space to be heard, and even more gratitude that these incredible women found the courage to step up and speak. It gave me strength. It helped chip away at the part of me that was still feeling pity for my perpetrator.

 Weirdly, I also felt envious that I didn’t have a sea of fellow survivors next to me, or the chance to confront my perpetrator in a court of law. That likely, he would never pay for what he did and I’d never get the chance to school him. I didn’t realize I‘d have to grieve for that too.

My heart went out to these gorgeously courageous women. Simone. Aly. McKayla. Maggie. Kyle. Every unnamed gymnast who came forward, and also those who didn’t. I imagined what it might have felt like to be at the Olympics and endure abuse. The two at once. How confusing that must have been. And if I’ve learned anything about sexual abuse, it’s that it’s already utterly confusing, even if you aren’t at the Olympics. It makes you think up is down. That what’s safe is dangerous and what’s dangerous is safe. You empathize with the preparator and can spend a lifetime thinking you’re the broken or bad one. It spirals you down any number of rabbit holes of self-abuse, neglect, and punishment. 

But can you imagine how confusing it must have been to endure the most degrading, humiliating, and traumatizing event of your life the same day you walked onto a world stage and won the highest honor in the world? It’s so unfair to have the moment of a lifetime tarnished. That’s another thing about sexual abuse, it can take the beauty away from moments that are meant to be only beautiful. It’s fucking unfair.   

When I watched those women speak, I felt a crack between how I viewed these women and how I viewed myself. It was obvious, unquestionable, that they didn’t deserve what happened to them. But I hadn’t gotten there for myself yet. Somehow, my abuse still meant something about who I was as a person. Somehow, I still felt it negatively defined my character. The thought of saying such harsh words to my perpetrator was unimaginable to me. I still pitied him. I still wanted some weird redemption for him.  

It’s a normal part of the process to first believe it’s your fault. It gives a survivor a false sense of control. If it was my fault because I wore that skirt, or got too drunk, or was a shy kid, or fill in the blank, then it won’t happen again if I avoid these specific errors. This may sound illogical, but sexual trauma rocks someone’s sense of control at their very core, so it’s paramount that we get it back somehow. I’ve come to see this as part of the process, the self-blame. A tool for control until we’re able to manage without it.

Beyond the self-blame, there’s a feeling that the abuse or assault says something about your character. Something that cannot be undone. Something permanent, and when other people know, it will tarnish their view of you forever. But when I watched the women of USA gymnastics testify, I saw them as only badass, warrior women with unimaginable courage. Not one part of me saw them as anything but that. So why then, couldn’t I do that with myself?

 Witnessing them speak gave me something I didn’t have yet. A hope for who I could be in the future. Someone who could stand up and speak publicly. Someone who could point her finger of blame in the right direction, at him.

It’s been years since I watched this trial. And here I am. That’s the power of speaking up. It gives strength to those behind us, like the passing of a baton. Now, I’m ready to run with this baton, and hopefully, pass it on.  

I will likely never be Jane Doe. I’ve had to let go of the hope of standing in a courtroom, facing my perpetrator, making him hear me. I’ve had to grieve the opportunity for the tables of justice to turn the way they belong. But I can find justice in my own life, through living freely, speaking lovingly and openly, and letting go of my self-blame. Sometimes, we can’t see justice in this lifetime, but that doesn’t mean it won’t play out in the next.

Link to This American Life about being Jane Doe:

https://www.thisamericanlife.org/800/jane-doe