Given that my story spans 33 years, I decided it would be best to divide it into sections. The first section. will concentrate on my initial traumatic experience at the age of 18: sexual assault.
Everyone is taught about stranger danger and the importance of not being alone at a bar, among other safety tips. These lessons are instilled in girls from a very young age. Always stay aware of your surroundings, only be with people you trust, and so forth. I was never a rebelious person, so of course I listened to these wise words, yet, they didn't keep me safe.
I turned 18 in February, and a few months later, a close friend was celebrating their birthday at a bar. Since I had never been to a bar before, I was thrilled to receive the invitation. I bought a new top and did my makeup and hair. I arranged for my dad to drop me off and pick me up before my work shift the next day. I planned to stay overnight at my friend's house. Everything was well-organized, and I felt safe. We did some pre-drinking at their house with a group of people I had known and trusted for years. We headed to the bar and had a fantastic time. There were very few incidents. I followed the safety tip of never leaving my drink unattended, so I made sure to finish it before going to the bathroom or left it with someone I trusted. We laughed, danced and drank the night away. When it was time to leave, we all got into a taxi and went back to the birthday person's place as most of the friends were neighbours.
Once we were back at the birthday person's place, I said goodnight to everyone and went to bed. I was feeling dizzy and I needed sleep because I needed to wake up for work in a couple of hours. At some point during the couple of hours I was sleeping, someone decided they were allowed to turn my life upside down. I woke up in the morning with my shirt around my neck, and nothing on the bottom half. I ran to the bathroom and when I wiped, there was blood. Someone had taken my virginity without my consent.
I called my dad and asked him to pick me up earlier, but I didnt tell anyone. I couldn't believe what happened. I wouldn't believe what had happened. I went home, took a shower, and went to work for the day. The next day came around and I did the same thing, woke up, took a shower, and went to work for the day. At this point, it's Sunday night. I hadn't been able to process what had happened. I needed to speak with someone before the silence consumed me. I went to my mom that night and asked her to speak. I told her what had happened and what I remembered. She cried with me and insisted I tell my dad.
Monday morning came, marking the next traumatic experience: our healthcare system. My mom insisted that I visit the hospital for an examination. I went to the nearest hospital. At 18, my French was not fluent. I struggled to communicate in French and explain to the triage nurse what had happened. I felt embarrassed, ashamed, and angry, compounded by the difficulty of explaining in another language. The triage nurse called someone else, and I had to explain again, in French, only to be informed that the hospital did not perform rape kits and I would need to go to a different hospital. The first hospital provided me with a taxi voucher to reach the other hospital.
At this point, I'm already ready to turn around and go home. I already didn't want to go to the hospital; I went because my mom insisted, and now I need to go to another hospital. We get into the taxi and make our way to the other hospital for my experience to start all over. Once again, I explain in weak French what happened to the triage nurse. The triage nurse gets another nurse, and suddenly I'm explaining everything to three strangers. None of the nurses speak English, which adds to my feeling of dread.
Eventually, I found myself in a hospital room, with my legs elevated as the nurse cleaned and examined me for injuries. Someone was intently observing the area that was causing me immense shame. I asked my mom to leave the room because I needed some privacy, but she wouldn't go. Her face was filled with concern, looking at me as if I were broken, unsure of what to say or whether a comforting touch would help. I left the hospital with a prescription for Plan B, a tetanus shot, paperwork for blood tests, and a referral to the CLSC. My emotions were as volatile as a volcano. I was unsure which emotion to focus on, as I was experiencing all of them simultaneously. Now that I have undergone a rape kit, the whole incident could no longer be ignored in my head. It was real. It was my new reality.
Unbeknownst to me, the following day would bring further trauma to the situation. The third traumatic experience in all of this: our legal system. My brother drove my mom and me to the nearest police station so I could file a report. I had to explain everything again, in French, to two men who were clearly uncomfortable. After explaining, I was informed that I needed to go to the police precinct where the rape occurred. Feeling defeated, I got back into my brother's car, and he drove us to the other police station. Once more, I explained everything, only to be told that the area where the rape happened is actually associated to a different precinct. Back in the car we went, and finally, after the third time explaining everything and being at a third precinct, I found the correct location to file the report.
I was instructed to enter a room at the precinct to submit my report. They asked me to include as many details from the rape as possible. After writing my experience in detail, while crying the entire time, I was simply informed someone would reach out to me to look further into the report. I was given my file number and we left. The car ride home was long and silent. No one knew what to say. I wanted the day to be over. I wanted to crawl into darkness and simply exsist. The concerned looks, the way people gazed at me as if I were fragile china, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
A couple days later, a detective contacted me. They requested for me to come in and fill in more paperwork. I needed to re-write everything. I later found out it was to find discrepencies in what I was reporting. After a lot of back and forth, I decided that I wanted to go to court. I told myself that I can't allow him to go this to anyone else.
The court proceedings dragged on for three years. Annually, I had to appear in court and recount my experience in painstaking detail, reopening old wounds each time. There was no opportunity for me to heal or mourn the person I once was. The court experience was nothing short of dreadful. He attended every session with his father, both smirking as I wept, struggling to make myself understood through the tears. The judge didn't really speak English, so I had to explain what a thong was when questioned about what I was wearing. Despite wearing a tank top, a sweater, and jeans, they implied my clothing was the problem. I was made to feel at fault because I had been drinking. His lawyer was twisting my words and putting words in my mouth, only for me to get angry during my testimony. After three years, a verdict was reached. I learned the outcome through a voicemail, which informed me that, because they could not say with 100% certainty that he did it, he would not be charged. I received this news as I was leaving the SAAQ, having just passed my driver's license test. The photo on my license serves as yet another reminder of the justice that was not served.
If I had the chance to go back, would I decide not to go to court? No, I don't believe I would. Despite the court experience being awful, it helped me understand that I was a survivor, not a victim. Taking him to court empowered me, even if I didn't feel it at the time. Making a decision that he had no influence over allowed me to regain some of the power he had taken from me.
One of my greatest frustrations with this entire experience was the hurdles I had to overcome to report everything. Without my mom's encouragement and support, I would have undoubtedly given up. I lacked the strength and energy, but my mom had them. Imagine experiencing a traumatic event and finding that everywhere you turn is the wrong place... how does that motivate someone to do what they should? There's already a significant taboo surrounding sexual assault, and then reporting it is difficult.
Not only did I endure a life-changing experience, but I also had to navigate numerous obstacles created by the system itself. How was I supposed to know there was a specific hospital for rape kits? How was I to know that I needed to go to a specific precinct, and that there might be more than one precinct for one area? How was I to know that the court process would take three years? You don't. And that's part of the problem. It's a problem I want to fix. This isnt something you research. It's not general knowledge, and I want to make it general knowledge. I want to remove additional stress of an already very stressful situation.
If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, I have a page with resources that might be helpful.
Thank you for reading part one of my story. If this has happened to you too, know that you are not alone, and that we can heal through connection.