HaideeRDLS
Freshman
I never thought I'd be sharing my story with a bunch of strangers, on a sports message board at that, but I just feel as though some of you need a different perspective than what has been shared so far. Let me clarify by stating that I am by no means talking about what this woman allegedly experienced nor am I passing judgement on her or Jameis Winston. I simply want to give a little insight into what one woman went through after reporting a sexual assault to police.
I don't feel comfortable or confident enough to share certain details because to be honest they are difficult to talk about and extremely private. After my attack my boyfriend, now husband, took me to the police station to file a police report. I was immediately taken to the hospital and a trained sexual assault nurse gave me a full examination. My clothes were taken, swabs from various body parts were taken, as well as pictures of my numerous injuries. It was an understandably invasive and horrifying experience. After the physical evidence was collected I spoke to the police. I was not raped by someone I knew and when asked to give a description of the man who attacked me I couldn't. I couldn't tell you how tall he was, how much he weighed, his eye color, or approximate age. If the police were able to match the DNA from my rape kit to a suspect I wouldn't have been able to point him out. All I remember is fear. All consuming, debilitating fear. I was required to go over the series of events over and over again while being subjected to humiliating questions like what I was wearing, if I was drinking, if I flirted with him or "led him on" in any way, and if I said no or shouted for help. I felt like I was being blamed for what someone had done TO ME. I didn't feel like a victim, I felt like a villain. The process of reporting was traumatizing in an entirely different and far more disappointing way.
It isn't easy to share the horrors of sexual assault. It isn't easy to be scrutinized by strangers and made to feel partially responsible for someone's decision to commit a violent act. To have people who don't know the case, the woman, Jameis, or frankly what sexual assault is all about making comments about what they assume happened or what the woman is thinking/feeling is infuriating.
I don't feel comfortable or confident enough to share certain details because to be honest they are difficult to talk about and extremely private. After my attack my boyfriend, now husband, took me to the police station to file a police report. I was immediately taken to the hospital and a trained sexual assault nurse gave me a full examination. My clothes were taken, swabs from various body parts were taken, as well as pictures of my numerous injuries. It was an understandably invasive and horrifying experience. After the physical evidence was collected I spoke to the police. I was not raped by someone I knew and when asked to give a description of the man who attacked me I couldn't. I couldn't tell you how tall he was, how much he weighed, his eye color, or approximate age. If the police were able to match the DNA from my rape kit to a suspect I wouldn't have been able to point him out. All I remember is fear. All consuming, debilitating fear. I was required to go over the series of events over and over again while being subjected to humiliating questions like what I was wearing, if I was drinking, if I flirted with him or "led him on" in any way, and if I said no or shouted for help. I felt like I was being blamed for what someone had done TO ME. I didn't feel like a victim, I felt like a villain. The process of reporting was traumatizing in an entirely different and far more disappointing way.
It isn't easy to share the horrors of sexual assault. It isn't easy to be scrutinized by strangers and made to feel partially responsible for someone's decision to commit a violent act. To have people who don't know the case, the woman, Jameis, or frankly what sexual assault is all about making comments about what they assume happened or what the woman is thinking/feeling is infuriating.
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