Love in Unexpected Places

I tried to get an STD test done today. All I wanted was the hopeful proof that I'm still clean. I assumed my student health services could do that for me.

Unbeknownst to me, they're mandated reporters. Apparently, even if you're not planning on killing yourself or someone else, they still step in for this, even when you're not a minor and you don't really want them to.

I was required to meet with the member of our campus PD who specializes in sexual assault. She was incredibly nice, and told me from the start that her goal would be to persuade me to file a report, even if I didn't wish to prosecute. We talked for a bit, as I was adamant that I was against filing the report. I had valid reasons; she acknowledged that. Finally, she told me that if he ever raped a girl again, and that girl decided to prosecute, me having filed a report and undergone a full rape kit now would provide more ammunition against him in the future. So I said yes.

We drove to the place where I would be interviewed and examined. There was only one nurse working, and she was saving someone else, so we sat. And we waited. And we waited. She and I talked a lot. She is trying to be vegan. She has two daughters. She crochets. She doesn't watch movies often, but has a soft spot for Disney. She has two little dogs. We bonded. Eventually, my advocate showed up. She was very nice as well, but I've never bonded as well with younger people. She crochets too. She does MMA and Muay Thai. She is a student at my school and lives a city over from me. She is learning to become a counselor.

My officer was supposed to get off work 80 minutes from when she met me. She said that, since my rape happened off campus, if she stayed, it would technically be a courtesy report on her end and it would be given to the LAPD. She asked me, quickly and quietly and under the table, if she should say in her report that she stayed at the victim's request, rather than turning me over to the mercy of some unknown LAPD officer; I looked at her eyes and nodded. She stayed, in the uncomfortable chairs, with me; never once did she disappear in the waiting room saved for officers. Never once did she complain that I'm keeping her at work til the wee hours of the morning.

We went into the interview room. I warned my advocate I may have a panic attack, and begged her to breathe so I could hear her if that happened. Instead, she breathed big and loud and slow for my whole interview, like a metronome I could sync with. The forensic nurse said my officer would watch and listen and take notes from the room across the hall. I begged for her to be let in; the nurse said the uniform could influence me. I begged anyways, and I got the biggest smile from my officer when she was let in, having been waiting at the door after hearing my begging over the TV. She squeezed my shoulder hard, and sat right behind me the whole time.

I explained and explained and explained, hiding my grief in big words and my torment in pretty sentences. Only a few bits were marred by stutters; they were the reminder to sync my breathing to my human metronome again. The camera was unobtrusive, hidden in the wall, but it burned more than any stare should. I watched my advocate-turned-metronome and listened to my officer's rushing pen. I kept breathing.

When my interview was over, my advocate told me how lucky I was to have such an officer. It was rare. My advocate said they weren't supposed to be emotional, but she wiped the tear out of her eye anyways. Even my nurse was glassy eyed. My officer just looked at me and smiled, laughing when I told her look what she'd made me do when all I wanted was an STD test.

I brought my advocate and my officer in for my exam. There was such a secure feeling not being alone; being naked in front of them was secondary. There may be nearly as much shame in the exam as in the rape, as you are examined and photographed and measured. I watched my officer and my advocate and we talked while pretending there was no nurse and my legs weren't spread. I was told I was ovulating. I was given Plan B and other pills that I have no name for. The nurse joked she was ready for her wine; my other two agreed, but I told them that they weren't allowed to drink when the victim was too young to. My officer read the words carved into my thigh; my nurse marveled that the razor's marks are neater than her needle point.

My officer and I waited while things were finished up, bonding over Keurig and whispered advice over who I should contact and who to avoid. I am to avoid PET, because they will declare me 51/50. She said she should be doing that now, and begged me not to hurt myself with that burden on her shoulders. She said she could lose her job for not committing me now, but she thought I was worth it.

I was done. My advocate finally went away, in her white gas guzzler that she bought because it was cheaper monthly payments. I drove back to school with my officer. I was the first victim to ever ask her to come in for either part of my hell. She smiled when she told me that. We talked about the trauma of seeing the first person literally die in front of her, a 26 year old male who overdosed and couldn't be saved. She collected my clothes from my house, meeting my snake and playing with my rats. She hugged me when I said goodbye. I may see her again at my ASL classes I teach; I hope so.

I'm alone now, and it's weird to be without my advocate, but even weirder to be without the officer who spent 8 hours making my hell a little more friendly. There's a void left by those you bond to in a time like this, even when you know the relationship is very temporary. It's never expected, but love grows fast in desolate places.