Why We Don't Come Forward

Knee-jerk thoughts on the Ep*tein emails. TW, obviously.

If you’re a human on the internet today (or mercifully, off it), you’ve seen the leaked Epstein emails spreading through every feed. For survivors of sexual assault, it isn’t just news, it’s a fresh confirmation of something we’ve always known: the fuckheads in power will contort themselves to protect one another and their bank accounts long before they protect us victims.

Hi. Good morning. I’m one of them.

Let’s stay with reality for a moment:
81% of women have been victims of sexual assault. 1 in 3 was between 11 and 17. Among men, 43% have experienced assault, and 1 in 4 of them was a teenager. These are not fringe statistics; they’re the architecture of the world we live in (source: NSVRC).

So, statistically, a lot of people you love woke up this morning and were faced with the harrowing reality that the worst thing that ever happened to them isn’t some isolated tragedy, it’s part of a larger system. A pattern. A machine designed to protect abusers, and to silence the abused.

And you wonder why we don’t come forward.

In 2013, I was raped by someone I knew, and then assaulted, in the same week, by the professional I went to for help. In case you missed it, it changed the fabric of my entire life: my ptsd was so intense that I had to re-teach myself how to walk, developed debilitating anxiety and stage fright (but I’m a performer!), and gutted my ability to trust or sleep with men without crying or having a PTSD attack.

And still, I had advantages many survivors don’t: a financially stable, fiercely loving family, access to therapy and medication, and friends who refused to let me disappear. I was one of the lucky ones, and I still barely survived it.

8 years later, I got the opportunity I had missed all those years ago: my abuser (read: the professional) had struck again, and I had the chance to support the case of one of his recent victims by standing by her side and telling my story. So in December of 2021, I along with 5 other women, would face our abuser in court.

I’ll spare the details but a few, because I’d protect these women with the fierceness of every warrior I’ve read about. We weren’t allowed to meet until the day of the trial, so once we did, we tentatively gathered in a circle in the children’s section of the room, filled with dolls where kids would undeniably be asked “tell me where the bad man touched you”, and started to talk. As we spoke, we became a unit, a strange little army.

A nurse friend had told me to bring something soft or sweet in case I would experience re-traumatization, so I’d tucked a king-size pack of M&Ms into my pocket. When one woman mentioned she hadn’t eaten breakfast, I pulled them out, repeating the advice I had gotten. Five hands reached toward me, and I gave each of them a handful of chocolate - our tiny, shared armor before we faced the man who had altered all our lives.

The rest of the day was a blur. I got to speak my piece to the absolute loser who did this to us. We all held hands. My parents were the only parents who showed up.

And still, the man who assaulted us walks free in New Orleans. I hope he burns alive.

I was unbelievably lucky to be supported through my ptsd, to be handed an opportunity to face him, to have parents who flew to Louisiana to cheer as I attempted to take back my dignity. To have a network of friends with me every step of the way. All against a system that had given a plea deal to a man who had assaulted a number of women, including his own daughter.

And you wonder why we don’t come forward.

When Dr. Christine Blasey Ford testified against Brett Kavanaugh, the country watched the highest court in the land choose power and the boys’ club over truth. This morning, I learned that Epstein himself coached the cross-examiner on completely false ways to invalidate Dr. Ford’s testimony. And that was the piece of news that broke me.

I cried for Dr. Ford, for the women who testified next to me. I cried for the newly 24-year-Julia whose life and future collapsed overnight. I cried for Megyn Kelly’s daughter, whose mother just publicly declared she believes her teenaged daughter is fair game. I cried for all the victims in this world who will never find justice, who will never sleep normally again, who will never get to share M&Ms in a courtroom and feel less alone.

This is what the leaked emails prove: The cover-ups are not accidents. They are infrastructure.

This is the beginning of a long haul of evidence that deserves to take down the system, the sitting President and anyone else involved, regardless of party.

I hope it brings survivors the vindication they’ve been denied for decades. I hope they burn it all down.